Cargando...

The Swan

To My English Teacher Who Taught Me S0 Much

Dressed in a bouquet of white
And draped in a feathery boa,
She sits and sulks in silent.
Quietly she sways
On the gleaming water’s edge
As the sun shines ablaze.
Keeping her voice low,
She hums a soft tune
And lets herself flow
To the music.
Her spirits cry,
Complimenting her beauty.
Her wings start to move
In a soft-like fashion.
She dances with a groove,
A ballet of sweet rhythm
Fills the air and
A harmony is given.
Feathery appendages take wind,
A deep breath,
No longer pinned
To the ground
Like a prisoner in chains.
No, she is not bound,
Free she is,
And with this she takes off
Soaring like a wiz.
The breeze floats past
Easing her flight
Far below a shadow is cast.
Looking upon the ground
She grins,
Hardly making a sound.
A goose honks, rather loudly at that
And a duck will quack, both
Similar to an instrument gone flat,
But her sound is an instrument,
A pure solo piece.
Forever and infinite
Her peculiar noise
Is a beauty to all ears,
Such a sound of poise.
It resembles that of a trumpet,
A brass horn of excellence.
Like that of a hundred
Trumpeters playing their song,
She calls out in midair
Similarly to a gong.
She is a hopeless romantic,
A true lover of hope
And of the classics,
Coming alive in a state
Of true happiness
Supposing her fate.
Her yellow-lipped bill
Was held pursed in the air,
Pondering her free will.
Often she thinks
Thinks of the littlest things
Whether it be kinks or winks
Or something better,
Her mind will ease
Only once she is wetter.
The water soothes her stress
And helps her to become
Much less than a mess.
Home comes to mind
With family and friends
So often they remind
Her of their time together,
Wonderful, well-spent
Time together.
She misses their comfort
And company,
That not any other
Can give to her.
But she had to get out
From under the spur.
Alone in her thoughts
And away from all chaos
She remembers all she was taught.
Her birdcall is finished,
The flight is over,
Her sky-high state starts to diminish.
A quaint little pond
Is off in the distance,
So fond
Of the water’s still nature,
Her routine starts again.
Not in any type of danger,
She slips her feet into the cool liquid
And nods off to sleep
Reliving her day, so vividly.

(2012)

Otras obras de K.G. Campbell...



Top