CWTAP's Poem Archive

[Careful With That Axe Pichu!]

Oak & The Songbird

A songbird, awaken, flew by past a tree;
its leaves, as he noticed, were dying.
A gold vine was still, but mournfully free;
the petals by fall had been crying.

The bird, it was gentle, had landed to greet
a lungful of steel from the air;
it sung as it walked, its lyric to meet
one minuet wept like a prayer.

The moth-eaten wood called forth for it, fated;
its words were a whisper of dust:
"The old hill did hold me for years on, I waited--
to part me from heaven you must."

The songbird did listen; it gazed at the cleaver,
dead branches still cradled on reason.
Should it have gone, or played a believer?
"My verve might depart upon treason,"

The timber had spoken, a creak from its wing
did echo its nonvocal thunder:
"my wisdom is classic, yet I am to bring
my reply to animal wonder."

"You merely have dreamt of the lead gates of death
imagine their caress mistaken;
your entity mine, in all but a breath
together make enmity shaken."

A silent light shone, the bird flew to heaven,
to give his frail being forever;
the wise men had known not its fate nor to leaven
whatever it chose to endeavor.

Thereafter the songbird had bustled with grace,
the old oak with logic had spoken;
this story remains, though, misled into space--
its closure, through balance, was broken.

The wise knew the answer at least, after all;
the leaves, in the end, had been laughing.

© Careful With That Axe, Pichu. All rights reserved.
​

 

[Careful With That Axe Pichu!]

A poem about war.

Rememberance

The winds of crimson caress were once wandering unsold,
I looked upon the deeds of men, and laughed at legends told.
I laid beneath my bitter will, aside the means of death,
my shame was not on trial, for I struggled with a breath.

Against me talked of gates found close, those far to be decreed.
The foolishness of years began for those whose shadows bleed
will spark glory after labor, while deities curse their fights:
By steel their hearts will fall apart, and sleep a million nights.

To wash my hurt, the sun cascades amidst the desert screen;
My hands are drenched in blood, my thoughts remain pristine.
I steal a prayer, speak for those who play their lives in vain
to gaze upon the dead and spare a moment to remain.

My dream ignores the fateful truth, I scatter tender prose;
for which we must be one again, their beast will nations doze,
and overcome a trial, as my martyrdom behind;
to seal their sinful proof, and be fools or mere mankind.

 

[Xaviar]

You have a very clear-cut rhyme scheme and flow in both of the poems, though the flow is interrupted in Remembrance; the second line of the third stanza appears to be missing a syllable. This is easily remedied by adding 'though' to the front of it, completing the paradox of an impure physical existance but a holy conscience.

To wash my hurt, the sun cascades amidst the desert screen;
[Though] my hands are drenched in blood, my thoughts remain pristine.

Your work is very expressive, but Oak and the Songbird was a bit over my head. Was the tree crying out for death, or did it kill the bird for laughter?

Anyways, I'm surprised no one has posted yet... Uncultured brutes! xD

 

[Careful With That Axe Pichu!]

You have a very clear-cut rhyme scheme and flow in both of the poems, though the flow is interrupted in Remembrance; the second line of the third stanza appears to be missing a syllable. This is easily remedied by adding 'though' to the front of it, completing the paradox of an impure physical existance but a holy conscience.



Your work is very expressive, but Oak and the Songbird was a bit over my head. Was the tree crying out for death, or did it kill the bird for laughter?

Anyways, I'm surprised no one has posted yet... Uncultured brutes! xD

Thanks for the suggestion. :D

Oak & The Songbird deals with utilitarianism. The Oak, wise as the earth, is old and dying; a graceful bird, innocent, youthful and ignorant, rests upon its cracking branches. The main scheme deals with how the Oak asks the bird whether it will share its youth with him, halt his death (to part me from heaven you must), in exchange for its own life. What matters the most? Innocence and simple beauty, or great knowledge, and intelligence? Which one makes the world richer?

 

[Emmie Em]

I've got to agree with Xaviar on his comments more or less.

However, I do find that your two Poems are both very heartfelt. You are very creative with the words that you have used, and I like it.

Yes they really are 'Uncultured Brutes'. xD