So Old

History, like a rotten egg, tills the endless fields,
it smells to high heaven, back inwards it is reeled,
For truly forever do the rivers run,
and back towards their source, as the rising sun.

Death is new, and yet so old,
it seems so strange for us to be so bold,
When like a calf we balk at wolves,
Though wolves we've slain, broken countless 'rules'

Our culture lies in myth and legend,
traditions born of a moment's villein and,
though so new they're now so old,
and yet we still don't act quite so bold.

To death and strife we cast but an observant eye,
while in culture, tradition, we take to the sky.

poem by Kevin Maroney
Added by Poetry Lover
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Slithering Serpent

Slithering down a slimy slope,
the serpent dared to hope,
for the eagle's nest left an egg,
to satisfy his hunger dread.

This eagle soared with wings held high,
far away through the sky,
for the egg was rotten, stinking vile,
for the snake it would be so satisfying to rile.

This present became a nail too,
for the snake only wanted to avoid the blue,
through the mountains it slithered away,
though its gnawing hunger would not abate,
Writhing in agony it stroke out,
at all the world did it silently shout,
as its wings worry did send
that its journey was almost at an end.

None understood, this serpent had a chance

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poem by Kevin Maroney
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An Old Fisher In The Green

A man, this man, alone in the green,
a little, tiny sand, a speck in the sea.
He used to be a torrent, a veritable blizzard,
ready to weather the storms, this strong fisher.

Then these little fish, to him flocked,
and his heart gave in, collapsed in him, and gave him quite a start.
He took the fish and laid it out, gave it his breath,
and as it looked, its eyes glowed hot, and took from him the rest.

Then it became a fisherman, but one that knew its gift,
it indeed was a fisherman who helped its once-known kin,
what a wondrous man this fish did make, reveling in this skin,
it indeed was a better fisherman who helped its once-known kin.

And so this old fisherman, living on his last breath,
lived only to help the fish he helped, until his last, his death.
His last was given to a fish he deemed demure, a wriggling sickly thing,
he gave it his last, he did, he did, though it remained a fish.

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poem by Kevin Maroney
Added by Poetry Lover
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