Welcome to my ‘archive’! This is from April, 2012, in honor of the National Poetry and Writing Month. There is a date in italic beside each poem, telling you when it was posted, and the title is in bold above each poem. Hope you enjoy them!
Any suggestions during this year or for the next? Comment here or on any NPWM pages!
The sun has just slid past the hills,
just after the level of the horizon
the hidden horizon.
There’s the moon,
a half-circle in the sky,
the craters you can look at through the telescope.
And as the cooling breeze ruffles your hair,
glance up, and you can see,
following the sun’s curved path across the sky,
the evening star,
a glowing circle of light.
Out of Bed
I’ll be late if I don’t get up now.
But I can’t,
because I can’t
get up now!
I know it’s 7:10,
and I’ll be late if I don’t get up now,
but I can’t
because I can’t
get up now!
As the clock ticks 7:15,
I try to get up,
but it’s cold, and my bed is so warm!
I’m still a little tired,
and still a little cold,
so the arms of the bed surround me,
the warmth and comfort
a vortex to suck me in again,
to make me fall asleep when I don’t mean to,
to make me late especially when I don’t mean to!
So I leap across the room,
as far as I can,
and grasp onto the shelf o’er there.
And I’m out of the vortex’s
swirling grip, and I can finally get to work!
But the book on my nightstand,
that I was reading last night,
I read during breakfast,
as the clock ticks towards 8:00…
As the sphere of light
drops just below the horizon,
that light obscuring the sky
fades to leave a clear veil o’er the Earth.
Now see stars, like a black blanket in front of a light,
crossed by pinholes,
shaped into the outlines of pictures,
And though they seem 2-D,
their glow reminds you how they’re like you,
singular forms in the center of space,
bobbing like seaweed upon waves.
And you see the seaweed through the water,
see the wavering, bending light
which alters your vision but slightly,
looking up into the night.
La Luna Bonita
voy a la luna.
voy a la luna y mira a alguna
coza más bella en el cielo.
Mira, la tierra, qué blanco!
Cómo mucho blanco, mejor que la nieve,
cómo bella esta!
en el cielo esta!
Esta la luna bonita!
Since I can’t expect you to know el español, here’s a simple translation of what I wrote above:
The Beautiful Moon
Today I go,
I go to the moon,
I go to the moon and look at some
things most beautiful in the sky.
Look, the ground, what white!
How much white, better than the snow,
How beautiful it is!
it is in the sky!
It’s the beautiful moon!
The Date Line
I want to live near the International Date line,
where one island is Monday,
but the other’s still Sunday.
Then I’d take the boat,
just a quick 7-minute hop,
from Monday morning to Sunday morning
and eat waffles.
Or if it was the end of Sunday,
I’d go over and hang out for the new dawn of Sunday,
then at the end of Sunday there,
I’d ferry back and skip total Monday!
But let’s say the dentist has called me,
and I don’t like cleanings at all,
then I’d skip back to have an extra day.
Or perhaps I’ve got too full of a day,
but I still need a haircut.
Then I skip to the day before or day after,
and make an appointment thereof.
Or maybe its just before a holiday (or my birthday)!
Then I prepare on the latest island.
On the eve of that grand celebration,
I run back and get there a day earlier,
then skip to the previous day and live it again!
Who can say that each day happen once,
when I can go back and be there again?
Who says that time can’t speed up,
when I skip days for what I want most?
A cool morning,
with the sun shining golden on emerald leaves.
Birds chirp joyously,
hopping through the foliage.
Suddenly a sparrow appears,
alighting upon the bushes.
He searches the branches,
and selects a branch that is much, much bigger than he.
And although it seems to defy gravity,
the sparrow takes to the air,
and with his enormous burden,
flutters away to built his nest.
My Second Sonnet
The day begins all cool and oh-so-bright,
the temperature now rising like a kite.
The breeze then starts up with the ocean’s might,
which cools things down, a little, very slight.
The birds now start to sing their cheery songs,
sounds fitting in exactly where they belong.
From trains to birds to bubbling sounds of ponds,
Sounds fill the air; and the church-bells, just like gongs.
The sun moves on, and now it’s time for lunch,
Yum, lettuce gives this tuna quite a crunch!
I love grapes, too; why don’t I go buy a bunch?
Oh, beware of buying way to much to munch!
Now I need to practice my piano,
as things grow dark I play songs ritarando.
The clouds that now I see have an orange glow,
and now most things are draped in dark shadow.
The stars are out now, high up in the skies,
Goodbye for now; I must now close my eyes.
There’s a lizard on the wall,
at least four inches long!
(eight, if you want to count the tail, too)
His beady black stare,
and majestic overview
instill awe his beholders;
those that are lizards, at least!
I move a foot closer,
but his head snaps towards me,
the glint of his eyes
watching so suspiciously!
I blob faintly up and down before him,
(which is a display of strength,
while he watches, unimpressed.
I add my arms to the mix,
(mimicking a lizard’s strong push-up)
and await his response…
There! he stirs!
Behold! how far he raises above the ground!
As any feeble lizard would,
to admit defeat in his presence,
(and to keep him brave in his territory, as well)
his eye alone shows pride in his defeat.
Eager to Eat
The warm ocean breeze
adjusts the position of the mesh bird feeder,
while minute Lesser Goldfinches
cling to it closely,
mewing their calls into the air,
and competing for space near the small amount of remaining food.
If I Was A Dust Mote
What if I
was a mote of dust,
weightless in the air?
Drifting, here, away,
carried by a breeze there?
What if I
drifted into a shaft of light,
from a an afternoon-lighted window?
Barely restrained by gravity,
floating in that heavenly glow?
What if I
was tugged by airy currents,
yanked into someone’s wake with ease?
Then following the flow still,
I’d get in their nose and make them sneeze!
Stagnant in an in-ground spa,
not even leaves floating on the surface,
the few bugs and flies within feebly wiggling their last life away.
That neon green color,
unseen naturally in nature,
I swear it would glow at night!
Perhaps, if I fell in,
a single touch would bring my fate,
causing mutation at the barest contact.
“Oh I’m slipping I’m–!”
Just A Flat Sound
some sort of environmental stimulus.
I give my response,
part of what makes me human:
My throat vibrates,
I make it ripple to make a sound,
My mouth contorts,
cupped to change the noise,
then stretches out, choreographed to match the vibrations,
tongue and lips aiding the sculpture of sounds.
“Aaaaaooooeeeeeee elllooooooofeeeee eeeeoooooo.”
Those exact sounds are words,
which through gesticulations meaning was first brought to,
a static group of sounds
which are made to communicate with another,
which has in turn learned the meaning of these sounds.
Now, with writing, “good” looks in our minds like it sounds,
now recorded, forever
or shorter than that.
These symbols detail sounds,
those sounds mean words,
these words meaning something words were invented to describe.
words can inform of this emotion,
this emotion is deeper than flat words can get across.
“Aaaoooeeee” stands for “I”, a meaning of the speaker, their self,
“eloooffeeeee” means “love”, a show of affection or attachment,
and the sound “eeooooooo” means “you”, to whom the meaning is directed.
“I love you.”
pouring from the sky as from a broken pipe,
drenching the ground.
A pause, seeming as if it was done.
no more rain, just clouds.
it begins again,
running down the window panes.
Wind billows the water in mist,
the patio and street,
even the air itself,
Faster and faster the raindrops fall,
the water at least an eighth of an inch deep on the sidewalk,
splattering in huge drops.
The neighbor’s gutter can barely control the flow of water,
gushing over their roof.
lightning lances from the sky,
flashing down like a pike by my eyes.
I fall back in surprise,
startled by the closeness of it all,
waiting breathlessly for the count of seconds for distance.
Two, four, six, eight,
there, ten moments,
the strike was actually quite far away.
The roar of thunder,
like a half-tamed lion,
tumbles through the sky like a knocked over trashcan.
Nowhere outdoors is dry,
thunder alternating with flashes,
rain pounding the cement, you’d think there’d be erosion!
The streets start to flood,
cars slowly turning into boats,
No one is out at the moment.
All I hear is water,
I hear it dripping,
I smell it everywhere,
coating every available surface outside that could possibly be wet,
even seeping beneath pots and running under bushes.
The only place dry is my home,
where I witness this event,
and watch the
(Or “Eight Ways To See A Pencil”)
Lying on my desk,
awaiting my command. What is it?
There’s the easy answer, and the others:
A printer that makes 3-D pictures from simple data,
A tool of both destruction and creation, at opposite ends,
A magical wand that can create anything you imagine,
Yet another thing that can be mechanical and hands-on.
A conductor’s baton that leads words and letters,
Something that leaves marks permanent yet soluble,
A tool capable of making both flawlessly smooth curves and dramatically straight lines,
A way to speak with another without actually being face-to-face with him or her.
Love is a golden chain
that’s looped around my heart,
extending infinitely there, yet pulling
thus clenching painfully when we part.
Love is made of golden links,
built steadily over time,
constructing a strong bridge of old
between hearts, mine to thine.
Love is made of weak gold circles,
each’s resistance not always at best,
a single strain can be enough to break some,
putting anger in mind, pain shooting through my chest.
Love is a golden chain,
breaks rebuild-able with co-operation,
that link then the strongest of all,
thus strengthening our affection.
(April 16th was replaced with part of “The Tree of Life”, a short story)
I love to go to the library,
reading book after book after book,
I yield when the librarian calls me,
and points out a book I might like.
The musical choir of words
brings me away from reality
to a place of odd things, like archeopteryx,
or to learn the wonders of day-to-day duct-tape.
Minutes fade away
and time looses meaning,
leaving only the story in retrospect.
I glance up from my book
to find that I’ve been in a time-warp
because it’s time to go now.
Quite painfully I rip myself away from the book,
and close the cover on the world within it
the window to those adventures.
Now I’m living in two worlds.
Until the Universe’s End
Once the universe was eternal,
had been, and forever.
Stars burning infinitely,
Earth the only place for life.
But now we have a beginning,
and in the future we’ll have an end,
all the things we know of
then never will be, never were.
But what things are forever
including our own beliefs?
What indeed will we hold onto
towards the time the end is near?
We had philosophies, viewed correct,
now “proven” mistaken,
the way our ancestors were once alive
and now are no longer.
What truly can we hold onto,
throughout the death of the universe?
What thing is so immortal
as to never, ever meet an end?
Life is always immortal,
even if the things we experience are not,
that pure existence, truly there, always.
Love is forever immortal,
there even when nought is nought,
through even death! it’s there.
Those! essences of our universe!
What we mistook as fleeting,
as opposite as what we think is permanent,
they are permanent, forever!
(April 19th’s poem was replaced by a part of “The Tree of Life”)
In a Sea
Look, while you swim’st,
up towards the skies.
An ocean, so blue,
undisturbed by not a creature,
whipped into froth, occasionally.
And you are swimming in an ocean
disturbed by creatures all,
whipped into peaks, oftentimes.
You can’t swim in both seas,
unlike watery seas upon Earth,
Not be suspended without ability,
but swim in one in your body
and the other by mind.
The House Wren
One of the smallest birds I’ve ever seen
hops closer to my window.
It’s a wren,
a house wren,
looking for nesting material in the bushes.
I see him lift his head,
and let loose his bubbling song.
How can such a small bird make such a gorgeous song?
April 22 (Earth Day):
From dead space,
our blue planet appears the same;
vacant, dead, listless,
rage across the surface,
while oceans, mayhap toxic, churn.
But from her surface,
the Earth is alive,
swarming with organisms of types unbound.
Everything everyplace moves, somehow,
in the swirling, chaotic joy of life.
Rich carpets of green surround us,
from chlorophyll that harasses solar energy,
dispatching copious amounts of oxygen
to the atmosphere.
Our seas are teeming with life,
our earth crawling with animals.
A rock circling a star, swinging about the galaxy,
How do we repay her,
this miracle, our home?
Harboring our present, future, past?
We pump her living seas
to the brim with our own wastes,
release toxic fumes into our atmosphere.
Our planet has protected us from many dangers of space,
been a calm haven for life, ours, to form.
As a mother protects the child, and the child protects the mother,
we must now do our best for the Earth.
We are old enough, now, clever, to comprehend her troubles,
and old enough to hold much responsibility.
“What can we do? How can we help?”
With these questions, we begin,
honor our planet, Earth,
and do our part
A beautiful flower
growing in a shady place:
like an alien.
pure and white,
passes through a leaf
and becomes a greener light.
Although it appears not to be
exactly the way humans are shaped,
the poise of its head,
the gaze from the eyes,
all make it hard to think
that it was not frozen
High in the black sky,
an orange dot to me now:
rings by telescope,
just like a picture.
A brown, paper-like chrysalis,
within, growing, a butterfly.
Today, it wiggles,
cracking its shell,
its way free.
In its struggle,
it knows all dangers:
no escape? Starvation, dehydration, suffocation.
But with a last, triumphant shove,
the butterfly forces its way free
and dries its newly dyed wings
in the sun.
pianist, singer, writer, painter, sketcher, and sculptor,
smarter than most I know.
always thinking of tricks or jokes to pull,
my mind with more thoughtful things, though.
Learned in Spanish, some Latin, plenty English.
I am who I am,
these, and sometimes more,
whatever described ain’t the limit
to who I am,
and will be:
1. Oh poem…
not deity, nor god, nor fairy…
grant me your presence.
Oh that you would fill me with your energy,
would instill me with your power,
so that I might be thus a tool,
possessed by your spirit,
an envellope, used,
to transcribe a poem’s (or idea’s)
existence, life, moment;
that I may be overwhelmed,
left exhausted by your use,
but with a poem like a dewdrop.
2. Oh spirit, release my simple body that it might rest,
to spend a night un-haunted by unborn poems,
Yet please, still remain, ghostlike,
waiting for control periodically.
But I beg you: grant my gentle sleep to-night.
Please, so the same for most nights.
3. Here I lie, exhausted,
spent by the poem-spirit’s desires.
Yet I know it is still present in this room,
hovering, awaiting the moment when it can regain control.
And still, before it does, I must prepare my subconcious,
tap into the stuff of poems and dreams,
to prepare my soul and mind
for the spirit.