wild blackberry bush
blackberry bush
growing in the scrubland, the vines
twist like tangled twine throughout
the otherwise barren hillocks and dunes.
the creepers with their green leaves
and vexing thorns don’t stop,
only delay, collecting ripe berries.
strawberries and blueberries have status,
fetes, fairs and festivals are held
to honor these noble crops.
gardeners and farmers toil hard
to find the finest strain.
not so the wild blackberry,
it comes up every summer
hot or cool or dry or wet.
there I am, a wild vine,
roots in deep, with annoying barbs,
like the blackberry I go on.
response received:
ReplyDelete> I love blackberries. Your photo is luscious. More importantly, this is one of your best poems. You know it is and you know why. Obviously no constraints of artificial rhyme and meter. Obviously the haiku inner dynamic of setting a natural scene with innocent description in the beginning and later springing the surprise--in this case New England philosophical rumination. But much more. More to do with honest feelings and "spontaneous overflow of emotion recollected in tranquility". I truly enjoyed this.
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