fact or fiction
Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about what makes a good poem and the poetry rules that were made to be broken.
The Barn Owl OF The Wise.
If the truth of the world relied on me a barn owl I would be. For it once lived an owl who was as ancient as it could be. He grew white hair from his chin to his feet. He was an owl of the wise in the wise of an owl he knew more than he could see. But he knew the truth that people couldn't bare to believe. But he told know one so the people could sleep. No secrets where spilled no stories where told but the owl knew things in he was growing old. So the owl whispered in the ear of the wind find me a wise man who doesn't mind giving me an hand. The wind flowed all through the night looking for someone to entertain the wise. Peter Flen was cleaning near a nice old man who looked like he could use a beer. The wind whispered in Peter's ear go to the pier where the owl will appear. Peter dropped his broom in marched up the pier. Where he found the white owl sitting near. The owl looked into Peters eye in gave Peter the great in waved goodbye. In then he flew away leaving Peter with a wink. The owl was free in the world was awake in great hands because now the people were wise. The owl laid near a rock on the pier in promised to never awake unless the world was in fear.
By Samiya Kennedy 4 years ago in Poets
Anecdote from my own life
anecdote from my own life: sometimes letting go of beloved belongings can release the greatest gifts. the betrayal was like a looming river underground. feeling it's power, but never seeing it. I looked for signs. I asked many questions. I dug with my bloodied hands in place after space for a touch of water, but it was so deep in caverns below, weaving in and out of the darkness. I planted seeds in the soil of our life above this faithless river. my tears filled with the deep cries of restoration, with faith, with love. I pulled down the promises of heaven to bury them deep around these seeds like fertilizer. i yanked weeds out anytime I would see them, pulling precious new plants with them as well. within my desperate hunt for any trace of danger and deception, I made mess after mess. the fear and pain from the hunt spread out noxiously around me, wrapping around my loved ones. my focus would tandem from nourishing roots, to planting seeds, to unwrapping weeds, to the weeping knees, to listening quietly for that still, small, ever powerful knowing voice to show me what the eyes who sees all sees and answer and fulfill my completely. desperate. pleas.
By Rachel Leigh 4 years ago in Poets
