Creative Blog Post for Week 3

Bending his knees, the elderly man presses his wizened lips tightly together,
Wondering what it would feel like to be young forever.
His skeletal frame, housed underneath wrinkling flesh,
Causes him to yearn for himself when once green and fresh.
His bones jar and protest against his very motion
Of wanting to sit; that sitting-down notion.
But still, he cautiously lowers himself onto his rocking armchair,
And catches sight of his grandson’s golden mare.

The four-legged beauty raises its glossy head,
Proud and tall, abandoning its nibbling of a flower-bed.
And it is as if the world has united the two,
By the locking of their eyes: chestnut brown and watery-blue.
The elderly man feels as though he is being drawn forcefully out of his ancient shell,
And thrown, reeling; to where, he cannot tell.
But he is not afraid, for he has been through too much;
And so this experience, though different, is not as fearful as such.

The old man is flying over a sea of green,
His four legs are pumping tirelessly, strong and lean.
There is nothing in the world that can stop him now;
No weary bones, no ailments, no burden to tow.
His hooves pound against the earthen floor
As he makes his descent; down the banks, towards the shore.
The howling wind that had been whipping by his ear
Fades away when he reaches the stream, sparkling and clear.

He plods closer to this water snake
That winds through the forest to join a larger lake;
And hears its soft twinkling as he lowers his head,
To satisfy the thirst created by his thunderous tread.
There is no other sound as he slakes his thirst,
Until the nest of birds above the stream makes the first;
And adding to their gentle twitters,
The cacophony of a million little critters.

But all too soon, these springtime songs and sights fade away,
To be replaced again by the browns and reds of the autumn day;
Where the old man is himself once more,
Not younger but older, and weary to the core.
Sitting on his armchair, he heaves a great sigh,
Adding to the the gentle breeze that, twirling, goes by.
The old man, drifting to sleep, forgets his distress,
Musing thus of Quietness.

I have based this poem on Henry Kendall’s poem “Bell Birds” (1869). I really focused on using onomatopoeia, auditory imagery, and visual imagery, because these were the most prominent techniques (in my view)he used to communicate the subtlety and beauty of the environment (that is, of Nature itself and everything that surrounds him). The line I chose (and used in the same location of the poem!) is, “Musing thus of Quietness.”