I love poetry and writing. Technically, most of it isn’t poetry, because it doesn’t
rhyme, although this style has some name that I can’t remember, but it counts as poetry in the modern day. I have a great ability to describe a minor event in enormous detail, which is partially why people say it’s “beautiful poetry”.
Here I have poems of many types, funny and serious, beautiful and blunt. I have sonnets, haikus, limericks, all of it. Please, if you want to copy my poetry or share it someone else, please credit it to me. I went through much trouble writing it and it is my choice to share it with the world, but I would still appreciate being acknowledged for my own creativity.
There is a poem in my head.
I have a poem running
through my head,
and if I don’t write it down I am going to lose it,
if I don’t set it free
and release it
into the world, then forever will I be haunted by the poem
that I never wrote,
that never was, that was born
and died from suffocation in my head.
So I give it form,
I take my tool,
my magic wand that creates
something in nothing,
and I touch it to my page
and give the poem
form, give it life,
let it breathe,
chained to the page, locked in paper and lead,
left flat and imprisoned, at the mercy
of the reader as to whether it has form,
locked inside two dimensions
and is left to be how it can’t be,
where it can’t live as itself,
and sculpt the words that create it;
chained to the page,
the reader sculpts the words, makes them be
what they’re not,
what they never were
or meant to be. And no poem,
deserves that fate, not even if it’s a night light
and a light night, it doesn’t deserve
not to live,
not to be. And I have to set it
free, to give it my words
to sculpt itself,
to take control of my body and my words
like it did when it coursed hot and new
through my pencil and was preserved
so that I could bring it to be,
so it can live in the air,
turn into something
that transcends all reality
and is, now,
it’s not me who’s speaking, it’s the poem,
the poem that named itself and formed itself
in the same breath of being, of existence.
And it breathes,
and it is,
released and untethered, unrestrained…
and it never was the poem that never was;
slipping through the leaves,
a backdrop of tea against colors so vivid
that you’d swear they’re burning
through the rain.
Deeper, brighter, stronger,
as the crystal falls and drips
from a swollen sky, bloated, gray,
and airbrushed in patches
The earth too grows thick and swollen
and oozes, can’t take any more,
pooling in puddles of gray and streams
of paint running downhill.
The gray slips and falls and drips,
tears for yesterdays
and what have beens
as it cleans the slate
for tomorrows and will bes,
and the will bees
sedated, wondering why
they’re flying in the rain.
Can’t you feel
that breath of fall in the air,
lingering like the haunting scent of flowers after a funeral?
The sun, pale, frail,
weak and unable to warm
thoroughly. Don’t you feel
the bite of the wind whipping from the north,
a bitter hiss. Can you smell it,
crisp and frozen, thin,
of winter and snow and ice and dark
and of a time when the whole world lies sleeping,
a whiff that betrays its inexorable arrival.
Do you see
the trees toss and move
uncertain, waiting, breathless,
for the balance to change and the beam to crash
down at one end,
leaving cold in its wake. Can’t you see
the colors have bleached and intensified
the vibrant greens turned brown to golds and reds?
The life is withdrawn and the leaves fly loose,
released and fly helpless on the bitter wind, leaving
brown sleeping skeletons against the intense blue of the sky.
Do you taste those colors dead but so alive
against the cold, those colors of fire
like Halloween candy? Can’t you feel
the summer slipping,
taste the hint of snow upon the wind,
see the colors faded intensified;
can’t you see,
can’t you hear,
can’t you tell,
can’t you feel…
that fall is here?
there are more words for always
than there are for
not ever begun,
not ever achieved,
not ever dreamed,
not ever done.
is therefore consistantly more
than never ever ever.
Never say never,
always, say “Ever!”
X’s and O’s
soft kisses brushing your cheek in greeting
from the clouds above
since Valentine’s day
is right around the corner;
falling in tiny x’s
They accumulate upon the dry brown
ground and hide
the tired grass with
clean whiteness, a shade
purer than anything else could ever be,
the color of its mother, the clouds,
like when they’re seen from above.
Pure soft and thick,
like the world’s heaviest fluffiest down comforter
in the entire world,
soft and wet.
Looking out the window,
it looks like someone
spilled a gigantic bag of clumpy granulated sugar
all over the countryside.
But it’s all dirty from the floor,
Why do kids always ask
Why do parents always say
Why don’t parents say
‘I don’t know’?
Why do the kids grow up like that?
Why can’t they admit
Are they only proud or is it
How do you stop one of these
And how do you finally get
don’t you solve for variables in polynomials?
Why do you
but don’t search for a simplified
What is a real
the only real number?
the only real number
Why am I asking and answering
Why am I so serious
Why am I still unanswered?
Why do I still not know
the answers to the unanswered?
Why can no question be answered
without another being asked?
Why can curiosity never be
Why must we
leave a question alone?
Why is there
never one completing answer that
argues and satisfies the question
and all its curiosity?
‘that’s the way it is’
not a satisfactory answer?
the way it is, because
we cannot always understand it.
A question unanswered is like a
variable without an identity.
but you can’t
No estoy perfecta, (I am not perfect)
pero mi amor: (but my love)
lo me construye mejor, (It builds me better)
mejor que antes. (better than before)
Antes hoy (Before today)
estoy (I am)
en mi personalidad (in my personality)
fea, no feliz, (ugly, not happy)
cruel a todo circademe. (cruel to all around me)
Pero hoy, (but today)
contigo, (with you)
con el amor tuyo (with the love of yours)
que te dame (that you give me)
estoy hoy (I am today)
una mujer mejor, (a better woman)
una mujer con pasion (a woman with passion)
una mujer con razon (a woman with reason)
estar vivando, (to be living)
todo porque (all because)
te andas en mi corazon (you walk into my heart)
y te abrazas la buena y la mala (and you embrace the good and the bad)
Fog and Me
I’ve been everywhere with fog.
It creeps up behind me like a
playful jaguar and pounces,
wrapping around me and tugging to pull
my spirit out by the arm and take me along.
Riding in, upon, and beside her,
perched on top and holding misty reigns or
flying next to her and exploring.
One creature here,
existing in another dimension so that
even though she appears blocked or broken
she is everywhere.
it’s always just fog and me.
Looking at each other,
whether she’s embodied in the foghorn,
her voice to her silence in creeping up to envelop,
or in angry blue rain clouds high away from me,
too mad to socialize,
it’s like we share a secret,
just fog and me.
She’s my BFF and sister,
always there and waiting
for that simple understanding of the other’s feelings,
no matter what and even though
we can’t comprehend each other’s shape;
to each, the other “isn’t physical”, “isn’t real”.
And she can be he too,
it’s confusing when your BFF girlfriend is also
Oh, sorry, I forgot that
you wouldn’t know.
You see fog?
you know, I see fog too,
but I’m sure that she no esta as they say in Spanish,
genderless third person,
no she’s not what you think.
Because fog and I are on the best of terms,
we’ve been everywhere, are everywhere, together.
Sometimes me in her, sharing her world
of rolling mist and shapes that do not restrict her,
sometimes she in me, sharing mine,
of solid things that do restrict me.
Whichever, it’s as
it’s been always:
fog and me,
me, and fog.
Beneath my silken waters flow
orange fish with silver below.
The water and places that they go
are secrets only they will know.
As the moonbeams fall down on the pond
fish swim through it and upon.
Silver fins on some, waving as a silver wand,
other ones, crowns silver donned.
From the sky bright moonbeams stream,
and up them swim the kings and queens
fins waving, the scales! how they gleam!
Then to vanish, gone, ‘tall a dream.
A dream only, and one quite queer,
for koi-fish never disappear.
But…for truth? it does appear
remains in the pond a single silver tear.
From a koi-fish swimming from his home,
was cast this tear, and it alone.
The last he called swimming into the sky
was “Goodbye, mine pond, goodbye!”
Now these orange fish of ours
swim themselves among the stars.
Look up one night, away from this Earth of ours,
and see a fish-shape, swimming way afar.
High up in the skies do show
orange fish that silver glow.
The stars and places that they go
are secrets that only they will know.
Wisps That Are Alive
Low ceiling wispy cloud-fog,
like a blanket draped over the world.
You can touch it with your mind,
feel that staticy grey-silvery bluething,
but physically your puppeteered hand
passes through the
of its heart.
A creature, alive,
but not constrained to any shape.
Senses of the mind and spirit,
parts vanishing and conjoining willy-nilly,
on an insane rhythm that sounds like a din to but the most carefully trained ear.
And that creature has a form of the mind,
thus a shape that exists
even though it’s not in this dimension;
perhaps the seventh.
But you cannot touch it with your hand
because only the mind of it holds the molecules together
so they scatter and fly, not the real creature but
the inanimate physical one,
so that it clings to your
Dawn Valley Rolling
silver moonspun misty tendrils
wafting over the hills.
Soft tone gentle “g”,
foghorn over the water,
echoing in the soft fog,
loosing itself, disembodied,
and coming from the fog itself.
The sun rolls over the hill to the east,
color spilling from the western side of the bowl-like valley,
rushing like a tidal wave of Technicolor or paint.
Suddenly gold sunshine on all things,
my room still in the cool spectrum,
streaming and reflecting off the fog that lingers,
the horn still calling, softly.
Fresh clean air,
combination of moonshine fog and sunspun light,
distributed by my fan.
By the very essence of this smell like thought, tender love,
I smell heat drenched by fog,
air still and heavy,
Birdsong sweet within like candy.
‘Twill be a warm day.
All is still under golden light,
holding its breath;
even the air.
Stark contrast between yellow-gold light
and silver-black shadow,
though even that doesn’t seem as dark
Birds are seen now,
their songs breaking like crystal
in turn breaking the silence.
The trees and breeze stir,
awakening to prepare for their day
while cheery wrens flit among their branches.
roused by the rising chatter,
people too stir from sleep,
cued by the brilliant stalwart sunrise,
cheered on by glorious birdsong,
they rise in their homes.
Suddenly the morning is a cacophony,
doors slamming, cars going, people calling,
motorcycles, lawn mowers, chainsaws,
planes, helicopters, and music.
Nature’s quiet beauty,
the sunrise, birdsong, and trees,
are drowned by incessant human overspill
throughout the day.
And still, deep into the night,
when nature has long ago silenced,
the people still move and roar,
yet afraid of night’s stillness by crickets.
But at last human activity slackens
around the smaller hours of the night,
while even the silence interrupts itself
with owls and the like-kind wildlife.
the light bleaching the night to the east,
like ultra-strong Clorox of the gods,
sky from black to indigo to Tiffany-box blue to powder blue
until in the bleached white portion
rises the sun,
a glorious fireball that no one can look at directly
even though it lies millions of miles away,
yet everyone admires directly.
Throwing light on every object its ethereal paintbrush can reach,
and at this time glorified into heaven’s stuffs
by that pure, pure light.
naught breaks nature’s silence
Family gathered around the table,
the lights dimmed to a candle,
the food awaits us patiently.
Hands clasped, we say grace,
and give ritual to the giving of thanks,
before serving the traditional turkey.
‘Round the table, each
member of this stalwart event intones
his or her thanks for the year.
As we eat, each reflects
and is filled with thankful air.
Come down, come down, come down the river to me,
Past graceful hedge, purple flower, and
shining silver tree.
Come down, come down, I long for you!
With your earnest heart, and love.
You sparkling eyes so blue!
Come down, come down, as the light begins to fade,
As the stars shine and faeries dance
Within the darkened glades.
Come down, come down, into the deepened night,
Past pooka’s lair and great hills,
Down into my sight.
Come down, come down, into my lightened home,
Where I await, and bread bakes,
Upon the warm hearth-stone.
Come down, come down, into my hidden heart,
And promise that you’ll love me,
And that we shall never part.
Using built-in climbing gear,
and silken lifelines, the spider
clambers up the table where I write.
with a minute
sigh of relief, he reaches his destination
of flat level-ness.
and leap away from it.
the size of my nail,
drunkenly dancing across the table,
lifting its legs in a stomp that it can’t even hear.
A clear cup,
and white paper
removes Mr. Spider from the vicinity.
It soars by my hand out the door,
to a plant, where I release it.
the size of a pinhead
drifts slowly to the leaf and hides,
on his next mission already.
Dark slowly surrounds
the quiet earth.
Gentle clouds spread overhead,
then settling down onto hills
like a thick
Quiet falls too, but
the moon goes against gravity,
rising into the sky and turning
her gentle, cool face towards
our sleeping ones.
and I smile happily in the
I’m a little waterfall,
the swiftly running tide,
I’m a roaring thunderstorm,
the sea that’s open wide.
I’m a little hidden creek,
an angel, misty blue,
I’m a single raindrop,
a person who speaks to you.
Who Is That Man?
A tall, rather handsome man,
in his middle age.
He smiles at every stranger,
and walks a lengthy stride.
He makes small-talk with the waitress,
chats with the valet,
He orders well-made dishes,
and wears well-made clothes.
His car is a Mercedes,
black with black inside.
He pulls into the driveway,
and opens up the door.
The moment he steps on concrete,
his children fly outside.
They hug him tightly, kiss him,
so glad that he is home.
Who is that man?
Who is that man,
who is friendly in each aspect?
Who is that man,
who is witty in his speech?
Who is that man,
Who is hugging his children?
Who is that man?
The Water Drops [Haiku]
It slips off and plunges down,
Then a minute splash.
There’s no time I love better.
Full of excitement and expectation for the future.
Full of content for the past.
When everything occurs.
The time to begin.
There’s no time I love better.
What time is it?
Past one oh clock.
What time does that mean?
Near time for my walk.
What day is it?
It just begun Wednesday.
What time does that mean?
A long day for your play.
What month is it?
I believe it’s still December.
What time does that mean?
Oh, can’t you remember
the time or the hour?!
Oh can’t you remember
that you have on a watch?!
Oh can’t you remember
that you have a calendar?!
There once was a blogger who could
not post, she just ate lots of pud’
She wrote about cards,
then sighed very hard,
saying, “I really must post this, I should!”
I wish that you would stop our silly rhymes,
although it’s nice I must say time to fly.
We must stop dreaming to stop being mimes.
Once we’re done we can reach the sky.
But now I’m caught up in pentameter,
And I cannot stop for anything or one.
Shakespeare was in the lovely theater,
And wrote up and had lots of fun.
Now my sonnet is almost all done,
and I say I am doing quite well.
Here comes a deliciously fresh bun,
Oh my, what a good, yummy smell.
This part is the last of the quartets,
Near the end of our very nice sonnet.
I’m sorry I do not have any pets,
and now I’ve tied up my big bonnet.
Two more lines is all the time I have
Ouch you dog leg go of my calf.
A Christmas Mystery
The multi-colored lights
that are wrapped around the tree
glow down on the
silver and gold
What is it?
On a warm
leaves over my head form
a living canopy.
Soft silver beams
fall on my face
slip through my fingers,
and shine on the water.
They make the pond
a pool of liquid
Gazing and longing,
wandering and looking.
What is it I want?
Impossible to tell.
Where is it?
A hard rain.
A flash of pure light white,
and the living rumble of
the voice of the world,
a force too powerful
and magnificent for words.
I look out the window.
It is cloudy,
“Let’s go!” calls my mother,
as car doors slam.
My jacket, as well as my gloves, and
my hat and scarf.
Downstairs, to the car.
Heater on, “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”.
Gravel parking lot, fluorescent lights.
A small forest of
cut trees of all sizes,
and that pine smell.
Breath is visible, such a cold, cold night!
“What about this one?”
Pay, load, drive.
Decorations need to be taken from
Out of boxes,
up on the tree.
Flashing lights, and a silver star.
And when I look out at the night,
from the merry atmosphere,
it’s not sad anymore.
A Haiku of a Star
On black velvet lies
a pin-prick of pure white light,
a beacon and guide.
Three white snowflakes fall
through the frigid air
to hit my window.
Cool, steel grey skies,
heavy with rain,
drip with precipitation.
Wet cement smell,
soft patter of raindrops on
leaves for miles around.
can’t see the garden,
hard pound of rain on the roof,
wonderful, and uplifting.
A warm oven
produces its ever-loved items,
a batch of delicious,
spicy sugar cookies.
They warm my heart,
a Christmas present for my stomach.