In this style of poetry, I use the same words to create the first and second parts of each stanza. So lines 1 and 2 use the same words as 3 and 4.
Pages grown from vision
Novel becomes inked life
Grown from novel vision
inked life becomes pages
Writing brings character
There is always blood drawn
Blood always brings writing
Character is drawn there
Writers survive the night
Each word is immortal
The night is immortal
Writer’s survive each word
In a crumbling fence
Among these lost ruins
The little plant lives
The sand is so timeless
Where it waits for a drink
Sun comes up, night draws on
and it never shrinks
Only millimeters high
So strong and so stout
It survives it’s long life
On little of nothing… wholly without
Another poem from my poetry collection. I didn’t win the billion dollar jackpot last night, sadly. I’m not bothered by it though because I’m super-duper lucky just to be me. Thank you all for the visits and for reading my stories and poetry. Today, we received the 41st country to the site: a visit from Dublin, Ireland. I consider all of you my friends, so here is a poem about friendship.
Held by a string
the only real thing
that keeps us from going
Is having those friends
who won’t let you down
and help us to find
all that we’ve found.
Friends give their hand
they help us to stand
and find the best way
to higher dry land.
Not a common theme,
It’s not what you think,
Friend’s aren’t the way
you’ve seen on TV.
Some are far, far away
in towns, countries, and states.
They love us for us
and see through our mistakes.
They’ll edit many times
perfected every line
of words and page
somehow their made.
I’ve was a writer even before I realized what being one meant. It was more a nagging suspicion than a revelation. There was always something inside of me trying to get free. My first experience of wanting to create a story was after reading a Conan the Barbarian book. I saw the map inside and drew my own. I tried to write a story to go along with the map, but I never got around to it. I was in seventh grade at that time. I didn’t actually write any stories that year, but I could see the characters on the map and I began to hear character’s voices in my head. I knew where they lived, where they were going, and what they had to do. Although, these characters and plots have been with me for a long time, I have failed to write every story, but I’ve finished plenty along the way. I truly feel that writing is something that chose me.
The Old Man’s Last Say
by Thadd Presley
“The worms can have him, for from them he was made,”
the lady remarked as she looked on the grave
and chopped at the dirt with a long handled spade.
She had buried her husband late in the day.
“The sun is too hot, we’ll wait for the shade.
I know he will rot, but he’ll not do it today.”
He was put away quickly, with no friends there to pray,
And when it was over, I remember no-one had stayed.
“Now that he’s gone, I’ll can get married this spring
with all of his money, we can buy the best things.”
But, that wasn’t the end of what that man had to say.
The ground suddenly shook all around the grave.
A great voice rose up and declared from the clay.
“You might have succeeded in ending my days
but you’ll never outlive your hate and disgrace.
I curse you this day ’til the last breath you take
A widow you are and a widow you’ll stay,”
To a cold, whining wind, his voice then gave way
and the widow never married and wasn’t seen since that day.
I come to this hill and stand near their graves.
I remember what mother told me on her final day.
Years later, in tears, she weakly proclaimed:
“I killed your father. It was my greatest mistake.
But love will always conquer a heart filled with hate.”