Treasure Island

Emily Beck


Foraged in times of thick black soot, winded is the soul they say
It oozes out of eyes and ears, unable to see nor hear
Infecting every orifice, it is the cancer within
The elk of tomorrow have come today
To feast upon the greenness
This is the generation
With no inspiration
Right is wrong
Is hidden

Submitted: Monday, March 25, 2013

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Comments about this poem (1 by Emily Beck )

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  • Thomas A Robinson (3/27/2013 10:08:00 AM)

    1, the name of your first poem submitted.
    Is it foraged or was it to be forged? Either or either way (with the i sound) It works.
    Ink is made of thick black soot. Winded is the soul they say.
    Poems are long winded sayings from the soul written in thick black soot.
    As it oozes out of every orifice poetry can be like a cancer consuming all.
    All elk call in the wild... a haunting lonesome call... as all generations have done before.
    And elk folllow the green grass as it grows in the woods and valleys of the west.
    They follow in herds but often roam alone... an inspiration in itself.
    What of the responsibilty of elk but to roam wild... free.
    Is this right or wrong?
    Or beneath us all? (Report) Reply

  • Sandy Player (3/25/2013 5:51:00 PM)

    And it chokes itself off and ends and how ineviatable it is to anyone who takes even a second glance at it. I like the line formations portrayal of that, how the natural breathing rhythm when reading is disrupted more and more until it is completely disorganised. (Report) Reply

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