Morning Frost

1. 60

   vitaebposted 15 years ago

   Morning frost makes an orange tweed of the countryside,
   And the wind plays harpsichord with the leaves.
   The old man sits in his mottled skin, and waits,
   While faint rays of autumn stretch across the sky.
   
   Vaguely, he remembers twenty years back or more,
   When his boy disappeared beneath the roots of that
   Withered maple over there at the bottom of the yard. 
   
   Soon, soon, he mutters to his mug,
   An herbal tea of gladness warming
   The last few dendrites in his brain.
   
   It was so long ago, that first lava flow of pain,
   Slow to fade. But now, now friendly sadness
   Uncovers the years, a warm treasure held softly
   In his hand.
   
   Soon, soon, he mutters to his mug,
   Winter will come as favored dawn,
   And with any luck he'll be gone
   Down that rabbit hole of careless wonderment
   Where souls join hands and hearts sing
   The glory of night so bright
   And his son right there by his side
   Teaching him artfully stripping hide
   From the gleaming eye of wanting.

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   1. 71

      AEvansposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      That is wonderful I love reading poetry and writing it too. What a viewpoint from a father that treasure's his son.

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2. 60

   vitaebposted 15 years ago

   Thanks for you appreciation, AE.
   I've already revised this piece. It would have bee wiser for me to wait before posting the first version so precipitously. Maybe you'll take a look at version #2?
   
   The morning chill cloaks an orange veil over the countryside,
   And scurrying winds play harpsichord with the falling leaves.
   The old man sits in his mottled skin waiting
   While faint rays of autumn stretch across the sky.
   
   Vaguely, he remembers twenty years back, more or less,
   When his boy disappeared beneath the roots of that
   Withered maple over there at the bottom of the yard. 
   
   He remembers and stirs his mug,
   An herbal tea warming
   The last few dendrites in his brain.
   
   It was so long ago, that first lava flow of pain,
   So slow to fade. But now only a friendly sadness
   Uncovers his years, a warm treasure held softly
   To his breast.
   
   Soon, his voice echoes from the depths of his mug,
   Winter, ah yes winter.
   Soon, winter will come like a favored dawn,
   And with any luck he’ll be gone
   Down that rabbit hole of careless wonderment
   Where souls join hands and hearts sing
   The glory of night so bright
   And his son right there by his side
   Teaching him the artfulness of stripping hide
   From his gleaming eye of wanting.

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   1. 71

      AEvansposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      This one is even better you can feel his heartache as he reminisces about his son, but finds joy by being there. These are beautiful.

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   2. 89

      Stacie Lposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      I admire those who can write prose;
      I know it's a gift.
      It gives a me a lift!
      
      LOL I couldn't resist.
      That's about the extent of my poetry talent.
      poets are special people ;-)

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3. 60

   knolyourselfposted 15 years ago

   I agree great poem. Great use of language. Koan like finish.

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4. 0

   Ana Louisposted 15 years ago

   beautiful...moving...so much of a heart exposed.

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5. 60

   vitaebposted 15 years ago

   Thank you all three: AEvans, Ana Louis, and knolyourself. I much appreciate your comments.

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   1. 71

      AEvansposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      You are going to post others, was this something that happened to you or was a poetic thought?

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6. 87

   Paragliderposted 15 years ago

   vitaeb -
   This is very good. I've been there too, but as recently as two years ago and have not yet achieved the serenity or acceptance in this piece.
   Thanks for posting.

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