Over the summer, I watched a movie called Patterson. The title is very appropriate— it’s about a bus driver named Patterson, who lives in the town of Patterson, whose favorite poet wrote a poem called ‘Patterson’. Patterson the bus driver writes poetry himself, and his poetry is simple yet sublime. The words he scribbles in his notebook sound as natural as if he was merely talking to himself, while conveying a vast depth of feeing beneath his calm exterior.
The film left its mark on my mind, and pretty soon I found myself thinking of poetic ways to describe the world around me. Sometimes poems sprang to me unbidden, and I scribbled them in my own little brown notebook. One of these poems tells of the little creek behind my condo complex, and the transformation it experiences during a rainstorm. This is the one I want to share with you today. Is it a terrible poem? Maybe! I haven’t delved deep enough into the art of poetry to know for sure. But I enjoyed writing it, so that gives me hope that you’ll enjoy reading it. Here you go: The Creek I crossed the creek with bare dry feet Before the rain began last week Then clouds called out from the sky Waters roared with answering cry And for one flooded, frenzied hour My sweet still creek surged with power Burst its banks and broke its bonds Sweeping soil toward the pond But past the firmament’s full furor It once again took up its murmur The sky is blue, the storm is done My creek still frolics beneath the sun
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Progress on Doombear, Rough draft:10%
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"In truth, by leaving, I was seeking only one thing. A journey."
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