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....






2 comments:

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

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

    http://ilasoulpoems.blogspot.com/

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