Sometimes I feel compelled to write poetry. It’s not an artform that interests me much, and I don’t read it very often. I don’t like searching for hidden meanings in poetry. So why do I feel like I should write it? I’m not sure. Some ideas come to me in verse form and out it comes. I’m not good at it. In fact, real poets would probably tell me to stop it. Not being one who always listens to good advice, I write poetry anyway.
I’m sharing a poem I wrote several years ago based on a photo prompt of a bench beneath a tree. A peaceful and inviting scene, but as I looked at it, I saw strange things. I’m sharing the poem that came from that photo and let you be the judge. (P.S. My books are much better.)
The Bench and the Tree
“It’s a very lovely evening,” said the bench to the tree.
“The sun is reflected all across the sea.”
The tree sighed with breeze that passed by and said nothing.
“I said, it’s a very lovely evening,” said the bench to the tree.
“I’m new here and I think it’s the best place to be.”
The tree moved its leaves in the breeze and said nothing.
“Hello, you’re being quite rude,” said the bench to the tree,
“I’ve been nice to you. You should be nice to me!”
The tree quivered and dropped a branch on top of the bench.
“What an awful thing to do!” cried the bench to the tree.
“It’s an insult. A slam! You can’t do that to me!”
In a gust of wind, the tree wavered and fell onto the bench.
A man said to himself, “I was afraid this might happen in a blustery wind.
That old tree was weak, nearly dead, and has finally met its end.”
The bench lay shattered in pieces and said nothing.
©C.S. Kjar 2023
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted… Ecclesiastes 3:1-2