in the mid of summer
before the buzzing trees
cry hither and mingle
and the bees lose their temper
i am waiting for the
small fortunes
of great loss.
the munin speaks to me
and i remember through
the open doors
of dusty days and
cloudy bundles of snow
each tugging on
my blue nested heels
and i wish myself
back in the toil,
loathing the sky
and dreaming myself home
as i embrace the
clever chest of worth
and the crooked map
that led me there.
there is no peace
in the still,
but tumbling heads
of rolling uncertainty
are the skipper of days
in the irons of space,
and a man simply
forgets to tack
and stalls in the wind
that, dying, found him there.
Author notes
lots of viking and sailing references
What did you think
Comments
-
i am waiting for the
small fortunes
of great loss.
haha actually, I WISH I WROTE THAT. haha. Thats my fav segment in the poem. Interesting piece. The structure caught my attention, just the way you placed every word -
Excellent
It seems like a fine write to me, with very good imagery. You have expressed your thoughts quite well. Thanks for sharing this one with us. -
This poem is enigmatic. It reads very well but makes no sense. The sailing metaphor has tumbling heads in it and what are the irons of space?. Um a little confusing. Please don;t bother explaining it to me. Better to re-write it.
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