Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Two New Poem Drafts

Launch of Apollo 11

Great is the fire, a little sun,
to cast a ship to the realm of suns,
a sailless ship to ride the star-seas,
to travel far from home and port,
to seek the silver-lighted splendor
and do the feat of great renown.

Prophecy

In silent fields I walked alone,
the zephyr-breezes running by.
The sound of feet on earth and stone
was doomful; I did not know why.
The sun on high was sanguine red,
dark brown were rows of corn below;
they rattled like dry bones long dead,
they withered in the bloody glow.
The sand was in the air, and, deep,
the clouds with billows dusted all.
Yea, as you sow, so shall you reap;
poorly built is swift to fall.

The moon arose dark orange and ill
as though it had been dipped in blood;
its silvern light with plague was filled
and poured on all, a dirty flood.
No wolves were there, but wolfish howl
yet roared through cold and bitter wind
as dark yet rainless clouds did growl.
With muttered thunders day did end.
The heavens moaned in death-like sleep,
on haggard lands the shroud and pall.
Yea, as you sow, so shall you reap;
poorly built is swift to fall.

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