Jim is not the first to have observed that I give my poems awful titles. Here's another.
Rough, black cliffs. It splashes, smashes
Through the rocks which block its way,
And my mind, my thoughts, caught
Upon its current, also roar and smash,
And race from elsewhere, up above,
Where, until now, they seemed to
Flow by placidly, a river between wider,
Softer, grassy banks, which, she, the sun,
Had warmed and lit. But she has gone.
The chasm opened, pulling me into its
Swirling torrent, through these
Shadowed cliffs. I cannot see where we
Had been. I tumble, thoughts rubbed
Raw on rocks, descending deeper,
Roaring, but unheard.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 19 times
Written on 2011-11-20 at 13:53
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Into the Rapids
The water runs fast. It roars between theseRough, black cliffs. It splashes, smashes
Through the rocks which block its way,
And my mind, my thoughts, caught
Upon its current, also roar and smash,
And race from elsewhere, up above,
Where, until now, they seemed to
Flow by placidly, a river between wider,
Softer, grassy banks, which, she, the sun,
Had warmed and lit. But she has gone.
The chasm opened, pulling me into its
Swirling torrent, through these
Shadowed cliffs. I cannot see where we
Had been. I tumble, thoughts rubbed
Raw on rocks, descending deeper,
Roaring, but unheard.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 19 times
Written on 2011-11-20 at 13:53
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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