Details |
Shane Nielsen Poem
Annie Oakely: The Poem by Shane Nielsen
Deep in the Ohio woods, to brown eyes aspy,
The wondrous echoes of nature give their humble reply,
to the spirit of sight, and the will to try.
Billows of smoke from fires who do not cease to prier,
ventured the aptly named Little Miss Sharpshooter,
the stakes couldn't be higher.
To feed the sick and hungry, to blow away the competition,
to set all new records and rewrite the given,
No one aimed higher,
no one was more driven.
How could it be difficult?
How could sight not believe?
Skeptics and naysayers? Hard to conceive.
Bolts of lightening cast forth from the soul of the West,
struck down the greatest, struck down the best.
You can relax, even before you go far,
Aim for something in reach-"light up" a cigar.
With enough gold in trophies to fill the banks of a river,
Even Queen Victoria remembers the show you would give her.
After winning every round, with power and esteem,
you're worth more than a thousand words to fit in every magazine.
It isn't that that's important-it's the simple things of course.
Sitting by the gentle waters-feeding a horse.
So aim for your dreams, listen to that fire,
obey your intuition, your heart is not a liar.
Everyone, including Sitting Bull knew-that your aim was impeccable, that your heart was true.
Yes, with a heart so golden, a shell so strong,
It's no wonder you were the biggest lil legend that ever came along.
You are unique,
No need to be a replica,
Yes it is true, my dear Miss America.
Copyright © Shane Nielsen | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Shane Nielsen Poem
We have sprinted on our paws
from silver fields into the ashen corridors
of Office-Max
How early we set our alarms, how grown up,
who don the coats of men,
despite the heat,
who drive on four wheels down Park Avenue
pasts the willing lemonade stands,
boarded shops giving way to digital malls
which we shop on our palms during afternoon break
Darkness is closing in, little time for a meal. The nights are short,
these, the ones our forefathers measured
with pebbles passed through a glass funnel,
The store's a pocket in a jacket outworn,
The children are right,
the earth is a glowing ember, glowing graphite,
in a Vulcna plane of magmas,
below an overturned silent sea
You fill up your Styrofoam cup;
from a leaking coffee fountain,
a caffeinated ocean falls on the aisle,
soundlessly split,
puddle against puddle, drip after drop.
Pieces search for matching pieces,
bumping up against each other, then parting
or like cards, sliding,
we pass through scanners darkly,
until we are maxed out.
How curt we are with one another,
who have failed to unite gravity and magnetism
Furless hide rubs furless hide,
taut with the powers of desire reinvented
I crave you as I crave Splenda, the children say,
But my tongue desires real sugar and I am left amiss.
Copyright © Shane Nielsen | Year Posted 2021
|