Poetry Pains

Today I am told the old rules of poetry are no more.  No more rhyme, reason or rhythm.  Poetry is what flows out of my heart.  There is no such thing as bad poetry.  I would love to confront my seventh grade English teacher with that bit of news.  Poetry is not my genre.  I don't sit down to read it, and I certainly don't try to seriously write it.  My assignment today is to dive off the cliff of comfort and attempt something new.  Poetry.


So I sat down with trepidation and put pen to paper (figuratively) and began to...


Hard and firm they lay on the ground, They wait

Impatient they sit, and continue to stay, They wait

Far in the distance new sound gives rise, They wait

Amazement fills, new sights surround, They wait

Hard and firm they lay on the ground, They watch

Pain so deep, it numbs their being,   They  watch

How can this be right in all of creation,  They watch

Sadly, they cover the best of man, They watch

Hard and firm they lay on the ground,  They tremble

Rolled with a force to great  to withstand,  They tremble

Glory steps forth and lifts its head,  they tremble

Renewing life for those who,  they tremble

Hard and firm they lay on the ground, They shake

Silent and still they strain to hear, They shake

Confused they are with the silence, They shake

Hopeless and dread fill them full,  They shake

Hard and firm they lay on the ground, They sing

No longer content to wait idly by, They sing

The force builds within, they cannot withstand, They sing

Sound no longer restrained by the silence of man, They sing

 The rocks cry out in glorious praise, They sing

Okay, there I proved the rule wrong.  There IS bad poetry.  It was a good effort I guess.  An effort that took the greatest part of two hours, I add.  But you know its bad when you read your own work and groan.  So, I regroup and start again...

The Maestro

The void lay beyond, silent and cold

Empty, dark, and still.

To talk, to walk, to share, to command,

The hunger drives him.

Lifting his hand, the sun burst forth,

Bright, hot, and alive.

A maestro conducting songs of the ages,

The hunger consumes him.

Lifting the wand, they come into sight,

Planets, sky, and the land.

Delighted with the works of his heart ,

The hunger pushes him.

Again, he lifts his hand to create,

Beauty, form, and soul.

Stunned by his creation he stops to consider,

The hunger fills him.

Sacrifices this creation will need,

Bloody, beaten, and torn.

Seeing the fullness of His Holy plan,

The hunger chokes him.

The son steps forth and lifts up his hand

Joyful, giving and pure.

Together they create the wonder of man,

Hunger for Him will drive them.

Although I am not convinced this is exactly GOOD poetry, this is the one I submitted to my peers for review.  As I worked on copying into the format, a ditty started springing through my brain.  THIS took less than three minutes to complete.

‎*Tina runs screaming through the fields, challenged by the test. She doesn't like the poetry, won't be as good as the rest. She decides to give it her all, determined now to fly. All morning it took her repeated attempts, but tells herself to try. She stumbles, she falters, falls flat on her bum. Fearing its bad she feels truly glum. No poem is bad said the teacher confound it. But Tina knows in her heart, she has surely just found it.* bwa ha ha 

Oh well.  Learning and stretching help me know I'm alive and growing as a person.  What new thing have you tried today?