There are just too many poems to share to celebrate this momentous occasion. We could spend hours upon hours reading Keats, Byron, Emerson, Longfellow, Silverstein, and that's the tiniest list of poets I've ever seen! Imagine how long it could take to share all those poems!
Instead, I'll share something that I've written. I may not be as famous as Emily Dickinson or E.E. Cummings, but that's all right, because anyone can be a poet. Anyone who says the words that are written on their heart is a poet. Good thing there are so many forms to choose from, we can be our own poets.
And so without further ado, here is a series of poems I wrote. Happy National Poetry Day!
"Trees"
by Janelle Spiers
I.
They cut the trees with merciless ease
Felling the stories and rings.
With shattering sighs and gasps for breath
They leveled the growing things.
The dryads screamed for mercy
But they were drowned out by the roar
Of the mighty machine with its teeth like knives
Hungrily gnawing for more.
Green leaves fell down like salty tears
And watered the broken ground
As the spirits in the trees
Were crushed without a sound.
They cut the trees with merciless ease
To thin the verdure, green
Such sight and sound I now have heard,
But I wish it hadn’t been.
II.
In a wood they stood
Tall and proud
But now they lay
In aching shroud.
They used to sing
And tell us tales
But now I hear
Only pitiful wails.
Where once was beauty
Now is dying
Like worn out washing
Hung for drying.
Like corpses laid
On a funeral pyre
They wait for the end.
It will end in fire.
III.
All things must come to an end.
All things must come to pass.
Even fallen bodies lying
Cold upon the grass.
Drenched in oil, lit with sparks
But nary a word or tear.
Dancing flame upon the wood
And those who listen, hear:
Crying voices, all in pain
Shrieking from the heat.
Their moaning turns to whispers
As they suffer such defeat.
Death creeps close along the logs
Reveling in his feast
His orange tongue licks achingly
Over the deceased.
IV.
Burning snowflakes fall to earth
And land in drifts of dust.
The whispers of voices float around
And speak of fire’s lust.
Gentle ashes touch the ground
And darken up the soil.
A tiny touch on any piece
And the shape will surely spoil.
The memories of root and bark
Are floating through the sky
And when they touch the ground again
Their memory will die.
Burning snowflakes fall to earth
And sing their final song.
They tell of days when life was green,
Before their life was gone.
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