Lately I have been becoming more closely acquainted with some writings of the aforementioned Transcendentalist writers. I feel as though I've stumbled upon a group of old friends. Nelson Mendela once said that there is nothing like returning to a place that remains the same to see the ways in which you yourself have changed. That about sums it up for me and Emerson. I remember my college English professor pushing a wide variety of literature on our first year impressionable minds.
I've decided to brave it and lay out a few of my own attempts at expressive poetry. I've always held an appreciation for the Iambic Pentameter crowd, however, as much as I've tried I do not think that is my medium. So here is the first one, and appropriately it's about Spring:
The old, brittle, useless stems
damp with the still morning air
are brown.
The type of brown that looks dead,
and dry
and hollow.
They are a snapshot of time, frozen in their attempt
at reaching above the saturated ground.
A mere etching of the lush greenery
they used to be.
Last summer,
When they were alive.
When nature's nectar flowed through their bodies.
Nearly buried in the black muck,
at the base of the dead steams,
protrudes a green head, born of the deep soil,
crowning through the mangled bush of old growth
reaching for the sun,
for the light,
for the life - the life that began in the ground
and now will spring into the air,
bearing it's fragile body to the elements.
All in the hope of living another Summer,
blooming another Fall,
and becoming frozen stiff, preserved in death, another Winter.
