Young Writers Society

Poet Eternal

“I’ve forgotten how to write poetry,” the fox said to the crow,

“My mind has lost its easy wit, and my pen has lost its flow.”

“Then pick another hobby up,” the crow advised her friend,

But the fox just shook his head and sat, his mouth a sigh did lend.

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“You don’t understand, oh heart of mine, what a loss this is to me.

I cannot fall asleep until my eyes four stanzas see.

Other pastimes that I may like are not suited to a fox.

My parents, ever did they see, would both at once get shocks.”

¬

So on the fox lamented long into the autumn air,

While the crow checked how much sun the day had yet to spare.

Once quiet reigned upon the field for five minutes or more,

The crow fluttered down from her branch and spoke, “Why fox, before…

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“…you acted just as unconvinced at ol’ Owlian Blake,

And never could’ve guessed at what a rhyme in you would wake.

Why write off a brush or ball or seed as beneath your clever paws,

If you wish to sleep, to live in peace, and widen mind’s thin walls?

¬

“Inaction brings a deep regret, and regret won’t give you rest.

Do whatever brings you joy; that will make your pen flow best.”

With that the crow bid fox goodbye, soon a spot against dull cloud.

The fox watched the first pale stars come out, rest his head upon damp ground.

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The Mirror Test

There are two in this world I will never understand,

the will of hope, and the fear of man

for those who dare walk down a lane

bordered by grass smelling much the same

as any I have ever met,

and yet they’re said to bring regret,

and poison hearts both young and old:

woe to those who dare be bold.

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Is woe the smile upon their lips?

Is it the wind that bright eye nips?

One huddles down, and one stands tall,

Which one do regret we call?

Which one took the other path?

Which one in their heart holds wrath?

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Wrath is neither, wrath is both,

gold string of will guides paths we loathe

to ever, ever call a pair,

still each one leads to greying hair.

the pen is dropped, the finger stopped,

and the cat in the box at last is shot.

¬

“What do you think?” the fox asked crow.

“It was fine,” the crow crowed low.

“Just fine,” fox frowned, with wrinkled nose.

“Well, artists cannot be opposed.”

“Neither can your snotty lot…”

“And that’s the point, well is it not?”