ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
no count of years may still the hand of fate
but yet the kindly sunrise eases pain
as those who fought arise to fight again
with little rancour and without debate
for once removed the horrors cease to grate
on any soul and there’s no longer strain
when each of us can see the future plain
and know that we’re the owners of the state
this is the promise made by those who sleep
beneath our soil whose lives gave ours full worth
that a bright morning would our people see
not as a flock of tired and hungry sheep
but as a folk in fullest time of mirth
enjoying every taste of liberty
Literature
The Wanderer
I met the Wanderer once, in my travels. She was on foot, and I on a horse; her pack looked heavy, her sword sharp, her eyes shallow, and so very gold. Her tongue traipsed over words like a dancer, and her lips, when she smiled, were like the bend in a river: fluid and lithe, but gone in an instant as I passed on the current.
Would she sup with me? She would, and she and her melodious tones sat with me to share what I had, which was sufficient. We talked; I told her of my home and my wives, and the honey that I carried to the winery. I told her of the valley I lived in, and how green it was, how blue the mountains could be, how the river cut
Literature
a tribute to robert frost
I have been one acquainted with the night,
and that has made all the difference.
one aged man--one man--can't keep a house,
but I am done with apple-picking now,
and miles to go before I sleep,
so now and never any different.
"you'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen,
like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves-"
can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?
like pearls, and now a silver blade,
and dead wings carried like a paper kite,
nothing gold can stay.
something there is that doesn't love a wall;
truth? a pebble of quartz? for once, then, something.
the clever eyes of my wandering child,
heart not averse to being b
Literature
Before Daybreak
Couldn't sleep – 4 AM may be
Too early for coffee, but
The corner diner's open
At all hours, so I head
That way. Dickens, Green Mansions,
Shakespeare, bleak Russians – shadows
Can watch them for a while…
The night air's warm—a slow block
Of rain-sloshed concrete later
And I've made it. – Get dark roast
Pick a table not too close
To the counter, then sit back.
Watch life eddy around you...
Whoever sat here last must
Have dropped the tract—Jesus Saves.
We're story-weaving creatures.
This tale? It's nine-tenths thunder—
Granite certainty. Can't see
Much past my face. But who knows?
That might just
Suggested Collections
© 2014 - 2024 Fledgist
Comments2
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
This is a really beautiful poem! 