Frosty sort of poem...

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2 total messages Started by Valerie Polichar Wed, 22 Oct 1986 17:36

#1117

Author: Valerie Polichar
Date: Wed, 22 Oct 1986 17:36

33 lines
1830 bytes

I think I was reading too much Robert Frost on the day I wrote this
(~1 year ago)!  Comments, as always, are fiercely solicited :)


========================================================================

     I Should Like


     I should like to have this sea to walk in when I'm old:
     pale and sunset-stained,
     seaweed draped like shawls around the sand.
     A gull stands out in bold relief against the foamy sky;
     children scream; sandpipers fail to fly.

     I'd like to leave my pack on the rugged seam of cliff
     and settle feet into the soothing tide.
     I've kept my shoes on much too many years;
     the beach wouldn't seem so long if I could wade its length,
     scaring little birds with my steps, and not so wide.

     Fifty years from now the tide will still come in;
     the gulls still skreek, the children fist their shells in sweaty hands;
     the lovers still build castles in the dying light;
     and I will still be walking on the sand.

========================================================================

-- 
Valerie Polichar     sdcsvax!net1!valerie     net1!valerie@SDCSVAX.UCSD.EDU

This is a fake signature.  If it were a real signature, you would have
	    fled, terror-striken, from your terminal.

Re: Frosty sort of poem...

#1122

Author: Chris Tong
Date: Thu, 30 Oct 1986 02:59

39 lines
1471 bytes

Nice! Inspires me to write another "Frosty" poem...

			OLD WIND


		Let it rest wife, no more.
		  What's done is done.


	Old Wind...
	he blew up a storm today, my friend.
	Folks say they've not seen anything like it
	for nigh on fifteen years;
	he came in stealth
	when only neighbors' "How's yer health? It's
	gonna be quite a gale!"
	and diapers waving on the clothsline
	could tell he was there.
	Then he emerged, playful,
	whistling down the chimney and
	through cracks in the windows,
	tossing the garbage cans
	end on end, an errant schoolboy.

	Day wore on and he grew mighty hard;
	he wrestled with the old pine in the front yard
	where me and Shelly used to play
	and blew it away;
			  stalking the fields,
	he, in his prime, cut down all the crops
	long before the harvest time.
	But we had no heat;
	Old Wind
	on his last breath, cold and wild,
	crept in with fingers greedy for life
	and stole my child.  


Chris Tong

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