The Beach
The beach ends in the crushing surf, the steady ebb and flow of the strongest force on earth.
And here we choose to build our castles, lounge in the sun, and play away the long days.
We walk out to meet the tide, dancing with the waves, relishing the kiss of the sun, all is mirth.
We are instantly refreshed from this well of power, this natural balm, embraced in the ocean’s spray.
The Winter Mountains
The snow dulls the sharp edges of the cold winter mountains.
It smooths away all blemishes until we slide through and leave our mark.
The evergreens, cozy in their white blankets, splash their color blends.
Everything exudes calm, peace, sanity, the beauty is stark.
The Summer Mountains
The river whispers its promise of relief from the summer sun baked mountains.
The jays hop and bob, offering their opinions on everything while skittishly moving from tree to tree.
The stars, more than you could count in a hundred lifetimes, bright the sky, an infinite pricks of the pin.
A thunder storm rages in the canyon next door and the echoes roll down the valley.
The Desert
Sharp, black rocks, alien, grotesque, yet beautiful, punctuate the view, the remnants from volcanos long sense extinct.
The long arms of cactus, point every which way, like signposts meant to remind you how far you are from anything and everything.
The road carves through faults, from San Andreas to Garlock, it’s a land scarred by quakes, the layers of rock swirl, beautiful and distinct.
A poem cannot be a bed.
No matter what you’ve read,
A poem cannot be a bed.
A bed can you keep you warm on a cold morning, pushing back the start of the day.
Can a poem do that? Keep away the chill, keep you from rising,
From the mornings bustling and the days hustling?
That’s beyond its scope, wouldn’t you say?
A bed has sheets and blankets, soft and cozy to cover you.
Can a poem do that? Wrap you in its words, like bedclothes,
From your toes all the way up to your nose?
That’s not something words can do.
A bed can keep you safe from nightmares, cover your head.
Can a poem do that? Act like a shield and keep your ghosts at bay,
See you through the night until the sun rises and you’re ready to play?
With a poem for armor, you’d surely be dead.
A poem cannot be a bed.
No matter what you’ve read,
A poem cannot be a bed.
A bed will be there for you, tired or not, day or night.
Can a poem do that? Give you the space to just be,
Accepting you for who you are, not caring what you or others see?
Words on a page, they can’t do that… Right?
……
Loved this post from Rara and thought I’d have a go at it too. Not sure I did it well at all but at least I’m trying to write more consistently and that’s nothing to scoff at these days.
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Prompt: What can’t a poem be? List ten different things a poem cannot be. Then write a poem that attempts to be at least one or more of those things.
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