Mayapples green in forest’s shade,
Victim of a boy’s imagination.
Stick sword in hand, leafy enemy he slays,
Victory the boy’s destination.
An army of mayapples in the wood by the stream,
In silence they mass their attack.
With his sword as he stands, through the fog of the dream,
With his bravery he drove them all back.
None witnessed the fight, or his terror and might,
He surveys the great victory he’s known.
As the sun starts to fall, his mother now calls.
And to dinner he hurries on home.
6/20/05
great poem Gary, loved the content which to me had deep meaning. cheers Sylvie
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem makes me feel very nostalgic. When he was a little boy, my brother Jeffrey used to slay ironweed in just the same way. He thought of them as Philistine warriors with purple plumes. Thank you for warming my memory with this charming poem. Kind regards, Sandra