Hi, friends!
The creative process involved with writing poetry is, hundreds of poems later, still very odd to me. What is the inspiration? UGH! Soooooo many things…
This poem started with two words: seedling and foundling. Why? Who knows?
I recall toying with the notion of youth juxtaposed with death as well as the contrast between nurture vs abandonment. Those two words fit perfectly… and this sad, dark poem built itself around them.
Each poem I write is like a child to me. So it is challenging (and maybe even wrong) to pick favorites. But this poem, for me, may rank amongst my faves.
I truly hope you enjoy it, too. Please let me know your reactions and thoughts in the Comments Section below.
-PS Conway ☘ ☘ ☘
☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘
voices on the wind
voices on the wind sing my name
call to me in whispered discord
hissing like snow blown through high grass
i am their seedling
secret angel language ancient
only gods discern
unable to learn
but beckoned just the same
intoned upon my weary bones
this pull to come
freewill to succumb
yet the warmth of the sod binds me
i am their foundling
voices on the wind sing my name
i roll over in my shallow grave
refuse to listen ~ leave me alone
Oh, I can see how this poem is one of your faves. That last line sums up the emotion of the poem. One of your greatest!
Cheers, PS!! So glad you think so. Thanks! 🌱🙏🌹✨
Not to get too dark, but this poem makes me think that cremation is better than burial because you can follow the voices of the wind whe your ashes are scattered instead of being bound by the sod.
That’s super dark, Naomi… and I love it!!! Thanks!! 🌱🙏✨🍷🌹