I'm in a traditionalist mode lately. Here's one that celebrateswhere I come from. It's a town of bridges Low hills to the west Streets lined with business And in the middle pressed An amphitheatre A groomed, green incline Where there's a summer festival And lighted boats go by. The fountain in the lake Is crimson after ten The shore fills up with children With glowrings on their hands. The pier at the pavilion Is a finger drawn Across the moonlit water That magic rises on. Cascades of colour Are broken in the sky A shock of green will ride on red And this single eye Pools with fascination And a reverberating sound Booms across the lake Then slips for miles around. People in the country Watching stars come out Hear murmurs from the city Then when no one is about Night sketches the chimneys With a silver pen That washes hills and bridges Before it all begins again.
I hardly ever like anyones poetry on here, but yours is very nice. It really creates the atmosphere...good work.
Thank you, seamonster! My town is actually a city but still small enough to be called a town by the locals. It is known for its festivals and its summer one is certainly known nation-wide.
Thanks, I'll be putting on some more soon. I like to experiment with different forms. You never know what you'll see!
