Male Poet

[Brownlie]

Here's my preachy poem.

To I-ching, men are seen in gusts
In cuts of howling wind,
They flurry seeds to be recieved
With force in sweeping wings

Like printed lines we crack like snakes
That fork the moving sky
To activate and charge the earth
By chopping three-stacked lines

The sequence makes a system speak
and fits a poet well
Who challenged death renaming grass
In bowers by himself

In placid gusts at forest lawns
I wonder what will spark
The lifeless men beneath the ground
Who died upon a lark.