The gentle boy whom, every summer visits this hollow in the hills, a lake nestled closely, surrounded by mountains peaks and valleys, so great the echo in these caverns, up and down the rushing stream which empties from the cleaved pikes, into the calm body of virgin water on which it’s edge, this young boy sits. No docks, nor dams do break the waves so gentle too, the lake of swans birds of beauty flock this way, every summer gaggles flourish in it’s wake, a haven for any lover, but not this summer for on this month of humid August only a boy does occupy the stony shore. A ledge of perfect pebbles, varied in their own special ways, some fat and round and others smooth. The flat ones offer pleasure to the child, with each summer past a game of tossing rocks so flat into the calmness of the spring, a life itself which spring does bring forth, post winter haste and snow caps from mountain tops, do melt and with it comes a dance of life, of swans and fish, and wildflowers. Trees of green with tiny white flowers, evergreens who’ve fought the harsh winds of the cold, to stay alive remain along the mountain sides. Underneath an earthy shadow, the boy sits stares out onto the lake, dandelion in hand he lifts to his feet and reaches for a stone, dropping the fresh plucked and brilliant gold of early summer, scurries toward the pond of tears collection of a world’s stories, told in every ripple circles of the recent and the past, a boy whom knows of nothing, rather than the fun he has in watching wrinkles in the glass-like serenity, a fragile porcelain sheath, broken. Reforming to it’s natural state, the boy removes another stone, perfect as he sees it fit to make a leap in the sunlit pool of playful dreams, rears his arm, chucking the discuss hard and fast eyes are glued, he squints to peer through ribbons of sunlight flailing about the tiny waves as the skipper makes it’s journey, bouncing further, further more. A distance the boy can see no more. Surprise is stuck upon his face, a look of joy astonishment enters the pure silk lake, a story told a boy who sought to see his goal, a perfect stone one would skip forever known, throughout the water he could see, the stone return each summer as he.
Reason for writing:
I can't really explain what it is that inspires me to write
my poems, other than this... it just feels right. Certain
things will spark a little flame in my spiritual conciousness
and I'll find myself at my computer, or with paper in hand.
I think the reason I wrote The Storytelling Lake was a
reminder of what we forget. That our childhoods are so precious,
but too often we let adulthood repress our memories. The worst
part is that our experiences as children are the most significant.
I wrote this poem as a recollection of my memories, an attempt
to resurface some of those emotions through the expression of
words. I am especially proud of this poem, which I guess
is why I selected this one to submit.
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Travis ~ cancer.