Benjamin Posted September 11, 2012 Share Posted September 11, 2012 as blood from my torn fingernail is lost among the dervish snow I stagger from a wagging saw to choke the mulcher's diesel wail, and all my painful curses now are heaped upon the stricken tree that lies dismembered at my feet, till like a salve I think of how I climbed its boughs, hid in its leaves and courted on a heart-shaped swing my gentle lover in the spring, no thought of rot or of disease nor small brown faggots, that perhaps will soak up mud on play-ground tracks Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
David W. Parsley Posted September 11, 2012 Share Posted September 11, 2012 Benjamin, this poem touches a very sentimental strain in me. A nice fourteen-line poem with inventive rhyme scheme in tetrameter. But I'm afraid you sent me on a guilt trip. A good one. - Dave Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dr_con Posted September 11, 2012 Share Posted September 11, 2012 Nice! Juris&Dr.Con ps- Guilt of brevity, supplemented with: Really fucking good!! Quote thegateless.org Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Frank E Gibbard Posted September 16, 2012 Share Posted September 16, 2012 Wistful piece of fond rememberences, well crafted with some delightful wording. I have to point out the climbed it's boughs, hid in it's leaves, should be its. Frank Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Benjamin Posted September 16, 2012 Author Share Posted September 16, 2012 Must be a Freudian thing. Just checking to see if you're still there Frank Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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