Spores of thought drift aimlessly,
caught by every breeze that blows
through the mind's cluttered domain.
Some continue to freewheel, settling nowhere;
some snag on the bushes of feeling;
others blossom into fertile gardens.
Within any hour, my thoughts
will feel again the thrill
and electric rush of first love;
the shining power of poetry;
the chill bite of approaching age.
Scenes of violence, scenes of love
and the uncertainties of youth
merge in a melange of vivid (or fading)
images. The mind is a reactive muscle:
no need to flex it, it will respond
in its own leisurely way
to the subliminal dictates
of the eternal dreamer.
A contest entry
- Where the mind drifts by Danna Hobart.
375 points, ended February 11, 2008, 18 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Your imagery and metaphor is quite clever.
The mind is a reactive muscle:
no need to flex it,
I loved this line.
Thank you for entering my contest. -
Bill
So wondeful of you to allow others a delicate trip inside your mind. Great write as always my friend. I enjoy your honesty
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