I tend to write poetry infrequently. I blog it even less. Now I realize why.

There are tunnels in our minds
high in the hills, whistling with the wind
from darkness to light
from hope to gloom.
There's the glory then, the thrill of the parade
The touch, the smile
The stops and the starts
Clouds that drift and hot blood of the chase.
The light is brighter here
And the air more keen,
Where the trees are bent double
And the pale moon is stripped.
But we err in this Eden
Turn our backs on the dales
As we head down to earth
Where the heavy soil swallows.
There are tunnels and mines
Where the air is too thick
And the visions of clouds
Are dashed in this place.


  1. At least you can write poetry. I have a hard time interpreting it though.

  2. I write poetry all the time--never brave enough to share it, though. Bravo to you!

  3. "Tunnels and mines where the air is too thick" - I like it. Especially since anyone who's suffered a panic attack can tell you that it often feels like one is suffocating.

  4. Nicely done, David. I prefer to stay closer to the glory and light in the second and third stanzas than to get pulled down into the places where the air is too thick, but sometimes we have no choice it seems.


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