October 7th Post

Trees.

Trees are, just , oh my gosh, so wonderful.  

Sitting under them, climbing up them, napping in them.  

They are so generous, they give and give and don't even ask for anything in return.  

They give us life.  Oxygen.  They give us a home.  Whether it be a nest, hole, or house made of wood.  And they give the world beauty.  Mountains are beautiful.  Standing atop one and gazing down, across, and up at others.  It's indescribable.  And what covers those mountains? Trees.  

The twist and tangle.  

Growing straight, or angled. 

complementing the sky, 

they grow so high.

They seem so big. 

But, They're not.

I was thinking about that the other day.  How everything is so tiny.  So tiny that we can't even grasp how large everything is.  like the universe, I mean.  How is nothing outside of it? It just goes on forever? It's interesting that forever can measure distance and time.  Ahhh life is so dude.  Some of the most amazing, most beautiful things on earth, that are magnificent to us, like trees, are nothing compared to what is beyond us.  This sounds so cheesy, oh well, it's just so wow.

Rain, Love

It once came down
So much it flooded
It came down
So harsh it destructed
It then would evaporate,
Leaving hope for escape,
to never feel it ever again,
Just to condense and fall again.
It was acidic—
It struck pained and seared.
It was chilling—
Like a ghost to fear.
It was gloomy—
A dark, sad gray.
But eventually,
It went away.
And the draught seemed nice at first,
Didn’t sense a bit of thirst.
There was no more
Drenched or drowned
Just an occasional tear and frown.
There was no more
Siren rings
There was no more
…Anything.

I'm not done though, I need to finish and add how noww love for me is like rain that is calming and refreshing. and peaceful.

Love Poem

Under the Harvest Moon

By Carl Sanberg

Under the harvest moon, 

When the soft silver

Over the garden nights,

Death, the grey mocker, 

Comes and whispers to you

As a beautiful friend

Who remembers.

Under the harvest moon

When the fragrant crimson

Lurks in the dusk

Of the wild red leaves, 

Love, with little hands, 

Comes and touches you

With a thousand memories, 

And asks you

Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Sorry, I really like this poem, now 'll put one on here that has a metaphor.  

~~LOVE~~

Love is a Sickness

By Samuel Daniel

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows,

Most barren with best using.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries--

Heigh Ho!

Love is a torment of the mind

A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor for fasting.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries--

Heigh Ho!

Love is complicated, and contradicting.  If you try to rid it, it continues even more.  If you try to mend it, it declines.  They use caring for a plant to explain this.  

~~LOVE~~

Love is like a rock, it can be thrown at you in the face and make you blind.  But if you pick it up ad examine it, it can be beautiful, with layers, swirls, and many colors...Or it can be rough, pointy, sharp and ugly.  

Poetry Citique

1." Epidermal Macbre" by Theodore Roethke

Indelicate is he who loathes

The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --

The flying fabric stitched on bone,

The vesture of the skeleton,

The garment neither fur nor hair,

The cloak of evil and despair,

The veil long violated byCaresses of the hand and eye.

Yet such is my unseemliness:

I hate my epidermal dress,

The savage blood's obscenity,

The rags of my anatomy,

And willingly would I dispense

With false accouterments of sense,

To sleep immodestly, a most

Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

2. I selected this poem for several reasons. I have used this poem in school before, so I thought I'd read it again and see if my interpretations of it changed. I was pretty sure I knew what it meant last year, but now I don't. I like it because it makes me think and I feel like I understand it even though I can't explain it.

3. Maybe he's trying to say this gruesome thing, whatever it is, is spreading and more nad more people are involved.

4. There is imagrey throughout the whole poem. The whole poem is a metaphor. These to devices make the poem what it is.

5. The tone is depressing and morbid.  He used words in every line to create a depressing, morbid picture.  I would say he was successful with his tone.