The Terza Rima of Nature

Nature, wild, all around

A wonder to behold

Amazing colors, intricate sounds

Both budding, and of old

The beauty of flora

Can have a heart sold

It brings forth a sweet aroma

Fauna is wild and tender

And also spit out poor Jonah

The mighty Tiger, roaring with splendor

The Hedgehog, spiky and sweet

The redwood, a true wonder sender

Observing all, nature’s a treat

She has always been there

But never in this way

I’ve known her forever

But never in this way

We’ve always been close

But never in this way

I’ve always liked being with her

But never in this way

And I’ve always liked her

But never in this way

The first week in September was as parched and dry as hunger and fear. Three days later every sign was of rain. The rain was a solid wall. Wind and rain. There was no morning break: the west turned gray; the gray sky turned green, the color of ripe guavas. The sun did not appear. And there was no end to it: water swept through so discouragingly, foaming on the outside. It reached down his shirt and into his mouth; it had a faintly woody taste from the cypress shingles, sweetened with a rich flavor, tasting faintly of wood and smoke. Sticky and moldering. 

He loved storm, the blasted ocean, the way the Lord made the beginning of time, or the end of it: wind and rain, beaten flat, huddled together. Drained udders. A strange world, as stormy as it had begun. It had always been alien and unfriendly. 

The east was the color of blood; the wind, a rolling ridge to the west. Such volume and such force. He fought his way through, cold and shivering. The flood had reached everywhere. Turgid wetness. The sun was drawing water; it, too, had been underfed. 

Three or four days slipped away. The rain drummed; the rain blinded him; he stared up at the sky. He drifted about in the downpour. Chills went along his spine. They faded. 

The flood of the seventh day might have been the flood of the first. The scrub dissolved again; the waters rushed down to wash it. The fields were desolate from the waste. The rain swam in his ear; it froze him through. Quivering, he lifted the gun, sighted his rifle experimentally. 

It was strange to see it, the hurricane, strange to see it sweep forward through a gray curtain. It was strange to see the rain on a level with his face. But the shot was irresistible. He forced himself to steady his aim. A gun blasted: the rain stopped. He brought the water down, halved it lengthwise, then dropped flat and stared up at the sky thick with stars. He had killed. He preferred even to kill. He had snuffed out the tide, turned back the flowing springs and swift currents. His stomach quieted. He looked at his thin transparent hands. They did not seem as comfortable. He made a bed of crocus sacks, waited for sleep’s touch of salt.

He awakened on the morning of the eighth day. A light the color of pomegranate blossoms caught in the limbs of the trees. Something was different, cool and sweet and gracious. The wet leaves glittered, blown against the split-rail fence. All the wood was wet. The sky was clear; the sighing sound had ceased. The light was a thin, pale gold. He felt only hunger and frustration. “I hate things dyin’,” he said. 

Breaking camp was the beginning of a fresh journey, but the going was slow and troublesome. The world was devastated, too thick with growth for swimming. Fish were leaping in the air from the ponds, tensile silver arcs washed with desolation. There was little left. In a world so full of water, it had occurred to no one to carry it. 

The magic of his shot had eddied up with the wind. Eat or be eaten. Kill or go hungry. Flood or no flood, he was but a mortal to heaven and rain. 

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Note: I created this prose poem by piecing together words, phrases, and sentences from chapters 19 and 20 of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ The Yearling. 

Works Cited

Rawlings, Marjorie Kinnan, and N. C. Wyeth. The Yearling. New York, Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2013.

"A Path is a Path"

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, 

And I could never travel both. 

I looked where each path stood,

And the reward each path could

Grant me, as I venture through life’s dense undergrowth. 

So I took the path less taken.

That should make all the difference, 

And from the start, I even made that inference.

As I would journey through the Frost of winter

And the ethereal beauty of spring...

Alas, life would reward me for everything.

I embarked on my journey in life with my head held high

And walked beside the silvery air of fate. 

I started climbing my first mountain

To see what opportunities would await 

From living a life filled with adventure, 

A life full of risk.

From here, I scaled more peaks

And walked valleys with air so brisk

And even got myself to never be weak.

I lived my life to the fullest extent, 

I enjoyed every step of the path. 

When I stepped back and did the math,

I found that I led a life of great intent...

But as I soon learned, a path is a path,

No matter how much I hath seen.

From the beauty of the mountains so pristine, 

To the oak forests covered in leaves of green,

I may have had an adventurous life and many obstacles to fend 

But like all other lives, this life would soon have to end.

Life is simply a huge labyrinth. 

You start and end it on the same course;

You can do whatever you please in it,

But nonetheless take one path of fate

For a path is still a solid path

No matter how much you divert.

The blood red roses, the rough flesh of the tree

Will always wither, although you may not agree

When the whips and scorns of time lash out at thee. 

Stout red poppies covered the hillside
Children wore their staining color
Oblivious to the blood spilled.
Remembrance was the nation's shout
The blood of heroes never dies.
Poppies blew in the breeze.
My father picked one up
Showing me its beauty
Black center that streaked
Into bright red,
Green stem thick and lush.
Poppies slowed their methodical dance
Listening to what I'd say next.
Remembrance for every poppy
Skewed upon the path,
Twisted,
Beaten,
And Killed.
The poppy blackens to ashes, 
Falling between my fingers, 
wafting beyond the hill.
The blood of heroes never dies

.

You, empty,

Hunger rattles your shivering frame,

As you gaze at those, ancient and bloated,

Feeding you bitter excuses, always the same,

That slither down your bobbing throat,

You, empty,

Base need coils around rational thoughts

Driving your winding backs seeking institutions for respite,

Yet your shelters, once stripped of superficial gloss, 

Expose their rotting interiors, expose a despot;

You. Empty. 

History repeats.

Hunger rattles your shivering frame,

But now your fangs stretch and

Greet their ending with a new beginning

. 

At birth you are assigned a color Pink or blue This color will stay with you for the rest of your life For better or worse. Who knew a color could cause so much controversy Especially with children. The topic of gender is a sour subject to parents It leaves a bad taste in their mouth So bad they spit it out towards the ones they “love”. Disowned, Homeless, depressed, dead. The reaction of a parent will always leave a strain on a child’s quality of life They didn’t ask to be this way They just want love and support Why is that so hard to ask for. They want their guardian to be proud of them Not disappointed. Don't miss out on the possibilities a child could have Because that child will grow up better then ever imaginable You'll regret it Trust me.

scared

that gut feeling

when you know something bad

is about to happen

sacred

hoping

praying that nobody gets hurt

scared

not knowing

what lies ahead

scared

taking deep breaths

trying to soothe yourself

scared

crouching in the corner of a classroom

silence

your friends

and people you barely know

huddling around you

hearing whispers

whispers of “scared”

faces filled with fear

teachers doing everything they can 

scared

you have a headache

scared

you’re crying

scared

you hear quiet whispers

then “shh”

scared

you don’t know how long you’ll be sitting

in the corner

with your back against the wall

scared

you’re scared

scared

you hear whispers 

whispers that the police are coming

scared

your stomach unclenches a little

scared

there is an announcement

you are safe

you are allowed to go back to class

you feel a flood of relief

the best feeling in the world

everyone breathes

floods of people fill the hallway

they hug their friends

you were all scared

and that feeling of scared

will stick with you forever

Hands held is a sign of love

Hands held causes jealousy

Hands held is a sign of a dove

Hands held is a sign of a melody

Hands held is a sign of love

All the different kinds

And sometimes it needs a shove

Or everything unwinds

Hands held causes jealousy

Sometimes more than not

And it’s not a legacy

Just a hard spot 

Hands held is a sign of a dove

So fragile and precious

Flying far, far above

It has come to bless us

Hands held is a sign of a melody

The notes long and clear

It is a homemade remedy

Every day of the year

It means so many different things

And each one is unique

It’s like a harp without the strings

And never goes weak

teacher, teacher, i have

a question: why am i

breaking the law

now that i am finally feeling?

i mean no harm, just wish

to kiss a certain human heart. you

are all like oversized, awkward frogs

to me; why should

i not want something

a little more feminine?

tell me, teacher, what am i

doing wrong? the taste on my lips is desire,

not sin. my and her

backs and upper thighs are now raw

from discovery. oh, imagine

living where love

does not = pain.

teacher, how do i decide?—do i have

my life finished

in a short, bright flash, or live

for a hundred years but never once

be born from her womb?