In which Your Humble Blogger has a thought that only seems to make sense as a poem, and then tries to express it as such:
"Fireflies"
Up there! Beyond the pine tops. Did you see?
A hand of storm -- an angry god's, likely --
Swept up the lighthouse -- swept it out to sea.
I almost missed it. These days, I'm that way.
The summer people leave their homes to play,
Yet I, distracted, claim the porch. I stay
And watch the fireflies let their pure light slow,
And watch a lighthouse meet the undertow,
And wait for old, dark winter's wind to blow.
* * *
Oh, I know it's not good. The image of a lighthouse collapsing into the sea is a strange one to try to work with and could have been built into something more, and the language seems a little stilted to me, especially in the first stanza. But I was so proud of myself -- my first time trying to write a poem in so many years, and I was able to adhere to a rhyme scheme and a (nearly) consistent meter! I even bounced into my partner's office and made him sit still while I read it aloud for him. Poor Wes.
Written on March 23, 2010; first performed (for a very captive audience of one) the same day.
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