Shattered Seasons

While stumbling through a poem in recent days, I struggled to find a flow I was at ease with. Until I passed a stock pile of boxed junk set for removal and disposal. This became the bones of todays Poem, one little sight of what was junk and at one time was a part of someones memoirs and goodies held dearly to their own.

This idea also added as part for todays poem, I am unsure how other cultures view tokens of memories or memoirs that people hold dearly as reminders of a time, place or someone held close. Yet this thought is one that runs in todays poem. I have however looked at hiding a number of things behind words and lines, that should become clear for some..

About The Poem:

In regards to attempts at keeping “Filler words” to a small list and eventual removing from poetry, Yet in this Poem I did not fare very well in keeping them out, because many fitted very well with this poem.

Also I did replace one word on purpose with another word, to give the idea that it is something that life flowed there. In other words, in the Third stanza I placed “Sole with soul “ to give that feeling that life held those things dear. That Life was involved in those things.

Also using “Sold for keepers gold” as a means to show that valuable items would be taken and sold for their worth aside from what they view as junk out of what was once someones goodies and keepsakes.

Thus a lot of hidden gems of thoughts that I hope will tease it’s way into peoples minds.. Because words in places have been place there to provide thought or reason.. Also as a poet I do enjoy placing such hidden pieces into poetry and yet hope thatpeople will pick up on some if not all of them..

Having Said All of This; Please Enjoy This Poem:

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(( The above Photograph was taken from an outside source and posted here with thanks And Copyrite remains with those who carried out such great work))

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Shattered Seasons




The still shattered face of the clock,
Where time stands silent on this rock,
Posted and roasted by times stamp,
tramp or soldier from lifes own camp.


Where ghosts of childhood games sing loud,
Covered yet by times cold shroud.
Buried there by tears, passing years,
Those silent fossils, no one hears.


Beyond the pile of bundled junk,
Flowed lifes soul train past reminders trunk.
Stored for time, passing reasons why,
Treasures hold to be our cry, deny.


Hand held tokens that memoirs told,
Of rolled up tales spilling past this cold.
For passing time stored to behold,
Sold thus for keepers gold that old.


Yet passing seasons stories bend,
To fold their own nest and extend.
Where sands of time can play their game,
Nothing to blame For what became?





© Pat Fitzgerald  2024

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ENDING THOUGHTS:

Thank you for following me on my little journey, that is composing or writing poetry. If Life is a journey which we all walk on and my journey in creating Poetry is a journey of it’s own. Which I still learn much on as I write.

At times I experiment on methods or way how I can improve my poetry, therefore getting feedback is always most welcome for such as these.

When I write poetry, some readers may be offended with something within the poetry. I do not write to offend, But such are written for reasons I outline in the posts. Often I miss typos and mistakes when publishing each poem. BUT I correct the moment I discover such mistakes.

But Poetry is a form of art work that I enjoy and thus using it in a manner to touch or inspire the reader.

Thank you for joining me on this journey.

Poetry is a learning curve where I always work to improve. A lot of work goes into editing and reediting and then repeating that process on a number of occasions until I am happy with the result. This is how I operate in creating posts to share here.

Please forgive for any such mistakes and for your understanding this.

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