Head in common foe—a crumpled pile begins to grow. Desk brightened by a lunar glow—to better works these old eyes pine, To wondrous worlds of gilded page, in the likes of Lee or Stein. just another line. Back on the the worn tomes go—the sum of all I’ll ever know, They record the minds of better men, of a better vine. They’ll not show me the hallowed way, nor make my words dance and play, No, it needs to take shape of my own clay; It has to be mine. The page needs more—a soul—it’s got to shine. Maybe just a few more lines. Who can say why it leaves—the spark, the fire, the webs we weave, It takes time to mature, to ripen, to age like fine wine, But I’ve not the patience, nor the time, I’m at the summit; no more to climb. If I could snatch it back—I would—it’s prime, yet I still can’t seem to muster the spine, I need it back, the whetstone on which my life, I fine. Please, give it just a few more lines. Every morning reclamation, I curse my name, my sovereign nation. Sunlight peaks through unfettered blinds, shining upon newly minted lines, Head stretched back—back sans bend—I know my time has come to end. Desk engulfed in solar blend—pages elucidated—as if a sign, To the inane scribbles, the scratches—the broken, slant rhyme. I think I can fit just one more line. MARCUS PEARSON Oakdale High School Mrs. Julia Showalter Frederick County Reading Council Poetry 11th Grade 2nd Winner ALIENS (Inspired by Jonathan Reed)
Head in common foe—a crumpled pile begins to grow. Desk brightened by a lunar glow—to better works these old eyes pine, To wondrous worlds of gilded page, in the likes of Lee or Stein. just another line. Back on the the worn tomes go—the sum of all I’ll ever know, They record the minds of better men, of a better vine. They’ll not show me the hallowed way, nor make my words dance and play, No, it needs to take shape of my own clay; It has to be mine. The page needs more—a soul—it’s got to shine. Maybe just a few more lines. Who can say why it leaves—the spark, the fire, the webs we weave, It takes time to mature, to ripen, to age like fine wine, But I’ve not the patience, nor the time, I’m at the summit; no more to climb. If I could snatch it back—I would—it’s prime, yet I still can’t seem to muster the spine, I need it back, the whetstone on which my life, I fine. Please, give it just a few more lines. Every morning reclamation, I curse my name, my sovereign nation. Sunlight peaks through unfettered blinds, shining upon newly minted lines, Head stretched back—back sans bend—I know my time has come to end. Desk engulfed in solar blend—pages elucidated—as if a sign, To the inane scribbles, the scratches—the broken, slant rhyme. I think I can fit just one more line. MARCUS PEARSON Oakdale High School Mrs. Julia Showalter Frederick County Reading Council Poetry 11th Grade 2nd Winner ALIENS (Inspired by Jonathan Reed)
anthology_2018_final.docx