I submitted my first form poem for poetry workshop tonight. It’s not a strict ghazal, it may even be derivative, but I really love what spilled onto the pages. Writing in form is so intimidating but I’m finding that I really like the challenge, and the restraints guide my writing to places I might not go to otherwise. I’ll be getting feedback for this poem next week so I may come back with revisions in a new post. As always, thanks for stopping by. I hope the words bring calm to your night like they did to mine. ❤
Time slows down, ceases to exist,
is a drudgery, when the trees rot.
The piano keys fall loud and minor
and the soul is dark and tired – when the trees rot.
The singer’s ears go deaf
but only slightly, when the trees rot.
Our feet sink in sucking mire –
will we ever come free – when the trees rot?
Can anything grow again?
Will I remember what roses look like when the trees rot?
A house is a haunted thing,
a thing to escape – when the trees rot.
A sling can’t hold a heart in place,
hold a mind in place, when the trees rot.
Pale ghost fingers and a pale ghost face try to warm by a fire,
saying ‘please God’, when the trees rot.
Nails bitten down to splinters and blood
and ‘just wait’ when the trees rot.
I’ve realized I still remember what roses look like
and I believe they’ll grow again when the trees rot.
Sadness is a precious thing –
if you learn to give it its proper place – when the trees rot.
A mind can rest in death,
a heart in dead earth, in trees that rot.
In one part of the world, my name means Serene
Even when the trees rot.