Roads Diverged

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,"
Branches apart like contours brown,
Uncaring flakes of life long stood,
An afterthought to flutter down.

Three rivers convening beneath a bough,
A gurgling debate of mouths so fast,
By their own paths alone they vow,
Resolve resounding in woods so vast.

Four roots like serpents of umber light,
Twisting in the earth-brown skies,
Diving to escape the shower's sight,
Evading each of a thousand eyes.

A stage awash in power surged,
And from every gust new lives call,
Yet what is fate but roads diverged?
For all the world is one long fall.





And here I write, once again, in the wake of a Divergence poem, (the series title even better connected in this instance) the latest of a series of poems that stem from the beginning of a famous work. Here, I decided to diverge from "The Road Not Taken," and take an even less expected turn in an effort to put a unique spin on Robert Frost's preeminent work.

On a side note (or perhaps more of a "below note," as these all seem to be), I am currently in the process of adding tags and a sidebar organizer to the blog, which will greatly help in organizing the chaos of chronological blog posts. For example, this post might be tagged "divergence" and "rhyme." You get the idea.

Wings

Humans, wingless as they are,
Will scour the world around,
No stone unturned, near or far,
But quarry yet unfound.

And failing to even replicate
This dreamlike world above,
They simply learn to accept their fate
And so the ground they love.

Despite themselves, a greed remains,
Tearing at their core,
For futile are their avian feigns,
So much they yearn to soar.

A landbound man is twisted by
His own unsightly lack,
For even the smallest fly
Has found his craven track.

And so proceeds year after year,
A rolling stone so cast,
The truth growing ever clear,
That dream wings cannot last.

Perhaps dreams are just dreams,
From every heart the legend sings,
The day of flight will wait, it seems,
For the one who finds his wings.





Who shall it be? Perhaps we see their feathers, glimpses of possibility amidst the mundane. It seems they hide in plain sight. Perhaps above us they soar. Watch for the wings...for they may even be yours.

Note: this is kind of a quick poem, written on a phone in a bus on a road in summer in...

The Diamonding

True to the theme of this poem, a 10-minute timer was put to use. Thus, it seems a bit crude and sharp, but then again so it is. Divine the metaphors! (oh, also I put it into iambic tetrameter in the last 30 seconds because that is what it seemed to implore)

Compressed against the earthly fists,
The terra-force a terror true,
Two twin tide wreakers: rhythm shared,
The strength of air from blue to blue.

The chanting eyes, the staring words,
A can-like mirror, "cannot" fears,
A doubting shard within bests swords,
And too uncertain certains seers.

From higher hues to younger reds,
The hands from straight to right to none,
And empty lines to empty sheets,
The sea alight, the boulder spun.