Shapes of

Things to Come

AN EXPLORATION OF POETRY IN FORMS

Kate Rogers
Spring 2009
Cover Illustration - Concrete “Shape” Poem:
“Butterfly” by Kate Rogers
Butterfly
once intimate with flower
flits away
spys another
Butterfly
and is completed

Self-published in Guilderland, New York

May, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Catherine Ashworth Rogers

All rights reserved
Table of Contents
Introduction ....................................................................................2
Rhythmic Poems ............................................................................3
Sestina: Interplay .......................................................................3
Beladi .........................................................................................5
Divisions are Illusions ................................................................6
I Am Still Seeking ......................................................................7
Fairy Tale ...................................................................................8
Hamster Love ..........................................................................11
Haiku Variations ...........................................................................13
Dry May ...................................................................................13
Resting ....................................................................................13
From Your Artist's Best Friend ................................................14
Spring Reunion ........................................................................15
Spring Allergies .......................................................................16
Dedications ..................................................................................17
Ode to Sappho* .......................................................................17
House of Cards ........................................................................18
Elegy for Edith .........................................................................20
Facing You ..............................................................................22
Free Verse ...................................................................................23
4 A.M. ......................................................................................23
Creating Art .............................................................................24
Mehndi Magic ..........................................................................26
Steps........................................................................................27
Making a Detour in the Woods ................................................28
Garden Blues ...........................................................................30
Gravity of Vlomankill Trail ........................................................31

1
Introduction
On the ides of April, following the spring urge toward creative
growth, I decided, rather on a whim, to challenge myself to write
a poem a day for a month. In order to keep this challenge fresh
and interesting to me, I decided to explore some of the many
different forms and styles of poetry. The following pages
represent a sampling of some of the poems produced during that
fertile spring.

Most modern poetry is written in free verse, and my own poetry

has been no exception. This has been my poetic form of choice
for all of my adult writing years. Free verse is so named because
it frees the poet from stanza and meter restrictions that were the
common structures for poetry since its earliest roots in classical
Greek literature. Writing according to the rules of classical poetic
forms can be quite challenging. Writing in forms forces poets to
pay very close attention to natural rhythmic and musical
intonations of language. It forces the poet to find creative ways to
say what needs saying under the self-imposed limitations of the
chosen form. Writing in forms makes the poet to pay even closer
attention to word choice – by imposing limitations, the poet must
make each word count. Free Verse is far easier in that regard.

The cannon of great classical poetry is filled with poets who spent
their entire lives honing the craft of writing poetry within forms. I
maintain that these forms still have the power to transform
language and elevate it to the realm of Art. Free verse poetry is
represented in this collection, but standing alongside them,
restored to their place of honor, at least within these pages, are
also a collection of modern poems written according to some very
old rules.

Enjoy!

2
Rhythmic Poems
This opening section of poems are united by the power of rhythm
which lies at the heart of all poetic meter. You should be able to
tap your toes to these poems. The exception to this is the first
poem, a sestina, written on the subject of rhythm. A sestina is a
form of poetry that derives its power from the specific patterning
of six key words that end each line of the poem in a particular
order.

Sestina: Interplay

They gather in the gloaming, hold their breath

as in the center, flares ignite the fire.
Bright sparks stretch skyward, toward the light stretch hands
flexing fingers, rolling wrists, the dancers
rolling hips in sample circles, drummers
taking position, start the first rhythm.

Toes begin to tap to catch the rhythm.

Heart beats speed to tempo along with breath.
Linked eyes communicate among drummers,
lines of sight established from drums to fire,
getting settled in to serve the dancers
who hearing a hidden cue, raise their hands,

Step into the circle, while drummers' hands

follow feet that syncopate the rhythm.
Bells chime from slender ankles of dancers
who whirl and spin until they lose their breath,
dripping with sweat, step away from the fire,
revived by the steady pulse of drummers.

Intricate patterns played among drummers,

loving interactions of skin and hands,
begin to find new energy from fire.
Taking on a life of its own, rhythm
romps around the circle. An indrawn breath
follows the veiled form that parts the dancers,

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Zils chiming, hip cocked, she leads the dancers
in a seductive reward for drummers.
Dancing close enough to fan their warm breath
upon the skin of drummers who use hands
to answer the suggestion with rhythms
that blur the lines between dancer and fire.

Until the sun returns, they feed the fire

that tightens skin of both drums and dancers
lost in the interplay of their rhythms.
First shift, second shift, third trade the drummers
to sustain the energy in their hands
until all who gathered are out of breath.

Built of the fire, sustained by the drummers,

woven by dancers with their knowing hands,
rhythms of life renewed by their shared breath.

4
Form: Beladi
When I was first learning to play the doumbek,a hand drum
popular in the middle east, I was confounded by its very exotic
Arabic rhythm patterns. To help me learn one of the most
common rhythm patterns, the beladi, I created a little mnemonic
phrase to help me remember where the beats and accents were.
I decided to use that phrase to begin my poem, with the goal to
write the entire poem using this rhythm pattern as its foundation.

Each line has eleven syllables, and follows the drum pattern that
can be said as "Doum-Doum-tekka-tek, Doum tekka tek, tekka"

Beladi
Real good beladi is melody is a
Repeat rhythm song, some sing along as they
Play drum steadily, play readily, tap your
Toes down, clap along; beats nice and strong. As the
Dancers stomp their feet, pick up the beat. Watch the
Zils ring merrily, chime verily truth in
Rhythms played in synch, hearts join the link in a
Drum-fueled rhythm fest for inner quest. When we
Play our souls expand. Strike up the band for the
Song of bellydance, now here's your chance to be
Free of metronomes, pulse in your bones playing
One more beladi, drum malady, so it
Ends…
With friends.

5
Form: Chant
Chanting, an ancient form of ritualized language, is one of the
earliest forms of poetry. I love the highly rhythmic and repetitive
quality of chants. I composed this with a mental drumbeat playing
beneath the verses.

Divisions are Illusions

Divisions are illusions because everything is one
Divisions are illusions because everything is one

The smiling face is blind to race, it's shared by everyone

Divisions are illusions because everything is one

Our hearts all beat with inner heat no matter what they've done
Divisions are illusions because everything is one

The air we breathe is made by trees, the wind through us does

run
Divisions are illusions because everything is one

When raindrops flow then life can grow, the circle is begun
Divisions are illusions because everything is one

A mountain grand and grain of sand both see how far they've
come
Divisions are illusions because everything is one

A candle flame is just the same that burns within the sun
Divisions are illusions because everything is one

Within each bone of stardust grown our unity is won

Divisions are illusions because everything is one

The universe and flowing verse both beating like a drum

Divisions are illusions because everything is one

For life to grow we all must know that we are all as one
Divisions are illusions because everything is one

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Form: Ghazal
The ghazal is an ancient Arabic form of poetry that relies on a
specific pattern of repetition and rhyme.

I Am Still Seeking
Looking for a path to set foot upon, I am still seeking.
Emerging from darkness, embracing dawn, I am still seeking.

Squirrel sways among branches, leaping above

From limb to bough, rarely touching firm lawn. I am still seeking.

Mouse tunnels among the beds of flowers.

Winter survival, but by spring they're gone. I am still seeking.

Mourning Doves spend a lifetime as a pair.

Survival found as loving marathon. I am still seeking.

Mighty deer of the forest find their way

Where no eye can pierce lay the sleeping fawn. I am still seeking.

Does Flame still fit the person I am now?

Which name is the real me, which shall I don? I am still seeking.

7
Form: Ballad
Another very old form, the ballad was a popular form of poetry for
hundreds of years. Used for story-telling, the regularity of rhythm
and rhyme made for quick memorization and ease of recitation.
It’s easy to imagine these forms of poetry set to music.

Fairy Tale
It's often thought the fairy world
Is only make-believe,
A story told in childhood,
A fantasy we weave.

I tell you fair and honestly

The Fey folk are quite real
For I myself have witnessed one,
This much I can reveal.

It happened many years ago

When I was still a teen.
I took a trip to Ireland,
The land where elves are seen.

'Twas Blarney Castle where I saw,

In gardens lush and green,
A sight that made me catch my breath
And doubt what I had seen.

It's often thought the fairy world

Is only make- believe,
A story told in childhood,
A fantasy we weave.

For peeking 'tween the woody shrubs

That lined the garden way,
I caught the rustle of a stem
That caused a leaf to sway,

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Revealing first a tiny hand
That held the leaf aside,
And then a tiny face appeared
Though clearly meant to hide.

Her little mouth a perfect O,

I thought I heard her squeak.
Her tiny eyes were open wide.
I jumped, my knees grew weak.

It's often thought the fairy world

Is only make- believe,
A story told in childhood,
A fantasy we weave.

For several seconds long we stared,

Her eyes locked onto mine.
I could not move, nor breathe, nor think
As though too full of wine.

But I was stone cold sober then,

'Twas only early noon.
This wasn't shadows playing tricks,
Illusions of the moon.

One moment more she stared at me

As though to weigh my soul,
An icy shiver traced my spine.
This meeting took its toll.

It's often thought the fairy world

Is only make- believe,
A story told in childhood,
A fantasy we weave.

Her little walnut face stared back.

I meant to do no harm.
Perhaps it was my pounding heart
That signaled her alarm.

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Then faster than the eye could track,
Her hand released the leaf.
An instant later she was gone.
I stood in disbelief.

No bird nor chipmunk did I see,

But what was I to do?
For I had kissed the Blarney stone
So who would think it true?

It's often thought the fairy world

Is only make- believe,
A story told in childhood,
A fantasy we weave.

So now on all the Quarter days

When elves are thought to roam,
I offer milk and little treats
To fairies at my home.

For little giggles have I heard

While sitting in my yard.
They know that I believe in them
Though seeing them is hard.

It's often thought the fairy world

Is only make- believe,
The realm of Fey remains well hid,
More than we can conceive.

10
Form: Ballad variation
Not all poetry needs to be serious. Forms of poetry such as the
ballad are perfectly suited to more light-hearted themes. Poetry
can serve an important role as entertainment. Laughter is
necessary to good living. In that spirit, here is a variation on the
ballad form.

Hamster Love

All my daughter wanted was a hamster.

"Hamsters carry germs," I sort of lied.
"Vicious creatures, they will take your hand off,
Keep you up at night" I weakly cried.

Hamsters are like rabbits - they like mating -

Two of them will soon be getting more.
I had visions of their reproduction,
Overrun by rodent love galore.

She persisted, did her rodent research,

Told me they were gentle and quite tame -
Other pets had more traits that could kill you-
She thought my excuses were quite lame.

Finally I agreed to let her get one.

One alone can't lead to bigger things.
How she talked me into getting two, though
I don't know. I know what mating brings.

Hamsters just aren't used to lonely living.

This is how she justified the pair.
Knowing my objections to them mating,
She said, "Let's get males," and that seemed fair.

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It's a calculated risk with rodents,
Always ready, engines always hot,
Get a female, it's already pregnant,
Pretty soon you've got yourselves a lot.

Getting two males should have been the answer.

They would be less lonely as a pair.
Little did we know that this solution
Wouldn't stop the love that didn't dare.

Mother Nature knows what she is doing.

Only fools dispute it, come what may.
There is no denying that those hamsters
Hercules and Humperdinc are gay.

Day and night those little buggers rotate

Which one squeaks and which one gets the cheese,
Appetites that never satisfy them,
Rolling in the sawdust, aimed to please.

Everyone just loves a happy ending

This one ends with smiles all around.
Happy hamsters making love, not babies,
Sharing love wherever love is found.

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Haiku Variations
Haiku is a form of Japanese poetry that relies on a tightly restricted
number of syllables in each line, rather than a particular pattern of
stressed and unstressed syllables as is common in English forms of
poetry. Here are several poems written in forms inspired by Haiku.

Form: Tanka
Tanka is composed of a Haiku plus a couplet. The haiku focuses on
an image, and the couplet focuses on the inner world of the poet.
The two should be reflections of one another.

Dry May
Scanty scattered drops
Barely wet the drought-tight soil
Too hard to receive.

Too long since love softened me

Kisses roll off my surface.

Resting
Black ball of sleeping kitten
Nose tucked into tail
Purring deeply into dreams

Poet gazing inwardly

Contented by simple things
Form: Linked Haiku

From Your Artist's Best Friend

Inner artists need
Nourishment daily;
Body, mind, spirit

Tending to such needs

Awakens body wisdom,
Deepened through movement.

Mind is awareness
Paying attention to life,
Convey what you see.

Inspired to speak,
Write, paint, dance the truth you see,
Express your vision.

Body/mind balanced,
Ineffable connection,
Spirit becomes one.

Awaken the soul

By seeking moments of joy,
Small gasps of delight.

In breath of wonder,
Tingling awareness of life,
Three selves in balance.

Each day in small ways

Stay connected to what's real.
Awake. Move forward.

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Form: Haiku variation
This form is modeled after Haiku, but has an extended syllable
count.

Spring Reunion

Woodpecker drumming love songs,

Daffodils reflecting yellow spring,
Variations on a theme.

Bird, flower, bright spring sunshine,

Different parts of a much greater whole,
Sharing endless energy.

The rhythm of the calling,

Life seeking out ways to love itself,
One essential unity.

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Form: Double Etheree
The standard Etheree is a ten line poem with a progressive syllable
count, so that the first line has one syllable, the second line has two,
and so on until the last line has ten syllables. It is focused on one
idea or subject. The double Etheree is an Etheree and reverse
Etheree combined. Therefore, it is a twenty line poem with a
progressive syllable count that grows then shrinks.

Spring Allergies
Sneeze
Sneaks up,
Tickles nose
Slightly running,
Warns of its approach.
A deep breath gets pulled in,
Tensing in expectation,
Hand pulling another tissue
Like magicians with rabbits from hats
As pollen is transformed into mucus.
Comes the explosion of sound and wet spray
Barely caught by the white paper net.
Pause - is another one coming?
Then blow - shake the pollen free
From sensitive nostrils.
Another breath in,
One last nose wipe,
Gesundheit -
Sniffle -
Thanks.

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Dedications
It is common for poetry to be written with someone specific in mind.
Here are poems that were written and dedicated to people both
known and unknown, both living and dead.

Ode to Sappho*
Poet of Lesbos, she
Who loved women, but who
Loved words even more, wears
Love displayed like flowers
Blooming. Her song attracts
Modern ears to hear the
Music danced to, happy
To invoke the Graces.

*Sappho was an ancient Greek poet. She was a woman in a man's

world, engaging in the manly business of composing verse. Only
fragments of her work survive, but it is clear that she spoke with a
voice that still echoes through the ages. This poem was inspired by
a fragment of her verse, found in the last word of each line.

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Form: Sapphic Verse
This poem returns to some of the earliest roots of classical poetry.
Sapphic verse is named for the ancient Greek poet Sappho, who
favored this complex pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables.

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Carol “Mimi” Jones.

House of Cards
Empty now of thoughts that still burn, they're gone now
Finally gone, stilled by the place where thought ends
A light gone out, dark that consumes all that is
Everyone ends here.

Every pulse is stilled by the passing darkness

An indrawn breath held as we peer in the void
Silence yields to thoughts and emotions that don't
Ever expect death.

We erect a barrier stopping us short

At the threshold, death is a trip we avoid
Packing bags for, knowing it comes unprepared.
Better to pack light.

Unload sorrow, pack up the joy that was built

Out of little memories, moments only
Fragile net constructed from time together
Trawled through the vast dark.

Approaching end, silence that swallows heartbeats

Topples over carefully built house of cards
Each face card streaked now with traces of dust
Suddenly blown down.

We are built by stacking our lives on the edge

At right angles, holding up corners of love
Depending on factors outside our control
Permanent like clouds.

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Blown by the wind, all will come down in the end
Gather them up blowing through the darkness, together
We will build a new house, a new shape will form
Shuffle the stacked deck.

Finding balance, making our peace with the dark

Own the fallen, honor the dead, gather strength
In the shape of things that had been, holding on
Learning to start over.

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Form: Elegy, Elegiac Verse
An Elegy is a poem that reflects on the death of someone,
regardless of what particular form the poem takes. This one is
additionally written in Elegiac couplets, with lines that alternate
between dactylic hexameter and dactylic pentameter.

This poem is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, Edith

Ashworth Ward.

Elegy for Edith

Sitting here moodily, flipping through cellophane pages of images,
Trying to sift through the jumbled up toybox of memories-

Mother's day conjures up visions of children revering the feminine.

What if the woman in question was bad at the mothering?

Rites of remembrance are held where we mention her role as our

matriarch -
All that is left are some photographs sticking to picture frames.

Grandma, that bitch, Granny Strange are just some of the nicknames
we called you by -
What are your hidden names, whispering secrets I never knew?

What comes to mind when remembering she who would sacrifice

happiness?
She who worked hard to do right as was thought was her heritage.

Father was killed by the Flu epidemic of Nineteen Eighteen, said he

Came home on Friday, was dead by the following holy day.

Mother, a midwife, who set the example, unwavering fortitude,

Working, supporting her family as loneliness distanced her.

Brewed her own gin in a bathtub and gave away bottles as Thank
You gifts.
Everyone learned to make do in depression economies.

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Art school, a dream that came true, but impractical, meaningless.
Value defined by the pennies you managed and multiplied.

Happily married her childhood sweetheart, who left her to fight a war.
Conjugal visits on furlough resulted in motherhood.

Artist proclaimed with each project - creative ideas were her

specialty,
Channeled from life as an artist to art of good housekeeping.

Sewing her daughter fine party gowns, always attentive to

excellence,
Ripping apart her own daughter with venomous bitterness,

Captured the grace of a seagull who tips up his wing as a wave

uncurls,
Paints a scene tenderly, but is abrasive all other ways.

Hidden beneath growing layers of obvious dust and impermanence,

Art supplies molder, paint hardens as dreams go unrealized.

Cutting remarks were her specialty, everyone came under scrutiny,

Though she knew how to behave and was quick to make point of it.

Questioning tactics were frequently used to interrogate hostages,

Logical arguments lost to emotional blackmailing.

Insecure frustrated artist, you tried to manipulate all but those

Memories linger. You can't pretend everyone honored you.

Honoring happens in spite of the damage you willfully did to us,

Teaching us beauty is found in the pain of imperfect lives.

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Form: free verse in quatrains

This poem is dedicated to my mother, Margaret Button, on the

occasion of Mother’s Day.

Facing You
I wear your face, always
Through my ever-changing decades,
Future mirror of your face
Knows what is to come.

Cheekbones lift lips into the

Same smile, same eyes that see
The same world differently
Standing a generation apart.

Your bones, my bones

Rising from rocky New England
Old English blood, your blood
My blood running hot and secret.

We burn differently, yearn

Toward different horizons,
But you taught me to sail,
To tack into the wind,

To brace my bones against

The hurling sea, to turn
My face, your face
Toward unseen shores.

Different shores, same blood

A compass needle of DNA,
No matter which direction faced
I'm always facing you.

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Free Verse
Free verse does not have a set meter; The rhythms within the
lines are more irregular. Rhyme may or may not appear, but
the poet is free to vary the pattern. Free verse does not mean
the poem is utterly free of forms that underlie the work,
however. Free verse does not do away entirely with structure,
it just opens the structure to more variations.

4 A.M.
This is where the poem begins
Or maybe not here but
Just as you think it's about to
It shifts again and keeps moving.
The poet's dream lied,
Said there was a poem here
Found in sleeping lines
Repeating, repeating,
Until the pressure pushes
Off the blankets, feet on
Floor, pencil in hand,
Attentive scribe obeying Muse
Who fades in the light.
This is where the poem ends
With unresolved grains of sand
Slipping away, lost
In the space between.

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Creating Art

Pride, ego, misplaced self-esteem

Or Justifiable? Ambiguous boundaries
Merge where hearts yearn, hands construct,
Minds manifest or not
What comes seems meant to be,
birthright, kismet, or ego protecting itself
From shards of failure, sharp as mirrors,
Many selves reflected in rejection?
Faces of fear, justify creation
When the price is self, and the world.

Creation is born of love, imagination -

The world is thick with brainchildren, some
Spawn of man, brutal thoughts
Conceived as toys of violence, war games
Dreamchildren of art barely survive.
Deliberate ugliness is mindrape,
Conformity and haste abort seedling ideas.
Love is not the catalyst then
But passion that drives us to create
Which is neither good nor bad, but both.

Following passion feels right,

The calling, the lure, the inner pull
That keeps moving us forward
Past fear of failure, into each
New act of creation, a consummation
Of heart and will - So it must be,
The inevitability of creation fulfilled,
Satisfaction of parent eyes shining
Light on what was wrought, certainty
That what has come forth is right.

Are all children good, right, necessary?

Look away from that question. Deflect
The pain of not being fruitful. Not
Bringing forth the products of
Imaginations, longings, passions.

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Children are people. People are flawed,
As is the art that flows through them
In the pulsing passions of creation, each
Accompanied by the painful knowing
That each child is sent forth to die.

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Mehndi Magic
It's the alchemy of the paste -
Essential oils, organic henna -
Smelling of camel humps
Dusty tents, silken veils,
That breathes life to art that spans ages and cultures.

It's the alchemy of women gathering

To adorn each other with our stories,
To paint the whirls and folds
Of our experiences
Onto each other's flesh.

Hands offered,
Breasts bared, inviting
Blessings for each petaled blossom,
Love for each leaf that curls,
Tendrils of ourselves to vine across our skin,
Patterns traced above our bones
By ancient arts of inspiration.

Mehndi needs time to cure -

Time enough for stories to be told, wisdom shared,
Laughter - as necessary as the paste.
Then, the tender peeling back to see what is revealed;
If the henna is good, and the traditions honored,
Faint patterns become clearer over time.

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Steps
Alas, life is cluttered
with paths not taken
What Ifs rain about us
A hail of paralyzing darts.
It's hard to keep stepping daily
into the unknown
Yet we must
The only other alternative is to stop
Stagnation sets in
That way lies death
No there really isn't anything we can do
but keep moving forward
Keep stepping into
the next new thing. Stepping past
fear, frustration, fatigue
Dancing between darts
In the direction of
Whichever feels best
Hurts least, harms fewest
Leads to hope
For some elusive
Someday dream
Of joy.

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Making a Detour in the Woods

Which way now?

Bootsucking mud,
Black, shiny clay cupping
Greasy water in ruts and
Former hiker's failed footsteps,
(is that a shoe?)
Halts forward momentum.

Impassable.

One piece of log lies abandoned, improbably,

Perhaps hurled desperately,
Into the middle of the mess, but
Too far away for even the longest legs
To hope for a stepping point.

Impassable.

Toes tap at the edge where

Sure footing ends.
The woods on either side
Yield no passage.
Tangled whips with thorns
Show clear menace -
A price exacted in blood
To try that route ahead.

Go back? Stop the hike?

Retracing steps,
Eyes dig through trees,
Higher ground, dryer ground,
And find a way -
Possibly - still hard to tell,
With fallen branches, brown paper leaves,
Saplings cluttering what might yet be,
The chance to continue on.

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Leaf litter yields in soggy sweeps
Of walking stick - stout oak, gnarled
Sturdy foot clearing the way.
Some long dead trees refuse to budge
And lay across the new path -
They lay where they fell,
Become an event to be stepped over.
Found wood is shifted, dragged, hauled
To line the detour, marking the way
For other boots to tread the new way through.

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Garden Blues

Sit in May amid vivid blue forget-me-nots

Wearing fallen cherry blossom petals that
Carpet crushed pine needles on footpaths
That wind in the garden, blowing
fiddleheads unclenching in the air.

Let enter wind that unlocks petals from the bud

Husks of soft pink pulled
Among clouds of forget-me-nots
Bleeding hearts rise gracefully
From the frothy sea of solemn blue faces,
Rows of arching white hearts, teardrops, wings.

Welcome that wind bending blue

Swirling iridescence to glowing
Like an ache of color, blue
Like sky when the last memory of gold bleeds
From evening , blue that hasn't forgotten
Just how deep space is,
How much blue it can hold.

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Gravity of Vlomankill Trail

A spirit pulls me into the woods

Captured again, enwebbed by life
Seeking life, willing
To be enchanted, possessed
By a singular mind that sees beauty
As worthy of pursuit, gaze

Pulled into a riot of violets grabbing eyes

Away from lacy allure of veils of fern
Deeply fronded fingers outspreading
Welcoming me to the change
That cannot be resisted, the need
Pulling me deeper

Taking over, moving through trees

Shedding skin, ambitions, self
Animal alert, slipping into this
Ancient skin of knowing, mindspeak
Bark encrusted columns of pulsing green
Pulling up, pulling in

Beauty - Heatflash squirrel, preening wood duck,

Emerald beetle on log, flying into
Beams of angled sun , rays igniting
Rock arrayed in glowing moss -
All seen with animal eyes that shine
Through shadows.

Streamside reveals roots of time -

Ancient seasons of seabed layered like tree rings
Millions of years compressed into rock, folded
Rolled by some distant earthly turmoil
Beauty creases, though my years scarcely
a skin of moss clinging to the eroded face of time.

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Bedrock sung to surface by stream,
Rock channeled melody, perfect duet
As water, obeying its imperative
Seeks its own unutterable truths
Repeatedly questioning each broken layer
On its way to the all knowing sea.

I am pulled through these woods

As this woodland stream
Inevitably, without intent
Questioning stones for truth in beauty
Swept along ancient fault lines, seeking sea level,
Making a song of my passage.

Company Name
Street Address
Address 2
City, ST ZIP Code

Phone (325) 555-0125

Fax (325) 555-0145

Web site address

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