What The Peasant Said To His Son; Near Death; Storm

What the peasant said to his son:
Falle is eecuman an,
Down wand-uh thee, with wind bloweth ahnd spinnan;
Sson tander croppuhs grawth behgan.

Ehrray of marray fruht
Swate an hue, swate an guht
Me boy, the reep tyme bekkens the cuht.
_______

Fall is a-coming in,
Down went thee, with wind bloweth and spin;
Soon tender crops’ growth begin.

Array of merry fruit
Sweet in hue, sweet in gut
My boy, the ripe time beckons the cut.

Near death

Though it is biting winter
And my hands icy cold,
A quiet light brushes my back,
Gives me soft winds,
Lifts me out of my woe.

With a cold nose and empty
Din, I see the end in front of me
Begin. And I know,
It is time to go; go
Be with my kin.

Storm

Whoosh whoosh
Goosebumps
Dark waves
Plunging cold ocean
The playing little boat

Whooosh whoosh
Soft flute music:
Whistling wind
Sweat and tears
Leaking boat
Yelling man
Boom CrAshhhh
Dark sky, black
cold fear
Crazed laugh
Swoosh CrAsh!
Icy waves
Creak creak
Man tumbles about
Pshhh
Creaakk creeak
Swish Crash!
ROAAaarrrr
CRACK!

Sswoosh Crassh!
Sswishhh—-
Sswishh…

Jessica Zeng, Age 17, Grade 12, Brooklyn Technical High School, Silver Key

This entry was written by NYC Scholastic Awards and published on October 28, 2013 at 12:00 pm. It’s filed under Poetry, Writing. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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