30 Poems in 30 Days: Why you should write poetry
September 4, 2007 by John Hewitt
This is Day 1 of 30 Poems in 30 Days
Where Poetry Came From
As long as there has been language, there has been poetry. Most of the earliest surviving texts were written in verse, but the poetic tradition stretches back to before the days of the written word, when stories and history were passed down orally using storytellers who used such devices as meter, rhyme and alliteration to ease the task or remembering and reciting tales that in many cases took days to tell.
The Evolution of Poetry
Over the years, history has become an academic pursuit rooted far more in prose than in verse. The age of the epic poem has passed. A book length poem is an anomaly these days. Poems tend to be shorter and less structured than in earlier times. Poetry forms are rarely used and such poetic devices as rhyme and alliteration have fallen out of favor, especially in the English Language, which lacks some of the lyrical qualities of languages such as Italian, Spanish and French.
For Love, Not Money
Poetry, in today’s world is at best a minor niche in the writing industry. Best selling books of poetry are few and far between. The major markets are dominated by fiction, self help, political and business books. Most new books of poetry sell fewer than a thousand copies and those that reach the tens of thousands are considered highly successful. This is a standard that falls far short of the fiction market, for which you need to sell a half a million books to be considered successful. Most book publishers don’t even publish poetry anymore. Those that do so continue to do it mainly out of a love for poetry rather than an expectation of profits.
A Small World
Poetry is not, however, without its fans. There is a small but thriving poetry community. If you live in a city of reasonable size, chances are that you can find at least one poetry reading happening in a given week. There are also poetry festivals and poetry slams (competitive poetry events) that take place in some communities. The Internet is also a thriving place for poets, with the blogging format making it easy for the average person to publish their poetry quickly and easily.
Just Like Chess Fans
Poetry is not a business. Your chances of making a living as a professional poet are about the same as your chances of making a living as a professional chess player. Both are activities that many people enjoy doing, but very few people want to pay to see. The only difference is that it is relatively easy to prove whether or not you are a good chess player, but whether or not you are a good poet is a much more subjective question.
Why You Should Write
The point I am getting at, in a very roundabout way, is that the best reason to write poetry is because it is something you enjoy doing or at least it is something you get some sort of emotional or spiritual benefit from doing. There is no other good reason to write poetry. If you want to be rich or famous, you’ve come to the wrong field. If you want to express yourself and join a small but thriving community of people who like to do the same, poetry is one way to go. If you love to write poetry, do it. Always try to improve, but don’t worry about whether you are “good enough” or if you “have what it takes” because poetry is about the journey far more than the result.
Today’s Poetry Assignment
Write a poem about your childhood. Explore an actual event that had some emotional significance to you. Avoid using any description of how you felt about the event then or how you feel about it now. Instead, try to make the emotion of the event come through in your descriptions of what happened. Feel free to post your poem in the comments or on your own site with a link back to here. This will give other people the opportunity to read your poem.
Today’s Recommended Poet
Poet Honoree Fanonne Jeffers writes in a vivid blues style. Her character-based poetry delves deep into life in the rural south. Reading her poetry is like stepping into another world. One of her poems, Tuscaloosa: Riversong appears here.
She has published three books of poetry:
Red Clay Suite
Outlandish Blues
The Gospel of Barbecue
Check out her work and support a working poet!
Don’t forget to post your poem!
Not sure this is actually a poem about childhood, unless you consider early twenties as being a kid, but here goes anyway:
I’ve got a bike that’s built for two,
But there is only one of me.
What to do with a bike for two,
but wait for you and see?
In the morning, we patted mud on bricks
with little chubby fingers,
filling all the cracks and
crevasses with sweet wet earth.
The leaves on the locust trees
shook and spoke like old women
gossiping over our heads
while the mud dried.
Our cakes never made, never rose and
by evening the mud had dried and cracked
with all the hard brick beneath showing through.
In the morning, we patted mud on bricks.
As the person hosting this exhibition, I humbly put forth my poem.
My Most Accessible Scar
Home and alone
I cut open my thumb
Trying to peel an orange
I looked at the blood
And wondered why it didn’t hurt and
Suddenly
Overwhelmingly tired
I went upstairs to sleep
Sometime later my parents came home
But I don’t remember them
I just remember the doctor and the stitches
Sewing me back together
And how everything looked orange to me
Which doesn’t make sense
And may just me my memory
Playing strange tricks
The scar is still there
Thirty-five years later
A lumpy ridge across my thumb
Sometimes I run my finger along it
While I am thinking
My most accessible scar
Distinct on my otherwise
Ordinary
Hand
Hi Laura,
Gossiping Locust Trees…
Nice.
Jim,
Go for eight lines next time. Maybe even more.
Thank you both for contributing!
Thanks, John. Your poem is intriguing. Did you leave out punctuation on purpose? It seemed to make it stream of consciousness-like which I thought was very interesting.
Next assignment?
Hi Laura,
I did leave out the punctuation on purpose. Its a habit I’ve picked up over the years. Next post in a couple hours. Been a busy morning.
i just wrote this. Feel free to let me know what you think.
I dreamed of you,
for years, dreamed of you
carried you along in my consciousness
like a security blanket.
But at night,
Oh, at night you came alive!
In my dreams our relationship
soared to new heights.
Mom, I can’t wait to go to sleep
because in my dreams i see you there.
Your beautiful chocolate skin, small nose and thin lips.
We explore worlds together, lived our lives together!
But every morning,
like the soft whispering of a silhouette,
my dreams fade away.
I search and search my consciousness
but all that remains is your face
and the cold, unforgiving wind of
reality.
That is beautiful. It is gorgeous. The first four lines carry me into the poem as if I am going to dream myself.
thanks so much Laura! I put pen to paper and this is what came out. Im so glad it invoked feeling from within you.
Ooh, can I jump in late? Please, please, please!
The Crime
I was four when my brother came.
Only weeks before that, my Nana –
with her warm, gigantic lap,
her long hair never cut,
her soft brown laughing eyes,
her voice like dark honey –
became quiet and pale and still
and gone, forever gone.
“A death, and then new life,”
I heard a grown-up neighbour say
as if it was a good trade,
as if it was cause to rejoice,
as if we could at least
take some comfort in it.
The babe too was pale.
He came from the same hospital
where she had been, where I last
saw her blanketed in white
and speechless – the hospital
where my mother too disappeared
in a sudden flurry one night
and only my father came back.
But my mother did return. Finally.
She carried this bundle.
Everyone acted glad.
I only stared
at its meaningless face
protruding from the white shawl.
There must have been pleasure
I suppose, for my Mum and Dad.
I remember it cried a lot,
and the way they shrugged
and made helpless faces at each other
in the long nights of wailing
that nothing would appease …
until exhaustion won.
“Good enough to eat,”
an aunt cooed over the cradle.
And I remember the hot taste of flesh,
my mother screaming behind me:
“You bit your little brother!”
and the purple marks on his arm.
I came up from the dark into the
Light of words, like a popup, breathlessly
Believing the bright might be turned off
Worlds opened their gates to my
Creative passwords, greeted me
With white space and green paper
People bleeding on the page
Joining my search for Real Time
Unlimited possibilities painted
Gardens, hung laurel in my hair
The wind teased my locks
How is love described in the cyber
Astral temple of hope and repair
Blending cultures and distance into
Paperdolls with locked hands circling
The globe, how do I know thee
By thy words, impromptu, studied
Fleeting or stayed, thou on the other
Side of my tapping fingers, waiting
With eyes seeking my framing mind
Inside the voice echoes against my
Walls, I am torn down, I billow and
Wave back at ourspace.com They
Are all mine and I am theirs.
cw 8/07
Here is my poem. I’m a little late too. I found this subject particularly hard. My childhood memories are very nebulous so I had to find a subject that was very specific. And then it flowed. So I’m happy.
Drought
every day is summer
violent, unrelenting
barefoot and I am running
black tar, the road is melting
dry heat, the air is shaking
burnt skin and I am flying
down the road, the tar is sticking
every day is summer
passed the pubs, the men are drinking
passed the shops, shopkeepers idling
passed the town, the road is widening
through dry fields, tobacco dying
olong dirt tracks, the dust is moting
then the shade, the trees are standing
by the river, water calling
water cool and dark and greening
every day is summer
I slide in and I am smiling
and the days are never ending
until the rain comes, then the flooding
every day is summer
(I’m publishing these on my site too, if anyone wants to leave a comment there. But I’ll be here participating as well. Great project by the way. Just found this site and it is just what I needed. Thank you!)
Don’t worry about being late. the beauty of this project is that you can start anytime.
Connie: I don’t think I’ve read the words Cyber and Thee in the same poem before. The language is nicely discordant.
Rosemarie: I’d have bit him too.
cerebralmum: Excellent use of rhythm.
The Tire Swing -
The boy wanted to swing
Faster and faster
Round and round
It was a beautiful day in July
To play on the playground
Built on a hill
With a tire swing that spun
Faster and faster
Round and round
Most children loved to go
Faster and faster
Round and round
They squeezed onto a tire
Suspended in air
Pushing to get room to hold tight
And screaming to be pushed
Faster and faster
Round and round
The stomach drops inside
Faster and faster
Round and round
It turns and spins
In time with the swing
It jumps
And falls
Faster and faster
Round and round
The girl lost her hold
And fell to the ground
She could not breath
Though hard she did try
And time stopped
For a moment
The others crowded round
Faster and faster
Round and round
Coaxing and coaching and soothing the girl
They told her be calm
They told her relax
But their voices were distant and fading…
Swirling faster and faster
Round and round
Her mouth moved frantically
Faster and faster
Round and round
She searched for air
A few agonizing moments stretched
As long she searched
She searched
Faster and faster
Round and round
She found it
And went on her way
Connie-
ourspace.com… very clever. You create really vivid images in that poem as well…I truely enjoyed it.
Susan: A nice dramatic piece, and with a great rhythm, I swear the poem kept moving faster and faster. I hope you stick around.
Oh yes, that tire swing brought back memories! I love the way you went from fun to dread and finally back to normality.
Re-reading, I notice belatedly how much I enjoy both Laura’s and makeba’s pieces here.
I Need You
I crouch down
I hid and pray
just give me one more day
but my body said no
“NO! you will not live for tomorrow”
in a world full of strangers
I’m lost, perfectly unbound
“You’ll die today” my sould shouts
Your the one I need
I grab life and strangle it
the sharp side withholds
but I find it
red drips
then pours
my sould drains out
I’m lost
I cry, I need you
……I have you
(I still have that scare on my wrist, I was lost and scared. I didn’t know anyone, but found love to carry on!!!! :))
[...] 30 Poems in 30 Days: Why you should write poetry [...]
Rianon,
The poem is a little too abstract. I need to see more of the scene for it to gain meaning.
let’s build a ramp
four feet high
don’t say can’t
just think try
protection?
lucky if there are brakes
just hold the bars real straight
and please, please no mistakes
go go go
pedal hard
get ready to launch
try to go far
here it is the ramp
the first wheel touches
then absolutely, totally and completely
stop
wrists flop
nevertheless, the head is still moving fast
until face meets ramp
and seat meets ass
The Bridge
Like yesterday the bridge is there.
It’s always been there.
Yesterday I passed not knowing
the bridge I see now.
The red and blue lights -
they flash along
that bridge, the bridge
where dad swims.
Why are they here?
Mom?
Why are they here?
Louise
We have been next door neighbours for all our 9 years
but it has been three days since I saw you last
On the front walk
the chalk outline of our hopscotch has rubbed away,
under the feet of the hushed and huddled adults that come and go.
Mum is taking me to see you today
To the other side of town and we have no car
So we must wait
Dressed up and watching at the window
We wait
And now, as I walk toward you
all that surrounds us is heavy
The thick carpet, spongy under foot
The filtered light, from the high windows with their coloured panes
Cast on velet drapes
And we are observed
And our moment is short
And your eyes are closed
And your skin is cold
And our mothers weep
Lex and Dennis: Enjoyed these!
WK: I think this is perfectly realised. The understatement, the descriptive details … and the ending is magnificent.
Apple Tree
The big wide world is dying
I swear to god it does
One year the tree was big and strong
The next it had turned to dust
I could not understand at all
Why it had disappeared
All that was left was an ugly stump
Of something once so dear
No branches stretching to the sun
Were there for me to climb
No pink bright flowers smelling sweet
All lost and gone in time
I loved that tree, I don’t know why
It was my secret friend
I told all secrets to those leaves
That now lay limp and dead
Years later, if you look close enough
You’ll still be able to see
My name in childish letters scratched
On the branches of my tree
I know I’m about two months late, but I’d still like to submit a poem about my childhood.
We’re moving
The curtain rises, I bring it back
Wring the memory from my brain cells
I stand shorter
The scene is dim and fuzzy
In the family room, parents in opposite chairs
“It’s time for a family meeting”
My ribs suppress a quiver, but my hands can’t stop shaking
My eyes are quick and my mind knows these feelings
Rapid, intense, bewildering
I knew it
I knew it before
You people have tricked me
Worse than ever before
I shut the door
And everything slides into the quick breaths,
The disintegrating particles swirling at my wet eyes and nose
I fade into the rebounding cushion of my bed, so tall
Knock, knock
I don’t want to talk
To you
I cry and want to be away and contained in blackness
I can’t stop now and crawl behind my bed
Slipping between wall and carpet and mattress
Here, between it all, between injustice, incomprehension,
Insensitivities, between fear, breath, plans not possible now
My mother starts to cry
And I cry for me, for her, for my house, the woods,
Sam, my walking stick, the pool, the city so sad and alive
I used to watch the clouds here in the morning
But that won’t happen anymore,
I won’t be here anymore
Leaving
I sit and stare
Around me are tears, hugs, good byes
But I sit
Stare
Away
If I ignore it, will it not happen?
I see the sofa, the door
I see my sister, my brothers
I see my mother, my father
And I see myself
Sitting and staring
My most vivid memory
And I sat
I stared
[...] 30 Poems in 30 Days: Why you should write poetry [...]
[...] 30 Poems in 30 Days: Why you should write poetry [...]
[...] 30 Poems in 30 Days: Why you should write poetry [...]
I remember when I was six
in Germany helping
some old lady move
and my father with some other men
hoisted an 80 lb. beam of iron on the third story
to lift her couch
and the beam came loose
and it fell, cracking through my skull
I can recall the inside of the ambulance
and a sideways clothes washer, MRI
always with the command to relax
I was going to die anyway
millimeters from my brain
tracing the two lines across my head
some years later, I am glad,
glad I never relaxed
Looking for bicycle
I wanted I wanted I wanted it strong
It rang a gong in my heart like a song
I wanted I wanted that bicycle strong
Please don’t make me to wait any long!
I got my bicycle one fine day
My bicycle took me away from mundane
My days were no longer the same
Because I could brake away from the lame
Many years passed with joy of the ride
Many years my bike stood at the same place at night
One morning I awoke to find myself alone
My heart was barred and my feelings gone.
Mad man, I was wondering on streets
With fear in heart but resolution in teeth
To get back my … freedom, but it was gone
Looking for bicycle since dusk … and will until dawn.
I’m sick of all the fights, fuck a tough guy. Let me tell you bout a tough guy. He must love the pain, sittin back letting it hit him all at once. He will embrace it with open arms and drive himself insane for pains sake. It makes him feel alive, it reminds him of where he’s been and who he’s become. Fuck a tough guy. Let my pain meet yours, we’ll bring it all to the surface. No need to hide behind the wall of disgrace. Face to face, we’re all tough guys in hiding , concealing the emotions that can set us free.
Some where out there I will find my place. I take what I am given, but there’s so much more to livin. The choice is mine, but I find myself in the hands of time, lookin for a reason to my rhyme. Steady climbing and still not finding - what I search for - im not certain. But with god above and the devil hot on my ass, I’ve got the pedal to the metal, and I know I will pass.
I dare you to dream a dream so rare, a dream with powers it makes you care; A dream so simple and beautiful, you lose all your fear; A dream so intense and vivid and wild, a dream so up-beat and positive, you smile. A dream so pure you feel like a child. To dream a dream so rare indeed, is to never lose hope and feed your need.
This world that I’m livin in… It’s the life that I’m breathing in. Inside is where it’s safe, It’s where you’ll find me in times of falling grace. You gotta be quick because I’m gone without a trace in this time of change and quick paced escapes. I’m always runnin from somthin, but what fears me is nothin. Do you feel what I feel, can you hear what I hear? Tonight is the night to set myself free, to open my eyes and see what you see.
Im just rambling on now… Someone stop me!
“The Gift Of Love”
Not a word spoken
all said by emotions
of their eyes.
The kindled warmth
of romance on a winter night.
Was I a mistake or was I planned?
Does it really matter
For I am here now.
Words hidden upon this poets mind,
asked if I’m a poet?
We are all poets or poetess
at some time or another.
Along with the intimacy
of a kindled romance
words conceived upon
an infants soul.
Growth of a young mans body
home to my soul.
Walking crossroads of life
searching finding
the roots of his tree.
Unearthing
“The Gift Of Love”
The words unfold
into poetry, a poem
that has always been there.
Waiting for,
Gods gift
to unearth, images, the falling of leaves
netted in the iris of my eyes.
Reflections of my soul.
A seed planted early on
written by a gift of
God.
The gift of a poets pen
Arthur Henn 3/19/2008
I’m new here and really enjoy writing poetry as an outlet and this was a first to write a poem of my childhood making the event come through as a description of what happen.
I had to think. So I thought why not try it as a image of coming into a world as an infant growing into a soul that has fallen into the world of wanting to write poetry daily.
Something I never in my life thought I would like doing and I cannot go a day without wanting to write.
Thank you for being here.
Art
Thank you for posting your poem Art.
Joan of Arc
Withal the dirt, the shabby door;
The choristers inside singing scales
In their child-like voices: a presence.
There am I in dusty shoes
longing for armor,
For Noble Death, for God whispering in my ear,
For monks in love with me.
In the road lies the body of an opossum
Mouth yawning in mid-shriek,
Broken teeth leaking
Across the pavement.
The sun finds us both with a golden light
And we are beautiful; the scrubby child, the murdered animal,
The pearl-like teeth.
The animal gave up its ghost.
The idea of God welled up in my chest
As the idea of a girl.
Dust motes rained down through the trees
Onto the tips of my baking fingertips
As I began to float.
Grass Stains
Tag!
You’re it!
Now run run run!
Stay on the lawn or you’re out
I ran and dodged - I hadn’t been caught
Then, the hand on my shoulder
They came from behind
Tag!
You’re it!
A push and a fall and
the sprinkler head met my elbow
with a snap
I lay on the lawn while the others laughed
Ceiling Stains
On waking there they were… staring back down on me
red blood spots turning browner each day, fading…
like the first bite into plump red delicious ripe strawberries, juice dribbling down my chin, wiping away the sweetness
The gunshot, only one taking away his life, his choice at that moment becoming my despair mixed with longing in my lifetime…
for his protection, guidance, love then lost forever..
Hello,
I remember the poem from the childhood:
Good morning, good morning, good morning to you,
Good morning, good morning, I’m glad to see you :))
HAPPINESS
This is it
This is the life she will live
And its all she has got to give
She will never leave
But she is contented
Just what she recommended
A happiness she created
For her heart will never be tormented
The glitz and razzmatazz of the outside
Will mean nothing to her otherwise
Because to her, this is just good and nice
And she will not have it other wise
With love
Hadiza Bagudu
29/03/2008
Last Moments
The vet’s assistant was fifteen, maybe
sixteen, and I don’t think she’d ever
seen someone break down like that.
She asked what she could do.
I’d forced my father to drive me here,
for another goodbye. Silent ride.
His tail never stopped wagging
and his paws couldn’t find purchase
on the waxed floor and he had
no idea why I wouldn’t let go.
My father drove me home. Silent ride.
hi!
here’s my poem. pleeeeeease tell me what you think. i’ve started writing again after ages!
—————————-
Copy cat! Copy cat!
A pout appeared on my face
But my heart sung a joyous song
I was a copy cat and proud of it
Because I was copying YOU didi*!
I looked up to you then
And I look up to you now
You have been, and are
One of the greatest influences
Of my life
I remember loving to watch you
And trying to imitate everything you did
I still do even today
Only now I am more aware
That I can never be like you
You’re that magical flower
That blooms once every thousand years
I am so lucky to have you
You give my life direction
I am and will always be
You eternal and dedicated copy cat!
Note:
Didi – sister in Hindi.
the warm creeps into my small bones
on the sidewalk out of the house
i wander lonely with a flyswatter in one hand and dreams in the other
each fly I aim at has a existence of its own
my task to try to swat it out
proud of the chore my mother
set me about, not knowing
it’s just to get me out
of the way
Here’s a poem I’d like some feedback on. Took me only thirty minutes to write, but it’s a powerful event in my life.
Here’s a bubble
Floating off to things reflected ahead
as do I
Here’s a bubble
Twisting into funny shapes
as do I
Down another octave
Cautious, edging along in care
The water makes small waves
All against my back, all too bare
I realease gravity
Embrace the water
No, come back you - bubble!
Slipping underneath
Here’s a bubble
Though they flee as I rise
as do I
Mr Hewitt,
I am hoping that you will help me. I am new to writing, having written my first poem in December of last year. I have read articles on line that advise joining writing groups. Having done so, I am being hammered on both sides. Half the group think I use too much punctuation, while the other half say I don’t use enough. I have not learned to write in free verse yet. After reading your poem
“My Most Accessible Scar” and your comments, I am wondering, is it acceptable to some punctuation(commas, question marks, quotation marks) and not you periods. Any help you my render will be readily received.
I am new to this site. I am not computer savvy. I am 61 years of age and will never catch up to this modern technology. Thank you for understanding.
Sincerely grateful,
Alfred Louis Chaplin
Hi Alfred,
I like writing groups, but sometimes they can be a bit harsh and judgmental. A group is only as good as the people in it. Too much / too little punctuation is an interesting dilemma. I like the line and the stanza to determine the breaks when I write, which is why I avoid commas and periods. For me, there is no reason to leave out an apostrophe because that is part of the word, not the sentence.
Good luck!
mother
far away cast beyond sleep
she lay and he sit beneath
tall & wide the building stood
i’d say more if i could
another she stood by her side
gold reflections cannot hide
he held me close
looked in my eyes
“she’ll be ok” “she’ll be allright”
large and empty
this reoccured
and all is over
as she stood.
Cousins
———————–
Once a week, and sometimes more
They would come and knock at my door
I’d leave the confines of my home
and head to the fields and forests to roam
The three of us, our minds combined
would spark another treasure to find
with sticks for swords and a quest to embark
we’d start the adventure and play until dark
Imagination was our guide
No longer did emotions hide
With 300 acres to spend the day
Reality would melt away
Hello,
Do you think my poem works? I just wrote it in response to the assignment. It was fun to do. I’m open to suggestions for improvement. Thank you
Germs
I sit in the tub
plash the blood warm water
frothy soap
slips from my fingers
over
and
over
a game of hide and seek
My young skin
Steamed and gleamy
lathered all over
my innocent sins
easy to wash away
it happens so suddenly
this swarm of germs
that infest my soapy legs
tiny coiling worms
writhing in place
The bathroom door swings open
my mother on her knees
arms around me, cooing like a dove
what is it what happened tell me
I blubber
cough
sob
the squirming bugs are gone
they are only downy hairs
my first intimation of womanhood
Hi Ivy,
I’m glad you enjoyed the assignment. Remember what I said though, “Always try to improve, but don’t worry about whether you are “good enough” or if you “have what it takes” because poetry is about the journey far more than the result.”
I think you have an excellent start to a poem, but you could probably go into more depth and look a little more closely at the images you have chosen. The point is to write the poem so that you are satisfied with it. Don’t spend too much time worrying about if it “works”.
Thanks for the quick response John. I’m impressed. I guess what I was asking is, does it work for the reader. It works for me to a point. I agree with you that it may need more depth (I was hoping for specifics) and some work around the images. But I don’t think I’m looking for affirmation about being “good enough”. Just wanted to discuss the poem. I might bring it to writers’ group next month, but if you want to add anything else, I’d be interested. Thanks again.
Hi Ivy,
I understand your desire for feedback. The trouble I have with saying a poem works or not is that I can only make the statement for myself. The subject is very female-centric, for example, so it does not speak to my own experiences. A fifteen year old girl reading the poem will have a very different perspective than me, a 40-year old guy. This is in no way a criticism, it is just meant to explain why I have don’t make judgments like that (unless a poem is truly awful, which is not the case here). When it comes to specific images, frothy soap is a little standard. I really don’t know what the worms/bugs are, and as a guy I really don’t want to know. For me, it is cringe-worthy, but not due to poor writing, simply due to the subject.
I hope this helps,
Good luck Ivy.
Thanks John. That was much more helpful and I appreciate it!
The winter’s night flushed our faces,
Mine, and my friends, soon to be foe
We made our way up the mountain
the boards strapped to our feet
we slid through snow, and snow slid behind
we knew where this trail led
to the front were two uknowns, we sped up ahead
we stopped with stroke and said out loud
“Hey, Man! Got a smoke?”
We were young, they were old
what more could we know?
Anyone of legal age…,
they must, MUST, have a smoke
They turned away and went inside
striking to me, that I would confide
the future of this story
the past of my life
to a reader unalive
And it would happen, with little glory
that I too, would go inside
and when I walked out, with slopes in mind
A circle stood around me
I walked into the middle, my peripheral consuming
my thoughts of what I’d found
With a left, a right-straight and hook to count
I fell, unknowingly to the ground
“Hey Man! Got a smoke?”
He asked as I covered.
A kick to the gut, there’s my answer.
I saw his toothy smile as he hovered
“I did not ask, It was my friend”
I said with a mouth full of blood
where’s my friend when I need help?
where was my friend when I was ten?
I stunk of urine, tasted of blood
I thought the humiliation was over
a decade’s passed
but still I sit, still I worry
That one day we will meet
and I will cower as a coward cowers
and hide for all to see
Click…
The clocks circles back
as time disintergrates
Childhood memory of
shock and shame
Portents of the mania
evident only to one
afraid to utter the words…
“I think she is going crazy…”
and screaming through terrified eyes
for no one wanted to listen
to a child
who waited paitiently for mommy
to return to that place of love and support
Her mother was a chameleon
each time a new persona
a new drama
trauma was the mantra of her day
Thirteen times she faced a new beast
when mommy’s mind seemed blown
into a kaliedoscope of mixed messages
random codes and voices
that spoke of dying
crying out from the depths
of a mind gone mad
The good days were interspersed
and time was back in alignment
until the pills no longer helped
but created new problems
where none existed
Well but now unhealthy
more pills replaced the needed therapy
nearing the end
she thought no one really cared
But she left my world a better place
and someday we will meet again….
…lyrical and emotionally affecting. Do you have anymore that I could read?
Well here it is:) Please pick it apart I need the help
A neighbor boy with brick in hand
Threw it hard, hit me in the head
Eighteen stitches the doctor said
Now my father is really mad
Mother cried , screamed and yelled
Told the boy she’d bust his tail
His mother came a running out
And Then they all began to shout.
All is quiet and I’m all fixed
What a mess over a little brick
A little scar I proudly wear
He loves me now and we’re a pair
This one of my less…..private works. I would love to hear what some folks think of it. I have never had feedback from anyone who would actually admit to not liking my crap, so please don’t hold back.
thank you,
Detriment
Irony the mockery of the vision
From the tangled system that is inbreed
Lies the desire of a nation as yet defined
A network of sociology laying the front
In this I see a quiet scream of necessity
To fall on bloodied ears of the victims
Where the Monstrous walk above
And the shouldered are cast down
It is in here I see the simplicity of scarcity
To empower and produce tyranny
The perfect society, loss of individually
And the deconstruction of humanity
It must be fantasy but I fail to see
For the pyramid was built
The microbes are processed
And no gene shall ever be free
I would like to show a poem.. and here goes hope you enjoy it.
Don’t lose faith.
I’ll watch the sky turn crimson red
On the beach shores with the stars.
I’ll cry on and along the seabed,
Which I thought could be ours.
I’ll wait for you, here tonight.
Even though it is a lost cause,
I’ll stay for you by the moonlight,
While the dolphins give applause.
The rush of the water washes my hopes away,
The sands of change blow my faith out.
Maybe I should head back to home today,
But alas, my heart won’t let me doubt.
Yet I hear footsteps through the sand,
She gracefully skips to my side,
Smiles gently to hold my hand,
As we sway to the beat of the tide.
At 6 the dark, gray clouds seem to
Move as though alive.
Air that was tyrannical with its heat
Is now cooling.
In the distance there are giants running and
Hair stands up with the electrical charge of each flash
“Daddy, let’s go inside!”
“No, Dear. We’re safe where we are.
If you watch you will see something beautiful.”
The dark, gray clouds move closer and closer.
The air is pregnant with the smell of coming rain.
He holds me close and is so steady.
Maybe it is okay.
“Look! Here it comes!”
Looking across the field of freshly plowed earth
It is there just behind the trees!
A wall of rain rushing towards our house.
The giants are closer, the flashes more distinct
Yet he is still so steady.
It is okay.
The dark, gray clouds are now softer gray.
The sun breaks through in the distance.
Our house, our trees, our everything
Has been refreshed.
It was okay.
It was beautiful.
Daddy is always so steady.
This is the first poem I have written since high school 16 years ago. I have always loved to write but seldom know where to start. Thank you for the inspiration.
Ericas last blog post..Custom List: Today’s Bible Verse
Mother
Like an egret in the marsh
we stood still and heard
a quiet whimper
in the harsh
demanding snow
coming forth
with silence breaking tenderness
as she fled the grass
and took on wing
to protect them from
the hunter’s sting.
We felt the panic
in the flight
that stirred us to return
the panic of our mother’s
night
when we lie still beneath our
sheet
like baby egrets in the marsh
and heard her leave our house
to greet
the hunters stalking tiny
children’s feet.
The shot rang out
and feathers flew
as the Sunday hunters yelped
with happy joy
and chased the limping
mother down the levy path
with a half breed dog
and a little boy.
And I stood still like and egret
in the marsh
without a wimper in the harsh
demanding snow
and watched the flapping
of the wing
until it stopped
and she was bagged
by the one who held
the ancient twelve guage
gun.
And I remembered lying still
like and egret in the marsh
without a Whimper in the harsh
demanding snow;
beneath my sheets
I watched
while another mother died
and other tender-aged
children cried
as she fled the grass
and took on wing
to protect them from
the rhythmic beat
of hunter’s stalking
children’s feet.
Feel free to tell me what you think..=)
Stinging heart
My mind runs in circles feeling old feelings
My heart is confused because is not willing
Frozen with time and space
Sitting looking at that place
Were smiles were shared
With feeling that are no longer there
Smiles mask emotions
But my heart is feeling the waves from the raging ocean
It speaks and it speaks your name
But that spark, that flame is no longer in frame
Losing his voice from shouting
Skips a beat from crying
It’s confused and is slowly dieing
I calm it down by lying
I keep and I keep trying
To replace the light with an artificial
But there is no replacing because is not the original
So it just sits in the darkness
Waiting and waiting with no sunset
My mind is letting go
But my heart is taking it slow
Throws old feeling when the sun doesn’t glow
To keep reminding me on how my life use to flow
As time grows
I’m slowly letting go
A spark of light slowly peeks and rips through the horizon
That spark of light will slowly bring orientation
This is the key to my heart’s salvation
That sparks of light only time can bring
But for right now my heart is still feeling the sting
Mulberry Dreams
Barefoot with scraped knees and a peach blossom bracelet,
she clambered her way up the old gnarled tree -
each twig a fragrant explosion, carrying clusters of bloated berries.
She popped one in her little red mouth and squealed with glee.
The plum-coloured jewels were proudly placed
one by one inside Mummy’s gleaming jam-jar.
All of a sudden a crack broke the silence
and a shriek could be heard from afar.
As her chosen perch gave way beneath her
the container spun through the air in a blur.
Stunned she lay sprawled amid sparkling glass shards,
her purple and mud stained face glistening with tears.
Slowly she got up and gathered the remains of her treasure
that had been flung to all four corners of the family yard.
But when her mother’s eyes still lit up with pleasure
as she offered her meagre pickings in bruised cupped hands,
a radiant smile on her cheeks outshone the violet mulberry smears.
The world stood still but
The kitchen curtains stirred with wind that
Blew through the only exit;
Past a large man, seated there.
Predacious, Predictive
Victory palpable.
The smaller of the two glanced quickly for an escape, realizing the trap too late.
The sheriff, opaque and ornamental, offers neither refuge, nor cover fire.
Fear makes eyes reflect,
Casting images of an opponents ego.
Knowledge tearing at his throat
WHEN
Instinct
Borne of
Fear and rage
Incensed
Strength in
Raw flames
CONSUME
Possessing, erecting straight form and steady hand.
Hotter than hell, and cold as space,
The decision is made.
The hammer clicks.
The seated man jumps from his chair, composure broken by unexpected resistance.
The two gunslingers stared each other in the eyes,
Killing shots in mind, itchy trigger fingers.
At last, the sheriff spoke.
Thank you, so much for this website…I have been having so much trouble writing lately, but somehow this place reached my creativity.
when i was little
when i was a little child i sat on my father’s lap
put my lips to the water running from the tap
brought dirty puppies from the street home
believed in fairies ,pixies and gnomes
when i was a little child i rode pretty ponies
with dreamy eyes i listen to stories
i gently bathed and carefully dressed my dollies
i smiled and got away with all my follies
when i was a little girl i loved the green fields
strong soldiers with armors and shields
rainbows, juicy watermelon,hail stones and puddles
wind chimes,baby bums and teddy bears that i could cuddle
when i was little girl i would cry for gas balloons
my favorite pink mickey mouse spoon
cry for the medicines i did have to swallow
the solution for the math problem i couldn’t follow
when i was a little girl i believed in god
always anxious for my mother’s nod
i believed trees had feelings and cried when cut
there was secret code in every cigarette butt
then i got a little sister who cried all night
she followed me around and we fought alright
we played home and made dresses for our doll
we sure caught each other whenever we did fall
now iam all grown up and pretty to see
every time i look across the sea
i see the little girl that was me
making mud cakes happy and free
hey ……i got inspired reading this article……….i loved every minute writing this……….thanks
It is nice to see so many people contributing poems. I hope you make it through the next 29 days.