I don't write poetry. I read it, but I don't write it.
However, a recent assignment forced my prose-dedicated brain to experiment in that fantastical world of poetry. And apparently, it was well received by my professor. Any followers of my blog will recognize the subject and location as I have previously written a post dedicated to my happy past. Hopefully, you will enjoy the same idea in a different format.
It existed once. My childhood
Fairyland, where I climbed the trees and rode upon Thunder and Lightning,
My red and yellow horses.
I suppose it still exists:
The few trees still standing are the shadows of what once was.
There was a pond surrounded by willows with drooping branches
And slender leaves that I would pluck off and drop in the water
And watch the water ripple.
Often I journey back to that place
In my mind.
Because in my mind, it is still real.
The horses would lie under the trees, snuggled up to the grass.
Only to emerge at dusk and walk theri now black silhouettes into the
Golden setting sky, because
The barn was in the West.
And there the would stand and sleep, and rest after their long day
Of standing and sleeping.
And now I stand, wishing I could sleep,
And dream of my childhood fairyland.