Wednesday, January 21, 2015

This poem is inspired by a book I've been reading about 1914 and World War 1.

Newberry Falls...

Newberry Falls in West Silver Mount is probably the finest

place ever fount.
It's toadstools are funny
It's maids are malign
It's penciltop, buttercup, cavities shine.
The roads all go forwards, the lakes all look green, 
the bakery chefs are all slender and lean.
The ice cream is purple, and begs for belief.
It's sugar is made from a swift maple leaf.
The mayor ain't a mayor, 
   He's a soldier of fun.
his mustache it points like a ray of the sun.
his boots are laced tight like moonbeam noodles in twilight ravines.
When he laughs every bird catches wind from the trees
they gather and peck at the ground of his knees
they whisper "Oh Mayor, you are our favorite King,
your rosy red cheeks are like fruit when you sing
A glistening Apple tossed in the stream
  the stream by our nest where the mushmellons speak
   where the townspeople dream of a place they can sleep
  a village enclosed by the shaft of the wing
   in the cloudytop village of West Silver Mount
     where the hi-top cliff dwellers drink each day from a fount
a fountain of waterfall zest tells their mouth
  that this newberry fall is the last one allowed
   the last place permitted to peace in this round,
     this round earthen land where the rest left without

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