R. L. Appleby
Bio Note: I have been writing and studying poetry for a long time, but have never shared it. I am new to the community and I am encouraged by the beauty I've seen in the words shared at V-V.
The Word Farmer rises, Never before dawn for his Seeds take life in the night. They form their bodies by the light Of an electrical bulb of humming thought. He gently, lovingly, but sometimes violently Plants his linguistic sprouts in a freshly Tilled field of white empty rows at times Straight, at times arcing to the left Or to the right, but always deep. He cherishes them, The little plantlings, Taking great care, toiling, Sweating, hands rough from the plowing pen Giving them life and strength, which is their purpose. The Word Farmer tills the hungry soil of his mind Quenching its thirst from a life fount, deep Under earthen flesh that beats and pumps To touch roots soon to be born. It is the Farmer’s hope That his force is not in vain And every drop of sweat from his weathered brow is not wasted on invention but rather the natural course of things which man seeks. For a man will shrivel and die if not given food To satisfy the hunger of his want of dream. This is the venture of the Word Farmer. Plant, nurture, grow, harvest… And feed the world.
Author's Note: I wrote this poem in response to the recent tragedy in my home state. With so many raw emotions, I wanted to write from the point of view of the grieving mothers who are now forced to live each agonizing day like it is an eternity.
Every Inch, a Mile
a candle burns with life’s flame her own strong casting protective shadow over the small one near her. her light joins the young flame dancing on the wall she stoic the impish one free innocent. armory open lock not forged no keeper it roams freely on terror wheels to snuff flames with wicked breath out of mother candles reach cowardly. shock wave cannon fire breaks up the fiery waltz feared breath comes for the tiny flame too soon for there is still much light left to shine but the cannon comes still comes taking. mother candle dances alone on the silenced darkened wall but now her desolate flame the unfortunate one that cannon passed by burns alone weeping wax every inch, a mile. she welcomes feared breath invites it seeks it but she is not it’s master her light dimmer a flitter but still no breath she stumbles on bleeding wax every inch, a mile. when will the cannon cease to fire? when will its dreaded breath be thwarted? until then lone candles cast lone shadows down empty halls wondering why it came so soon too soon at all while she burns on pooling wax every inch, a mile.
©2022 R. L. Appleby
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