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desert love
love is a
a tree
that flowers in
the desert
if it bears no fruit,
its branches
turn to
inevitable dust--
to be blown on
whispering winds
of sadness and grief
so deep,
even angels weep.
Style / type:
Free verse
Editing stage:
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Comments
crypticbard
Sun, 2010-11-28 09:36
you can hear
the howling of the desert wind... harbinger of its insatiable hunger... swallowing all into its sands of forgetfulness... remarkable poem, this.
__________________________________________________
'write on! let these words free.'
Victorclaude
Sun, 2010-11-28 16:41
cryptic,
cryptic,
thank you.
"sands of forgetfulness...
would that I could. . .
Victor
"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."
Unknown (at least to me)
author commentEdevold
Sun, 2010-11-28 10:15
I really like your writing
I'm not much of a commentator, but I like this poem... not quite as visual as "a normal day", but thoughtful, and thought provoking...........
I
Victorclaude
Mon, 2010-11-29 10:42
Thanks for the read, Ed. Not
Thanks for the read, Ed. Not as visual perhaps, because emotions are not of fabric that can be seen, only felt, but have almost a tactile density that lie just beyond the edge of sight.
Victor
"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."
Unknown (at least to me)
author commentscribbler
Sun, 2010-11-28 11:02
desert
the first stanza could have stood as a poem by itself...............scribbler
Victorclaude
Mon, 2010-11-29 10:57
Stan,
Stan,
I never looked at it like that, but you are right. I only wish that what brought this poem to life hadn't been the ending of another.
Thank you,
Victor
"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."
Unknown (at least to me)
author commentVictorclaude
Mon, 2010-11-29 11:00
Thank you, Shirley!!
Thank you, Shirley!!
Always nice to hear from you.
Victor
"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."
Unknown (at least to me)
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