TrevorR
01-31-2009, 09:44 AM
I have recently handed this poem in for English the only requirements being that it must contain four stanzas of four lines have a rhyme scheme of some sort and an allegory. Enjoy! EDIT:OOPS Wrong Section, if a Mod could move this to poetry it would be much appreciated.
In a cool wood, the color of flame,
The grand oaks, whisper of their roots in epistemology,
Trading the secrets of our world, that are not yet tame,
And the sparrows on the branches, flimsy as they may be, sing a song, a song of apology.
And through that wood, the great bucks charge, their movement, elegant and yet confident,
Each antler of theirs, a story, a story of hope, a story of despair, and a story of ardor,
Their bodies, covered in fur of brown, move in and out of the scarce light that penetrates the roof of the
wood. They are quick, they are diligent,
But when the herd reaches the wheat field, the procession ceases, for a hastily arranged feast of ripe pumpkin lay. Whom lies near is certain, the tempter.
The wood grows curious; the salamanders crawl from beneath their moist log, the guppies wiggle from
the bottom of their muddied stream, to the surface,
Considerate does briefly divert their from their gaze from their fawns to their mates, even the horned owl wakes from his sturdy perch to survey the coming event,
The woods, attention grows further when a buck, young and naïve, bravely steps from his home, and into the field, his glassy eyes, showing weakness,
The herd backs back into the wood, their nervous heads, unable to repent.
The youthful buck prances towards his prize consumes it, his desire for respect, as strong as a rope,
The tempter lie, unifying himself with the brush, eager to return home with his prize, a reward for his work and rigor,
Wetting his lips and the greasy bristles belonging to his stubble, he peered over his spectacles and through his scope,
And exhaling quietly, he squeezed the trigger.
In a cool wood, the color of flame,
The grand oaks, whisper of their roots in epistemology,
Trading the secrets of our world, that are not yet tame,
And the sparrows on the branches, flimsy as they may be, sing a song, a song of apology.
And through that wood, the great bucks charge, their movement, elegant and yet confident,
Each antler of theirs, a story, a story of hope, a story of despair, and a story of ardor,
Their bodies, covered in fur of brown, move in and out of the scarce light that penetrates the roof of the
wood. They are quick, they are diligent,
But when the herd reaches the wheat field, the procession ceases, for a hastily arranged feast of ripe pumpkin lay. Whom lies near is certain, the tempter.
The wood grows curious; the salamanders crawl from beneath their moist log, the guppies wiggle from
the bottom of their muddied stream, to the surface,
Considerate does briefly divert their from their gaze from their fawns to their mates, even the horned owl wakes from his sturdy perch to survey the coming event,
The woods, attention grows further when a buck, young and naïve, bravely steps from his home, and into the field, his glassy eyes, showing weakness,
The herd backs back into the wood, their nervous heads, unable to repent.
The youthful buck prances towards his prize consumes it, his desire for respect, as strong as a rope,
The tempter lie, unifying himself with the brush, eager to return home with his prize, a reward for his work and rigor,
Wetting his lips and the greasy bristles belonging to his stubble, he peered over his spectacles and through his scope,
And exhaling quietly, he squeezed the trigger.