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This poem of mine was published in the July 2009, 7th Anniversary Issue of Beyond Centauri.
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The Boy Who Plays the Wooden Flute
The boy who plays the wooden flute,
That lad with golden hair
The color of the rising sun,
Can blow a note so fair.
His music floats like softened mist,
Almost smells like autumns’ cold,
Yet it holds the warmth of a fever kissed,
Tells a story new, yet old.
It tells of mountain snows and woods,
Of shining waters clear,
Of clans and wars and wizened hands
Of those he held so dear.
It tells of gains and losses great,
Of battles lost and won.
It sings of death, and pain, and fate,
Of life that’s just begun.
The boy who plays the wooden flute
Breathes life into his tunes,
That wrap all listeners inside
His music filled cocoons.
The boy who plays the wooden flute,
That lad with golden hair
The color of the rising sun,
Can blow a note so fair.
His music floats like softened mist,
Almost smells like autumns’ cold,
Yet it holds the warmth of a fever kissed,
Tells a story new, yet old.
It tells of mountain snows and woods,
Of shining waters clear,
Of clans and wars and wizened hands
Of those he held so dear.
It tells of gains and losses great,
Of battles lost and won.
It sings of death, and pain, and fate,
Of life that’s just begun.
The boy who plays the wooden flute
Breathes life into his tunes,
That wrap all listeners inside
His music filled cocoons.
~Brienne Adams
Brie,
ReplyDeleteOh what a gifted writer you are! Ever since you were a little girl, an open page has been your creative playground. This poem makes me want to visit Scotland and Ireland, and hear the lore from the locals.
Love and pride,
Mom