Playing In Dirt

From time to time I get the urge to write “poetry” or short stories. I haven’t shown them to anyone, so I don’t know if it’s any good or not. I’m my worse critic, that’s a fact. But what better place to try them out than here?

Playing In Dirt

The sky was crying on the ground,
That’s when I saw an angel frown,
She whispered that the things that hurt,
Were just like roses in the dirt.

This angel with a broken wing,
Promised to tell me everything,
I turned to run away in fear,
But stopped because she shed a tear.

I sat down where the roses grow,
And looked up at her brilliant glow,
I asked her how her wing got broke,
She seemed to cry before she spoke.

She pulled two roses from the dirt,
While both her eyes filled up with hurt,
She kissed the one without a sound,
And laid the other on the ground.

She whispered in her angel voice,
That roses really have no choice,
Again she looked at me with hurt,
And said, “people too must grow in dirt.”

4 thoughts on “Playing In Dirt

  1. David,
    As far as poetry, I suffer from the Sgt. Schultz Syndrome – “I know nothing, nothing.” :) Here’s some from Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) Lived to the ripe old age of 30!:
    In each human heart terror survives
    The raven it has gorged: the loftiest fear
    All that they would disdain to think were true:
    Hypocrisy and custom make their minds
    The fanes of many a worship, now outworn.
    They dare not devise good for man’s estate,
    And yet they know not that they do not dare.
    The good want power, but to weep barren tears.
    The powerful goodness want: worse need for them.
    The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom;
    And all best things are thus confused to ill.
    Many are strong and rich, and would be just,
    But live among their suffering fellow-men
    As if none felt: they know not what they do.

    Liked by 1 person

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