Treasure Island

David SmithWhite

(270552 / Australia)

Ax of Creation


I hold it. Gently.
In the palms
of both hands.
Like a captured,
thoughtful dove,
it is as delicate
and remote,
as a secret.

But then I seek:
not a greater
understanding,
not a higher truth,
but temporal fame.
Some sordid proof
of immortality;
a twist of reality.

My grip grows tight,
I squeeze: it fights.
The feathered down
explodes.
Red and white
and bloody,
the shatterred,
oblivious body,
falls,
and cracks
the ground.

I plucked
a fantail from the air.
I heard the Songbird's
music suite.
I quilled a message
from it's blood.
It was a poem.
Complete.

Submitted: Saturday, November 05, 2005

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  • Esther Leclerc (2/28/2006 8:17:00 AM)

    Maybe I'm not too far-gone; I guessed where this was leading. Still, I love the unfolding of the theme. (Have to say 'love' - - poor misused word.) (Report) Reply

  • Jane Byron (12/8/2005 4:05:00 PM)

    I read this numerous times and I am certain I shall return to read it again...there is something in it, like a resonance I have heard before (Report) Reply

  • Max Reif (11/5/2005 6:02:00 PM)

    I wonder whether this is a comment on today's Poem of the Day, by Wm. Blake?

    A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
    Puts all Heaven in a rage.

    A skylark wounded on the wing
    Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

    He who shall hurt the little wren
    Shall never be beloved by men. (Report) Reply

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