Dave SmithWhite

Freshman - 636 Points (270552 / Sydney)

A Song For The Season - Poem by Dave SmithWhite

I feel the heat of Summer coming, like a beating drum.
The warming air is rising under plumes of alpine gum.
When through the gloom, the future looms;
The prophets are struck dumb.
With the crystal storms of thunder strumming,
In a distant hum.

Beneath my feet the earth is seething;
It's broiling depths unplumbed.
The cauldrons of old hell are boiling,
With the torrid heat of suns.
And within the core, there's violent war,
The stresses and the friction tore,
At molten iron and vulcan glass,
That spews above the mountain pass.

I feel the chill of Winter creaking, in my brittle bones.
The mistral's shrill and shrieking, as it seeks out my warmer zones.
The cold - like ice - is visceral,
As blood flees from the peripherals.
The world is numb, the outlook glum,
And no-one cares for individuals!

I feel the thrill of Winter breaking, in triumphant thaw;
The hoary cycles are re-making, all that went before.
The greening shoots of Spring's arrival,
The spreading roots of life's revival;
Tell the story of survival,
For every sprig and spore.
That's what the struggles for!

Above my head, the earth is breathing;
From peerless heights unknown.
The clouds crowd out the sky in wreathing,
Like a fertile land unmown.
Above my head, with space the ceiling,
The heat is trapped and slyly stealing
The water in the air, congealing,
Into a violent storm.
Where the rare is now the norm!

I feel the wheel of seasons turning, and as anchor I am plumb!
In a world that reels about me learning nothing, keeping mum.
When the lever strikes the pivot and leaves a divot in your thumb,
And the pain is cruel and thrumming, on a note too highly strung.
When all are groomed for the future boom,
At the summit of an Autumn bloom;
And entombed hope is soon exhumed:
At the fulcrum, there are crumbs,
With as many seats as bums!

I feel the heat of Summer coming, like a beating drum.
With the crystal storms of thunder, strumming,
In a distant hum,
I feel the Seasons of becoming:
The rhyme, the reason and the summing,
Portend an end, at last succumbing
To that persistent hum;
That constant, insistent hum,
I hear them distant drums!

Topic(s) of this poem: season

Form: Verse


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Poem Submitted: Sunday, January 17, 2016

Poem Edited: Sunday, January 17, 2016


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