Well, here’s the story:
My family has had many computers; surprisingly, most of them we acquired free of cost from various friends, relatives, or Church members (just one of the perks of being a ‘Pastor’s Kid’, A.K.A. ‘PK’). As a result, we eventually found ourselves with a random plethora of monitors, keyboards and towers in various states of functionality. As each used desktop met its timely end and was replaced, documents began to decay within the software of each discarded laptop or tower. Our barn turned into a graveyard of leftover technology as my father repetitively promised to a) fix, b)trash, or c)back-up documents from the various repositories. This never actually occurred…
Until now, that is! An ancient tower has been re-animated in our home office and its documents sorted through. I discovered two pieces of writing headed with my name and dating back to early 2010. Oddly enough, I have no recollection of ever writing them–I have come to the conclusion that they must have been created in a trance-like state which I instantly forgot in the aftermath of my brain-hurricane. With a minimal bit of editing, I judge them acceptable enough to be shared!
So without further delay, I present a long-forgotten sonnet and a poor, forsaken tercet. Judges, ready your score-cards!
A picture may be worth a thousand words,
So let me paint a picture here for you.
The holly tree, alive with shrieking birds,
Who also line the fence, made of bamboo
Their feathers shining black, their cries are harsh.
Do not, do not; their screeches seem to say.
Do not do what? Replies from nearby marsh.
Where minks and snakes do listen through the day.
If rocks, it’s said, could shout the maker’s name,
Would not they try and halt this odd melee?
This sour song has far and wide earned fame,
As watchers wish to halt our slow decay.
For it is us, the watchers, who bear the brunt
Of our completely ridiculous, beloved government.
(c) 2010 Marie KR
A little cryptic, perhaps, but since I cannot remember writing it, I’m afraid I can shed little light upon the point.
When something that you love has gone away,
A haunt, a tree, a friend, a cloud, a thought,
You feel that you’ve wandered far astray.
And if you turn around, and hope, and run,
Stretch out your hand and try to catch the past,
You may be wrapped in memories again.
It’s what you wish, but no, it cannot be.
You find the fading shapes of times long gone,
But fading shapes are all that you can see.
(c) 2010 Marie KR