Here is something I wrote for my english class in my senior year. It's a
pastiche of one of the chapters (1st??) of Alan Paton's "Cry, the Beloved
Country." It might be considered to be poetry. But I don't know, you judge
for yourself. I'm just posting here to see what type of reactions I get. :]


     There is a beautiful key that lies in the middle of a string of other
lovely keys.  These keys are of an iridescent, ivory color.  You also see
some lovely, ebony keys which overshadow the ivory keys.  Pressing the key tht
lies between all the other keys, you hear the sweet, smooth sound of C.  You
look down at the keys from a broader scope and you notice that they are not
alone, for encompassing them is a great case of wood.  From an even wider
scope you see that you are in a house; about you there are walls and furniture
of various kinds and below you is a carpet and above you is a roof.  Beyond
the walls are the spacious yards; and beyond them, more houses.
     The carpet is gray and unsoiled, above it you stand.  It holds up the
furniture, the walls, and the roof.  It is looked after, not too many spills
and drops are made on it; and not too many black feet walk on it, breaking the
appearance of it.  Stand unshod upon it, for it is beautiful like the ivory
and ebony keys, for which it complements with high degree.  Cleanse it, crae
for it, watch over it, for it adheres the furniture to the walls, the walls to
the roof, and everything to itself.  Degrade it and the house is destroyed.
     Where the wooden case of keys stands the carpet is gray and unsoiled,
above it you stand.  But over time, neglect brings soil; the carpet cannot
hold up the furniture, the walls, and the roof.  Too many spills and drops
have occurred, and too many black feet have walked on it.  Stand shod upon it,
for now neglect allows for it.  The carpet is not cleansed, or cared for, or
watched over, for it no longer adheres the furniture to the walls, the walls
to the roof, and everything to itself.  The sound of C is not so sweet and
smooth anymore.
     The gray carpet has turned black.  It no longer complements the ivory and
ebony keys.  The furniture do not stand; the walls have fallen over; the roof
has collapsed.  People down on their knees try to scrape away the black from
the carpet.  But there is no hope of restoring the house.  The people do not
come here anymore.

END.

Actually, to me, this is like a short story which teaches a moral.
But at times, I find it to be poetic with its repetitiveness and short
sentences.


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