Showing posts from January, 2010

Death of the Woodland Giant

The fallen giant lies athwart
A greening bed of moss,
His gnarled skin
All traced across
By the fairy shapes of ferns.

A forlorn figure he appears,
Fallen from his estate,
So tall and proud
Among the great,
Master of his domain.

His once-strong heart is failing now;
Death eating at his core,
His sap of life
Is in short store,
And chills in his old veins.

But curling fern strokes his grey face,
And moss steals slowly in,
Green creeper twines
His weathered skin...
He does not die alone.

A Burns Night Poem

Zhenya and I wrote this poem for Burns Night. If you've never read any of Robert Burns's poetry, this probably won't make any sense to you whatsoever.:)

My thought now turns
To old Robbie Burns,
That craftsman of Scotch ballad.
Who wrote a song,
So sweet and so long,
About a louse-clad bonnet.
Who charged a stream
‘Disturb not her dream,
My sleeping Highland Mary!’
Who wrote an ode
To the entrails stowed
Inside a wondrous haggis.

We weep and wail
At the tragic tale
Of the mare who then had none,
And shake in fear
As we all draw near,
To hear of Tam, her rider,
Whose tipsy state
Caused him to relate
A scene of midnight terror.

Brave marching tunes
That the Scotch dragoons
Would strike up with goodly cheer,
And tavern rhymes
That so many times
Were repeated merrily.
And what care we
Of the quality,
When writ in a good Scotch brogue?
So here we see
The epitome
Of a glorious poet!


Purple lining
Of a wispy cloud,
Golden sunrise
Behind a thin shroud
Of morning mist.

Very slowly,
Curling mist takes route
To the hollows.
Bright sunshine leaps out...
Daytime is here.


Brown earth,
Waiting beneath its blanket of snow
Waiting for the Sun to give it life,
Waiting for the first soft glow
Of Spring green.