Hard Times Strange - Poem by Kevin Maroney
Whistle weekly to my tune,
as through my head in such soon
inscrutable ways doth my mind flow,
how ever can one really know?
Will it strike a spark, be put to bed?
Or strike out in a totally new direction instead.
This dilection I feel courses through my soul,
as such sweet melodies caress me till I'm full.
That wondrous hymn of words locking together,
as heavy as drums, as light as a feather,
in step forever, they march to attention,
and as I rise to the challenge, sometimes a stretchin',
They rhyme so careful, as I lay them to rest,
till they're just in the way they could be best.
Naught but for prose hath I changed my speak,
as indeed, I ought not to change it every week,
my soul's constant, not a twister or changer,
as it takes the current and makes it a stranger.
The rock of one's being's not easy to estrange,
as it becomes one's home in hard times and waters strange.
Comments about Hard Times Strange by Kevin Maroney
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- TelevisionRoald Dahl
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda