Fickle

To all that is.

sounds, random words in tandem
a'going where the winds blow
strands of hair, birds abandon
the nest that's lost its glow

oh cattle lowing, from where you call, do you see the garden wall
do you see the hillock high, there, upon which the farmer sighs
and wonders where thou art as the sun goes down and fills his heart
with dread and causes such sturdy frown etched upon his aged brow

swallows quickly dart about
lambs bleating for shelter
as young dogs and children shout
running helter skelter

in the dusk, the candle glowing through windowed light, inside showing
each before the table, chair, and kettle fire... all hands folded, heads bowed low
such is taught and so rustic prayer, humble thoughts sent smartly rowing
up the rail to catch a breeze that tickles... none shall ever know

which way this clay does she play
with hammer or curved sickle
a lovers oath sworn that day
who knew a love so fickle

Reviews

[luna rose]

"which way this clay does she play
with hammer or curved sickle
a lovers oath sworn that day
who knew a love so fickle"

Sounds to me as if a solid formation of relationship once existed, hardened clay, now shattered by a woman's hammer or curved sickle. What damage she must have done. What damage we all have the potential to do... we are all hammer and sickle wielders, my friend. Most of us go around shattering people with them. Lovely poem :)

[Tam Warink]

You have the gist of it, Luna Rose. That is a very fair interpretation and I thank you for it, the review and for reading. Like you said, it is a good feeling, a relief perhaps, when someone makes an effort and then does really understand a piece of you.

[Audrey Kanyera]

Love is not love if it alters. I love this piece for its uniqueness. Reminds me of Shakespeare

[Tam Warink]

Thanks, Audrey. I will add that wisdom to the list of what love is not. Of the two, that one seems much, much longer.

[Meraki]

Is it fickle or does it change? If it is change then I believe it's our adaptability that is to blame, for our cynical hearts and hardened stares and yearning for the innocent days carefree and running barefoot through grass dogs fast on our heels.. does love end or simply change its shape? It brings a lot of questions to mind for that, I love it! :D

[Tam Warink]

Meraki, I think you put some thought into this reading. Bravo! I think you're correct. Love, as we may at first understand it, does indeed change. It changes because of us and in spite of us. Is that good or not? Who's to say... it's always such a personal thing. Thank you for reading.

[Meraki]

My pleasure dear, it's a great poem.

[Pryde Foltz]

which way this clay does she play
with hammer or curved sickle
a lovers oath sworn that day
who knew a love so fickle

I think it is miracle when this kind of love is not. Sublime expression and craft, Tam.

[Tam Warink]

I can but wonder what you "saw" and what you thought when you read this piece. As you imply there are various kinds of love and various kinds of relationships. As for me, I love that you even took time to read it. Really. Thank you, Pryde. You are most gracious and I do appreciate you and your comments.

[Pryde Foltz]

I meant the love that is romantic, of course. It is rooted and interweaves through biology and emotion … most unstable an element:)

[PearlPoet]

You call this a poem???

Well Im glad you do!!!! For I love it!!!

"strands of hair, birds abandon
the nest that's lost its glow"

Brilliant

[Tam Warink]

Thank you, PearlPoet! Yea, I call most things poems when I don't know what else to call them. There's no pull-down pick list category for "scribbles." :)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i was this child once....running through the pastures in Vermont...helter skelter and not caring to see shelter....

but then we grow up and become cynical because we start dealing with love...and find it is quite fickle...

i want to go back to the swallows, and lambs and the lowing cows...

and gain back some faith in human nature.

i am so drawn to your writing in general, but especially this piece.

[Tam Warink]

Thank you for taking time to read it, Jacob I confess that I do not know where these thoughts come from. Some begin as unidentifiable abstractions but then, in moments, become something unconsidered until that moment. I suspect it is less from me than elsewhere. No matter the source, it is the reader that possess the life experience and with that, in good time, comes understanding and perhaps, some bit of wisdom; to savor, to share. Your memories are now my own, Jacob. It is very kind of you to share them.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

and you have a similar philosophy as i...i never know where half my ideas or lines come from, more like i am simply a conduit...
but it's fun. isn't it?

[Tam Warink]

Fun? Perhaps... I'm trying to remember when I learned a meaning for that word... one that can justify itself in this world.