The rainbow? Or the butterfly?
- Realistic Poetry
- May 15, 2018
- 1 min read
In a recent poll, Realistic Poetry International asked the question ‘which do you believe is more poetic?’ The options were A.) a rainbow; or B.) a butterfly, and we’re excited to say that we finally have the results. The voice of the poets have spoken!
With only 29% of votes, the rainbow turned out to be the least poetic in the eyes of the poetry community. 71% of voters out of 745 people felt that the enchanting butterfly is more poetic and inspiring, and we must say that we’re not too surprised!
From metamorphosis to freedom, these gentle and friendly blessings to nature figuratively (and physically) capture the concept of change and transformation, which most humans can associate with in some way or another.
Not to mention all the various colors, patterns, and types blossoming around the globe, decorating our flower gardens in the season of spring while also helping to benefit our natural environment and earth in positive ways.
So the next time you see a butterfly fluttering nearby, use your imagination and be inspired to write a poem. Don't forget to share it with us right here on realisticpoetry.com
Spread your wings, poets, it’s time to fly- together!
CHRYSALIS I stood a while under the sky of night, With the stars above the only light, My eyes were closed but I could see, Ones cloak of darkness that surrounded me. Black clouds turned into pouring rain, The wind does blow and gust again, The autumn chill becomes the snow, The diamonds line the ground below. Then spring it blooms into the sky, The snow now melts where lakes do lie, As nature blooms and birds do sing, New souls create and lives begin. Morning breaks, sun rise and shine, The rainbow depth of summertime, Then out of summer came to me, A side to life I had fail…
Rainbows promise hope The Butterfly promise new life!
Metamorphosis
The caterpillar climbs a tree
and finds what it considers an appropriate place; It creates a cocoon, a safe haven for the process of re-birth. Somehow, without dying It ceases to be what it once was.
Perhaps the process is without pain.
No one really knows except the caterpillar. And those memories stay in the cocoon,
for the butterfly moves too freely to carry a burden of any sort
But what of me? What of man?
How do I find a safe haven for this process of rebirth occurring within me?
Surely, I'm not dying It just feels that way
as old patterns of survival are revealed