A hiss of vapor safely let released,
the oil on sprockets, and the cushioned walls
you keep for words that’s hurled in anger, faults
unmentioned and your strength to quench caprice.
As chill of mist condensing and your ease
accepting lack of warmth and tears let fell
for the other cheek that’s turned for peace.
But there beside a rutted road, in smell
untethered from an orchard you might stop
to realize a treasure has been found:
as bees might sting but also bring the hope
of bliss, you feel a strength to heal your wounds
and with patience like the water drop by drop
can carve that rock, how peace can grow, abound.
Today I have poetics at dVerse, and the I want you to write about peace without making it trite, too sweet, or just against the horrors of wars. I tried to capture how much pain and work it takes. But maybe also how big the reward is. I tried to write a Petrarchan sonnet, with quite a few slanted rhymes. Swing by the pub when we open at 3 PM EST.
December 7, 2015