Violets
Posted: Sat Jan 07, 2012 8:10 am
I post this in reply to John Peels topic on inspiration and my response to him.
This is one of what I call my 'elbow' poems. You know the ones that elbow their way into your head when you are doing something and just won't give you any peace until you write them down. I was working in my veggie patch when I saw a violet plant that had infiltrated the cracks of the brick pathway I had between the veggie beds. I didn't have the heart to pull it out. By the time I went inside the poem was almost as it reads today. I didn't have to do much to it at all.
VIOLETS.
© Zondrae King 16/08/05 Corrimal
Violets live by the garden path.
They have no house. They have no hearth.
Their home is right there, where they sit
and they don’t mind it, not one bit.
Between the rocks, in cracks, they wedge,
or sometimes cascade o’er a ledge.
They don’t ask too much out of life.
She has no husband, he no wife.
They stand in silence every day
to add some beauty to our way.
Dressed alike in mauve and white
They settle, nestled, for the night,
and when next morning has begun
they turn their faces t’ward the sun.
There’s nothing that they want from us.
They need no fanfare, need no fuss.
It seems to me that we should wait
a moment there and contemplate.
There’s little else that you can say
perhaps a smile - then walk away.
This is one of what I call my 'elbow' poems. You know the ones that elbow their way into your head when you are doing something and just won't give you any peace until you write them down. I was working in my veggie patch when I saw a violet plant that had infiltrated the cracks of the brick pathway I had between the veggie beds. I didn't have the heart to pull it out. By the time I went inside the poem was almost as it reads today. I didn't have to do much to it at all.
VIOLETS.
© Zondrae King 16/08/05 Corrimal
Violets live by the garden path.
They have no house. They have no hearth.
Their home is right there, where they sit
and they don’t mind it, not one bit.
Between the rocks, in cracks, they wedge,
or sometimes cascade o’er a ledge.
They don’t ask too much out of life.
She has no husband, he no wife.
They stand in silence every day
to add some beauty to our way.
Dressed alike in mauve and white
They settle, nestled, for the night,
and when next morning has begun
they turn their faces t’ward the sun.
There’s nothing that they want from us.
They need no fanfare, need no fuss.
It seems to me that we should wait
a moment there and contemplate.
There’s little else that you can say
perhaps a smile - then walk away.
