Fallow Lands

Hands

Hands. (Photo credit: Mrs Logic)

Behold the salted land of plenty,

raped and pillaged by its own devoted grace

now stalked by storied banshee

no lines by which to draw a brace.

 

What bounty once divined,

what passion might have lain

now blinded and maligned

before the dusty plow could feign.

 

We are cracked

callow and divinely sallow—

yes, youth has lived to see the fated act:

these writers’ hands grown fallow.

(And for an update on why this crazy writer’s life has been crazy this past week, and the blogging sporadic, see my lively life update–complete with a new review of The Hollow March!)

Of Frustration

Writhing serpent of my dissolution

No solution

To your pollution

Of my ever-yearning soul

No more grim atoll

Might ever seize upon my whole—

My life, my life!

They call upon the fife

Thrusting its notes upon the edge of a knife

No travail

Might ever prevail

Above the madness that assail

My spirit wails, unfit

To persevere and to submit

To all the hopes that you have writ.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!