Where people think that truth is relative, all coordinates are lost on the moral and religious compass. I’ve been working with a few items lately, around the topics of postmoderism and new age religion. Perhaps those caused this poem to bubble up from the depths. That, and watching some swirling fog seemed to suggest the idea for the poem, “Upon the Fickle Tide.”
The rhyme scheme and meter are different from what I usually do, but it seemed to work for me here. Here’s the first stanza, the whole poem shared only on the closed email list.
Lost in the formless world of turning mist,
Where none go north and muddied waters twist,
No leading lines exist.
Only subscribers to the Cloudburst Poetry email list get the whole pot of beans. If you want today’s poem, let me know below, and I’ll email it to you.
And here’s a freebie in the same style, but different approach, with no title, but if I had to give it one, would be something like, “Any Ill but Mine.”
A scalding, scorching sun to boil the blood
And burn the scalp, makes me wish for gopherwood
And Noah’s scourging flood.
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