TomPeters Posted February 23, 2011 Report Share Posted February 23, 2011 PoetryPinelands bushes Reclusive lowland heartiesPink blossoms,Dark cranberries, punches to the tongueLaying low and heavy in the scratch.Come men with sticksBeating old maid fruit fromChaparral’s maternal clutchWhite sands cluttered with rootless exilesEach berry pitted with a hidden puff of air.The berry’s latent lightnessCaged greatness waiting to riseWaiting upon mild craft, On husbanding attention,On weight, pressure, moments made.The men flood the bogCrash of water,The broken bob a-twitchFrom their momentary sea-bedHoly Ghost buoyant Pulled sky tallRupturing the wine-dark surface Winning crisp and happy Barrens wind. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Great Cthulhu Posted February 23, 2011 Report Share Posted February 23, 2011 Impressive indeed, I love the imagery you've evoked here. Lovely use of alliteration also. An excellent vision of harvesting the cranberry bogs! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Atwater Vitki Posted February 23, 2011 Report Share Posted February 23, 2011 I must agree with Cthulhu on that...excellent, precise imagery that invokes a sense of being there. Having witnessed the "cran-bogs" in operation only once, as a kid, it brought back memories of a well spent, unexpected vacation trip.Blessings of Peace, Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Rev. Ornelas Posted April 29, 2011 Report Share Posted April 29, 2011 That is a wonderful nature-oriented poem. Please share more! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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