He loves to drink
his eyes are sunk, his cheeks hollow
into a drunken stupor he everyday sinks
losing count of days, passage of time he cannot follow.
As weeks after weeks
pass without the use of razor’s edges
his bristly beard has yellow streaks
he is found often in ditches and hedges.
Why is there commotion about love
constantly, he wonders. One broke his heart, the other
left him for the heaven above
Oh, how he misses his mother!
He is bitter about the falling rain
he hates the sight of red flowers
he has vowed never to be fooled again
damn! these unseasonal showers!
He was not meant to be a single bird
he had planned to have five kids – tops
never a loner, he liked to be a part of a herd
now a caricature of himself, like a scarecrow amidst crops.
He lies on the footpath, watching the clouds white
he has lost the will to take life heads on
living sucks, realities bite
he now awaits, the death season
He is the stone that gathers no moss
staying in the filthiest places
passed out on the road, passed out on the grass
scarce noticing the ox-eyed daisies.
In the hourglass of his life, sand
stays still. No son nor daughter
to carry forward his legacy on land
or air, or fire or water!
Written for dVerse MTB. Today’s host, Laura, has asked us to write an alternate rhyme poem of at least 3 stanzas
the rhyme scheme is ABAB; CDCD; EFEF etc
We are going to borrow the end rhyme pairs from a published poem in the order they were written.
I have borrowed the end rhymes from the following poem.
Winter Rain
Christina Rossetti
Every valley drinks,
Every dell and hollow;
Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,
Green of Spring will follow.
Yet a lapse of weeks
Buds will burst their edges,
Strip their wool—coats, glue—coats, streaks,
In the woods and hedges;
Weave a bower of love
For birds to meet each other,
Weave a canopy above
Nest and egg and mother.
But for fattening rain
We should have no flowers,
Never a bud or leaf again
But for soaking showers;
Never a mated bird
In the rocking tree—tops,
Never indeed a flock or herd
To graze upon the lea—crops.
Lambs so woolly white,
Sheep the sun—bright leas on,
They could have no grass to bite
But for rain in season.
We should find no moss
In the shadiest places,
Find no waving meadow grass
Pied with broad—eyed daisies:
But miles of barren sand,
With never a son or daughter,
Not a lily on the land,
Or lily on the water.
Also joining in Eugi’s moonwashed weekly prompt.
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