Blustered shores bear a tinge of winter’s breathas to the rocks white peaks make their assault. The city’s gray bleak horizon looms, to fault the sprawl that covers natures bounty, left.
Mans own making, the fabrication lies to tempt the heart and hide what once was pure; so beats the tide of progress to our shores as nature’s voice is silenced from its cries.
Am I, to this advance of golden greed, to pillage, plunder, gather with the rest til splay and swell the billowed surplus bleed my own veracious quiddity, blessed? Stem the stark turgid waters roar; redeem, remnant soul, all vestige of hope, what’s left.
About this poem:
Damn those archaic words. “Quiddity” hasn’t likely made an appearance in a poem since 1832 but it’s the perfect word, “the inherent nature or essence of someone” (being a word nerd has its price). I’m afraid sometimes people think I use large words to impress, quite the opposite, if they knew how much I agonized over the right word, they would see it’s more an obsession of mind than a flagrancy of ego.
Conurbation “is a region comprising a number of cities, large towns, and other urban areas that, through population growth and physical expansion, have merged to form one continuous urban and industrially developed area. In most cases, a conurbation is a polycentric urban agglomeration, in which transportation has developed to link areas to create a single urban labour market or travel to work area.”.[1]
This poem occurred to me as I was standing on the north side of Lake Hefner, a blustery wind park famous for its gales and perfectly situated to frame above its south shoreline, our sprawling, swiftly expanding downtown. On one hand, I, personally, stand to benefit from the rapid expansion in our city, on the other, I’m one who watches the earth’s flora and fauna become a fabric of concrete, an inevitable urban sprawl. Conflicted.
[1] Encyclopedia.com
