I’ve never considered myself a poet. I don’t know the first thing about poetry or writing it. But a few months back I picked up a pen and started writing. It was emotion, mainly. Just feelings I shaped into words and ended up being free verse poems. The results surprised me.
I still don’t write much poetry. It’s not something I can just sit down and do. I have to feel something, and then I might write about it and it might turn into something somewhat cool. But here is one of the first free verse poems I wrote while riding home on the train from Pittsburgh.
Sleep hovers over the countryside
Trees, silhouetted against paling sky
Dusk to deep blue
Blue to silver, then onto pink
Cloaked by clouds.
One car here, another there
Smoke belching against the sky
Trucks on a field and a train at the siding
A sleeping town
Beginning to stir.
Morning blushes to rose
Street lights dim
Clouds veil the final burst of glory
Streets and fields lighten
Pointed church spires and electric lines standing sentry.
Those who labored in the darkness retiring to rest
Others rise to greet the rising dawn.
Wraith-like fingers touch the morning with a misty brush
Islands rise up from blank seas
A haze clings to the hillside
Tinged with sweetness
A fresh breeze, rustling the trees.
A new hour to fill
A new day
A time to work, to live, to serve
A time to save
Or a time to destroy.
Comes to one, comes to all
This fresh dawn
For war or peace, for love or hate
The day a blank parchment, the pen in your hand
Now it is time to write.