My appreciation for the poetic form originated with my grandmother, as I have on many occasions indicated. One of the countless books on her shelves was a fat volume of poems by Ogden Nash (1902–1971).
Like Bill Gates, Nash attended Harvard but never graduated. After a stint on Wall Street and as a school teacher he became a copywriter. Many of his poems found a home in The New Yorker among other places.
Here are three of my own which, lacking a more interesting title, I am calling “three little seeds.”
In the days of the Solar Eclipse
when the sun for a time hid its face
the creatures of night all emerged to explore
the strange world of non-light at mid-day.
It knows not the darkness,
or rather, lacking words
to define what is only sensed,
the child escapes in innocence.
Authentic inclinations —
to thine own self be true —
get in touch with your roots.
Originally published at ennyman.com.