voices on the wind

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

4 comments

  1. 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.

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