Part One

His snout drives into dust,
Dead.
Thick mass of fur lies heavy,
Settling
Shifting
The breath whispers out sighing.

Into the earth sinking,
Cold mold
Old bone
Home
For slitherers
For crawlers
For creeping
Creatures

Green and brown
Tendrils, vines
Gasping up
Diving down
They crack
They rip
They split
They slip
Into every place
They burst

Torn like ripened peaches
Bark and stems crunch
In the farthest reaches
Of a hot
Misty
Mouth
A life cut short
Ripped from the clay
But not for long.
Part Two

          &n bsp; My intention in this poem was to use free verse forms to make a point about time and its precious nature. Sitting at the computer doing my assignments for this class besides those for my other classes, I realized, for the thousandth time, how much time I waste. I am a terrible procrastinator from time to time. I intended to be done with my assignments hours ago, and as I look at the clock I am shocked and disappointed at how much time has passed. Besides the (hopefully) obvious method of trying to structure my lines to resemble a clock’s face in this poem, I also tried to use alliteration, enjambment and metaphor.

Tick
Tock- oh my-
Is that really true, is it-
It is. It has slipped swiftly by
My careful plans, all those things
I had set out to do, all of this space
I had set aside, behind me now gone
Armies ambushed, by an unseen foe
Too late, my lolling lazy habits have
truly gone too far this time, undone
By languid sighs and cups of tea,
I wished and whined for brevity
Another day has gone away
And all I hear is tick,
Tock, tick.

Part Three

These walls speak in whispers soft,
Of presents, laced in pink and blue.
Strong hands climb into the loft.

Smooth hands soothe a little cough.
Of worries kept lit by the moon
These walls speak in whispers soft.

Some things stay and some are lost.
Of child’s play and joyful tunes;
Echoes climb into the loft.
For books and sweethearts they march off.
Of boxed-up toys and little shoes,
These walls sigh in whispers soft.

In wintertime, to spite the frost,
They wished to gaze on things they knew.
Old hands climbed into the loft.

Onto a box the earth is tossed,
But to this home comes life anew.
These walls laugh in whispers soft,
As small hands climb into the loft.

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Last Modified: 10/02/2009