The Rocky Mountain Pines
Written in Rhymed couplets of Anapestic Tetrameter.
In the mountains or plains, with the pine in the air,
I’ll awake to the sun with a chill to compare.
When I hike up a hill, with a heart full of gloom,
And the trail is lined by the flowers in bloom,
There is seen all of life in the contrast of sight:
On the mountains so tall and the beauty so right.
On the First Feast of the Pilgrims
Written in Rhymed couplets of Iambic Pentameter
When pleasure is pursued for pleasure’s sake,
Enjoyment then becomes an empty fake.
So what are we to think of feasting then?
In sixteen twenty one, a year from when
The Plymouth pilgrims landed on the shore,
Was held a harvest celebration feast.
And these were pious prudes, of pleasure poor,
But from survival’s strain were they released,
So they, to civilize the stressful scene
Did break their habits, and did reconvene
Their mental state from fierce austerity.
And this besides the joy that comes from food
When shared with good and cheerful company.
This is the kind of change they had in mood.
For every time there is a proper path,
Or in a moment find a lesson’s wrath.
What do we find within our term of test?
Adversity of herculean height
Doth take and make the soul of temper best:
A mind of epicurean delight.
To choose this merry mood is food for thought.
We all love life, with this our heart is taught.
Light Pollution
Written in Catalectic Trochaic Hexameter with an aa,bb rhyming scheme
See the stars that strike the soul with heaven’s light;
Man could never make that source of clean delight.
Animals can never sin, like man with will.
Air, bespeaks of our pollutions smudges still.
Compass of the Northern star that used to guide,
Sense of greatness from our soul where truth’s confide,
This and more we’ve lost for cell phones frosty guide.
Stars are small, and we are great by spirit’s sight;
Looking up we feel the might of human height,
Somehow know the presence of an unearthly sprite.
Now, no stars, no peaceful sleep, or memories night.
Where is reminder of the season’s stubborn touch,
Season’s of our life, where none forever clutch?
Cease to copy fire of Olympus flame,
When you shake it at the skies again, to claim
We have made the same as they: the dreams of gods,
All ascending us to greater heights facades.
When has man without our nature found a truth?
Never can we make a light without a proof,
So it is that man reflects on nature’s path,
This is man’s own path: from dust to loving wrath.
To this end, where eyes at stars again will stare,
Let us keep the lights on in a way so where
Every quiet soul in solitude may mourn,
Braver souls can bathe in bolder light, newborn,
And remind us of eternal truths that shine
Bolder wisdom than a thousand eyes enshrine.
Necks were made to gaze not only on the ground,
Eyes should then reflect a thousand stars around.
Blake Elliott is a twenty-three-year-old college student. He speaks basic Russian, loves opera, and aspires to be a business man.
