Occasionally, a idea for a poem will fill my mind, like some potent obligation, only to end up floating among my background thoughts as a vague, intangible possibility. Such was the case with a poem that I wrote this past weekend, titled "Two Stones."
The initial idea for this poem was born out of a conversation I'd had with a newlywed about three decades ago. It was ever so clear and concise within that dialogue, but as a poem, I just couldn't get it to move forward. Why was it being so difficult?
The other day, I asked my muse, "So, how do I even begin to write this as a poem?" ... and then it all began to coalesce into words, rather like the way that invisible vapors condense as dew on an upturned leaf in the garden. Hmm ... all I had to do was ask?
So, I thought I'd share "Two Rocks" here, in it's unripened infancy, as a way to say, "Sorry for not posting sooner ... but, I was otherwise engaged with ... "
Two Stones
Sweet flowers grew, and grasses blew,
About a pretty garden stone,
While on a rough and wooded bluff,
A piece of granite lay alone.
The comely stone was rightly owned
By one of gentle, fragile hand.
The other, gleaned and brusquely cleaned,
Sat in a palm it could not span.
Then came a morn of promise born
A chamber opened, both went in,
Yet, while they froze in brief repose,
The vessel soon commenced to spin.
At first, in unison they rolled,
But out of sync, the tears began,
Transforming bed and bond, and all
To loosely saturated sand.
Then brief, colliding, bashing hurts
Gave way to blissful harmony
And through each turn, from fight to friend,
They both were altered, subtly.
All jagged edges slowly smoothed,
And more than not gave sweet caress.
No longer coarse, disparate stones
But precious, polished, mated gems.
The initial idea for this poem was born out of a conversation I'd had with a newlywed about three decades ago. It was ever so clear and concise within that dialogue, but as a poem, I just couldn't get it to move forward. Why was it being so difficult?
The other day, I asked my muse, "So, how do I even begin to write this as a poem?" ... and then it all began to coalesce into words, rather like the way that invisible vapors condense as dew on an upturned leaf in the garden. Hmm ... all I had to do was ask?
So, I thought I'd share "Two Rocks" here, in it's unripened infancy, as a way to say, "Sorry for not posting sooner ... but, I was otherwise engaged with ... "
Two Stones
Sweet flowers grew, and grasses blew,
About a pretty garden stone,
While on a rough and wooded bluff,
A piece of granite lay alone.
The comely stone was rightly owned
By one of gentle, fragile hand.
The other, gleaned and brusquely cleaned,
Sat in a palm it could not span.
Then came a morn of promise born
A chamber opened, both went in,
Yet, while they froze in brief repose,
The vessel soon commenced to spin.
At first, in unison they rolled,
But out of sync, the tears began,
Transforming bed and bond, and all
To loosely saturated sand.
Then brief, colliding, bashing hurts
Gave way to blissful harmony
And through each turn, from fight to friend,
They both were altered, subtly.
All jagged edges slowly smoothed,
And more than not gave sweet caress.
No longer coarse, disparate stones
But precious, polished, mated gems.
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