Too Many Books

Shannon at Ramblings of a Wannabe Scribe  is hosting a poetry celebration day. (I'm a sucker for sonnets, a supporter of stanzas, and a glutton for punishment.) Misery loves company, so head over and sign up. the rough draft With petals and paintbrushes, we pick and paste pain, and soil a pure canvas with shallow shades of shame. Condolences ring out in firey reds, tears rush in watercolored blues. We attach our brushes to could-be beautiful hues. We trample on the sacred grounds of artistry when we carelessly slosh sponged up imagery on plastic pages or write weary/wasted watered-down words. We have forgotten the frailty of language. We bend; we break. We the writers, risk ruin, and find our treasure that way. about a boy god's thumbnail decorates the night sky like he's stamping his imprint onto earth, and barefoot, I drive familiar roads home, tuning the radio adjusting the air thinking of him and wondering if he saw god's thumbprint ...

Birches by Robert Frost When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the s...