PICKING BRYOPHYTES FROM THE SKY

A poem for leisure reading and reminiscence. The style is inspired by Allen Gisnberg's works.

A modish pallid dust-coat hung on the rawboned

beige-looking body of his,

Tattooed each workday at the ivory towers

for close to two grubby years of stay in the lab

The beakers, the forceps, the reek of iodoform,

and everything;

All hailed the ogling and the conking of his on each workday

during those remarkable years

The years when everything seemed to be drooping

from the heavens;

And during which antique his selves proved to be

ambling their own last mile

On days he would clamber, hurled by the mission

to pick some green bryophytes,

Which, once collected, he would at all cost

slog to keep them lithe and unsullied;

For whose charge was nothing but a means

of earning a penny or two,

And for the edification gizmo for some bouquet

of freshmen; back, down at the campus

This all was at the eye-catching, breezy

and often smoggy-weathered plateau,

Of which was predominantly Pinus patula and

milliard other species;

A vantage from whose sight overlooked the

poleis beneath and places beyond

A flat raised terrain where the heavens seemed

to be caressing the doggy dark brown sod;

The mesa on which grew the viridescent bryophytes

that seemed to be drooping from the skies

And so, he could collect them; a trove.

When done and on tumbling down;

He would the bryophytes spot grew on mottled rocks,

trees, and on whatever they could,

On the either sides of the lone-lane tarmac

that snaked down through the hurst

And that was all that he could for a living

towards the feared-end of his, like he did;

And he loved it that much too, as he evoked latterly:

"Picking bryophyetes from the Zomba plateau".

Author's Note

Ignore grammar, please.