Yo what’s up! It’s been a bit, so here’s my newest piece of poetry titled “The Cry of the Weatherman:”
Poetry: “The Cry of the Weatherman”
poetree
“Two Strangers” – A POEM
Hey, coming at ya with some freshly made poetree. More surreal and metaphorical than most of my other poems (wait I take that back, all of them are already super metaphorical I think). But definitely more dream-like and intangible. With an interesting ABAC rhyme scheme, where only two of the four lines rhyme. Perhaps that does something in the way of propagating the story content of the poem, where there’s organization and reason to events, but at the same time, an ungraspable abstraction.
Yes, the structure of a poem can portray something about the conceptual, the ideas being expressed within writing, sometimes:
Various Forms of Poetry
When we think of a poem, no doubt there is one specific poem stereotype that surfaces in our mind. Perhaps Louis-Stevenson’s “whose woods are these, I think I know,” or the over-used “roses are red, violets are blue,” or something of the sort. Some may think poetry is merely any combination of rhyming words.
Oh, but poetry can take on an infinite array of formations. Oxford Languages put it well, defining poetry as a “literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm.” No mention of rhyming, or repeating patterns, or certain number of syllables. A poem is a poem for its expression of feelings and ideas in which there is marked style and rhythm. What that style and rhythm you use, as the poet, it completely up to you.
Continue reading“Island in a Water” – POETREE
“Island in a Water“
by Michael Metzler Jr.
Behind my house, on the other Side of my garden, There’s a hill, and through this hill There is a burrow, that leads to a Different somewhere. I’m not certain Where this certain somewhere is, But it’s a place I like to go When the sky clams up And the stars in outer space Run away, I think. Down through my garden, Passing rows of cauliflower, Escorted by the bees As they make their way from Tree to tree. Entering the tunnel, where the Darkness comes to greet me And I leave behind my garden And my rows of apple trees. The musty dampened clamor Of the millions in the city Square, pummeling each other With their tongues, this Noise. Tries to reach me through the tunnel But my tunnel doesn’t care. Silence. It’s then I sit on an island in a water My reflection looking back Into my soul. And I become still. Stiller than the water that I’m sitting on. No one else knows of my Tunnel, or my Island on the water, If they did, then I am sure It would not be there Anymore.
the end
Michael Metzler Jr. 