Sunday, March 31, 2013

A Poem in Iambic Trimeter

This winter-colored scene:
 Stale brown and brittle green
And the relentless sun,
Bauble of cloud, finespun
Against merciless blue:
Frivolous curlicue
of dry fluff, cluttering;
No rainstorm, stuttering
Sleet, or hard-tapping hail...

How can our lives prevail
Clinging to spartan stone?
The high winds moan, they moan
Rising in the parched throat,
The strangled, broken throat

Of the dying land....


  1. I really enjoyed the flow of the poem, just as much as the meaning.

  2. Nice. I love poems. Never heard of an Iambic Trimeter so I learned something new today.
    Dropping by from GBE2