an odd tree

Hi, friends!

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.