Spring Night

Spring night
I close my eyes and roll the windows down
The breeze brushes my insomnia away
And brings aboard all the
Scents of evenings past
Cut grass, willow leaves, the space between
The midnight clouds and budding greens
Flowers blooming for the first and last time anywhere

My hair flies forty-five miles per hour
Removes the sour taste in my mouth
Of other nights, abandoned by pretense
And the erosion of dreams.
Instead, abridging the wonder
Of spring lightly touching fall

 

 

Coming home from college last night to spend a week with my family before next semester, I fell asleep.  I had been up for approaching thirty straight hours, due to exams and projects, and I just couldn’t stay up anymore (don’t worry, I obviously wasn’t the one driving).  I woke about twenty minutes from home, and, by chance, rolled down the windows.  It was dark, and the air was crisp and cool.  Outside smelled like… I’m not sure.  Spring and everything.  It’s hard to describe, so I tried to write a poem about it, and failed.  Said failure is above.

Don’t get me wrong.  I feel like this poem is very rough and imperfect, but I still like it.  As my track record for writing sonnets goes, it’s certainly my best.  But I don’t think I captured the moment adequately.  Perhaps I’ll return to that some other night, on some other highway.

Mad Gardener’s Circle

He thought he saw a willow tree
Vanilla in the air
He looked again and found it was
A child without a care
“It’s far too hot to bowl,” he smirked,
“Though I have time to spare.”

He thought he saw a sunny spot
The light engulfing all
He looked again and found it was
The first few maples’ fall
“I can’t find where he’s gone,” he cried,
“My shadow’s not as tall!”

He thought he saw an apple core
The background: cawing crows
He looked again and found it was
His frozen face and toes
“I need a hat, or else,” he wailed,
“A carrot for a nose!”

He thought he saw a sprig of grass
Beneath the frigid snow
He looked again and found it was
A dirge beginning low
“Both new and old meet here,” he hummed,
“And soon, both, too, will go.”

 

 

That pun in the first stanza, it hurts.  It hurts a lot.  Like a certain other poem I’ve put up here recently, this is based off of a particular poet’s poetry.  In this case, it’s in the form of Lewis Carroll’s  Mad Gardener’s Song.  While it’s not exactly a tricky form to write in, it can be a bit difficult to find a connection between the first two lines and the second two lines of each stanza.  So, I just used the seasons.  The connections were pre-made!  Given that, I don’t think it an undertatement to say that this poem practically wrote itself.

I’m putting this up now because I thought we could all use a bit of nonsense poetry at the moment.  I mean, it looks like Spring outside to me (though I’m getting alternative reports from some of my friends elsewhere).  And though I didn’t write this poem during the Spring, that season was definitely on my mind at the time.