Ron Pate


Ode To The Old


  As a premature spring rain is born to an early March wind, a heavy heart carries unfulfilled dreams within my soul.  
  Rain falls steadily never to cease or console, as if only to circumvent my actions for a short while, contorting and adding more difficulty as the March wind howls and blows.
  The mind wanders and reaches for a tiny fragment of youth as wrought iron rusts and a March wind swirls paying tribute to the Ode to the old.
   Nearby trees yield to and fro, struggling to stand tall as the unforgiving wrath carries on.  
   Once supple hands are now crippled by an unforgiving touch of an ode to the old.

Submitted: Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Edited: Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Ode To The Old by Ron Pate )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  9. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. hey ass-wipe, i love you, Mandolyn ...
  2. The Mystery Of Word, Bazi alis Subrata Ray
  3. Men who see no day, Zimba Sundrogo
  4. Handsome and king, hasmukh amathalal
  5. Stoned by sadness, Nalini Chaturvedi
  6. The Goodness of a Life-mate (Section-6 .., rajendran muthiah
  7. Heart to, hasmukh amathalal
  8. An Ode to my Tree, Kelly Curiel
  9. foliage, snehanair manikkath
  10. Love Lures Life! - sonnet-, Manjeshwari P MYSORE

Poem of the Day

poet Edmund Spenser

Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]