Domestic words
are yoked for work.
They will not
tell you secrets.
The wild breed
cannot be tamed.
They fly in forests
deep within.
But still the mind
and they appear.
They'll roost
right on the branches
of a page.
They sit awhile
and then fly off.
The type becomes
bare, winter trees.
But in the season
of quiet, they'll come again.
Great images to give to this topic............very nice Max. Sincerely, Mary
... and sometimes they sneak into the domestic word-coop and lo! in the pages of Poemhunter lay every day golden eggs ... you too Max!
Max, this is surely one of your best. The contrast between domestic words and 'wild words' settling across a page is well though out. Thanks for this. Raynette
Really liked this! Those words will come up from the depths, not always welcome guests.
I agree with G Murdock on the process. We need both the mild and wild ones when the time is right. Sometimes I get burned out on the same old words then something strange and/or vivid happens and the old words line up in a different way and less familiar words pop up off the bench, jumping up and down screaming, 'Put me in coach.'
It's just the way I feel, except that with me words fly off in the season of quiet and come back when my life seems out of kilter. A beautiful poem. I loved it. Julia
This was a treatise on the process of poetry. I enjoyed the way you blended the internal and external elements of nature...like an accomplished landscaper. Excellent rendering Max.
This is a very pleasurable poem to read, Max, I shall have to look for some 'quiet time' and see if inspiration comes to the fore. Thanks. Love Ernestine XXX
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
really clever! I thought it was great!