For those of you who write… have you ever finished writing something and say to yourself… damn that’s good.
That was this poem for me.
Stylistically, almost colloquial. Structurally, mostly iambic pentameter. Rhymes without feeling “rhyme”-y.
And then factor in the quirk factor sprinkled with a bit of essential nihilism… ahhh, my happy place.
They say write for yourself and the audience will find you. I don’t know who the eff “they” are, to be honest. But I love this poem… no ego, amigo. I just love it.
And I genuinely hope you like (if not love) this poem, too. Please let me know your thoughts and feelings in the Comments Section below.
-PS Conway ☘ ☘ ☘
☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘
an odd tree
bury me deep by the tree on the lake,
you know the place, high on the hilltop where
nothing grows, just yellow grass starved to take
hold, just dirt and rocks, all sullen and bare
and of course, that tree is still there, although
no one can explain how or why, ‘midst all
that nothing, a lonely tree can still grow
under a cloudless sky, whereby stars fall
and collect in the lake near every night,
ah the lake, that hoarder that sneaky snake
who steals all the rain, perpetuates blight,
deigns not to share her bounty, vain and fake,
she reflects the night, but harbors no life,
and the stars, oh those stars love to behold
their heavenly mien, so far from the strife
of mortality, their countenance cold,
yet unaware they had died long ago,
‘tis no better place to lay me to rest
with death all above and nothing below
save an odd tree in whose roots i shall nest.