poetry

sonnets selfish regrets heart of the story structured villanelle #1: telling sestina #1: glass houses free verse bugs true value first blank verse untitled (muse)

sonnets: selfish It’s not supposed to happen in real life! An thought, unspoken: At least, not in mine. No tragedy, no pain, no loss, no strife Was meant to touch my heart, my life, my time. But protest never turned away that scythe Or cast the black-cloaked shadow into light. Words aren’t enough, although the subject’s rife With arguments that this cannot be right. There’s one thing that’s eternal in this world; There’s one thing that has least been welcome here. There’s one thing that a single angry girl Can’t change, not with her words are with her tears. They say that in death always comes rebirth. I’d like to skip the pain, for what it’s worth. back to top regrets They told us we were doomed. We scorned their dire predictions, and took our leave. Along our merry way, so warned, It was not very long 'til we believed. But love must conquer all, so it's been told, And we were young, determined to be right; So we both stayed. Together we grew old, And saw True Love replaced by simple spite. The years went quickly- soon, it was too late To go back and admit our youth's mistakes; Now our lives are nearly gone, and Fate Has been proved right, and come to claim her stake. So as I wait for death, wiser and lonely, A former star-crossed lover sighs, if only. back to top heart of the story The origins, in misty aeons past, Of mankind’s myths and legends, are unknown. The stories that we tell are all that last When long since buried lie the teller’s bones, Once, humans crowded ‘round the firelight And clutched their furs and spears closer to hand And made up things to keep away the night Like gods, and heroes far greater than man. We tell ourselves that we’ve evolved so well, That we have grown so much more civilized; But children know the truth of fairy tales: A story’s bloody heart is what survives. Though we forget out hist’ry’s origins, The truth, the beating heart, lies far within. back to top bugs I sit (try to relax!) On the green green grass Keeping a nervous watch for creepy crawly creatures I feel the skitter-scatter Of insect legs And jump up, shrieking But all I see is a fuzzy caterpillar Just a butterfly waiting to happen What was I so scared of? back to top true value Would you like to linger longingly on loveliness lost? Or sit and smile Secure in the truth That roses fade But a tree of knowlege, once planted, lasts lifetimes. back to top first she was convinced that the world held nothing for her (hormones and heartbreak are a volatile mix, and she had both in plenty) so she cried for help and he answered, brought her back to the world, bought her fuzzy blue wristbands to cover the bandages, which he knew embarrassed her, fed her ice cream on hot days, gummi bears, and Raisinettes. he took her to play mini-golf, and she pretended not to notice when he took four 'practice shots' on every hole, and kicked the ball when he thought she wasn't looking. they broke each other's bad habits-- he made her stop biting her nails, and she stopped his incessant taptaptap on every available surface. for a while, they were young and in love which some have said is the best place one can ever possibly be. they agreed. back to top villanelle #1: telling Whether the teller’s young or very old He always lets show more than just the tale; A tale is always telling when it’s told. To see to it his tale is bought and sold, A teller must tell lies; truth often pales Whether the teller’s young or very old. A tale told well is worth its weight in gold Though storyteller’s lives aren’t up for sale, A tale is always telling when it’s told. A tale can tell the list’ner from what mold The teller came, should he succeed or fail. Whether the teller’s young or very old, A tale is always telling when it’s told. back to top blank verse I haven’t got the words for it-- You haven’t got the context yet-- I haven’t got the words, and I-- I can’t communicate. The syllables elude my grasp; No way to make the language last-- To show you my emotions, fast-- too little, and to late. The whole world’s words, all added up would never ever tell enough-- But only give impressions, rough, unfinished, second-rate. And still I’ve failed to find a way to tell you what I need to say-- so, please, love, wait until the day that language makes the grade. back to top sestina #1: glass houses “Tell me something true,” she pleads, her eyes beseeching. I say, “Every story is true somehow, if you know where to look.” She smiles and says that she’ll be happy with anything I tell. I choose, and we’re away. I spin for her a place that’s faraway, of people carved from crystal. In their eyes glint gemstones; what they tell is transparent, always true-- until one write a story that’s but a flight of fancy. The glass people grow unhappy; Angry that he lied, they refuse to look. The storyteller sees it in each look, on every spun-glass face: they cannot turn away, cannot ignore his tale. They’d be so happy if they could just forget. In their diamond eyes he sees: they ant to throw stones ‘til his story is shattered into nothing. He can tell. He wishes he could erase, unmake, un-tell his world-shattering story, but the looks he gets all tell him: “Now your story, caught in out glass hearts, will never go away.” He sees it in each set of diamond eyes: They long for days when mere truth made them happy. Under the weight of words, a land once happy was broken, until none were left to tell. And since that city shattered, no man’s eyes have rested on that story. None know where to look. But I know: if you go past everything, far away Where the world turns into glass, you’ll find your story. And with that, I conclude for her my story. She smile, and looks happy, But I can see her mind’s gone far away. She want to ask just how I came to tell, how I came to know. I recognize the look. For it’s one that I once held in my eyes. I’ve since learned: diamond eyes exist in story But if you look for them, you’ll end unhappy But still you tell another of that glass land far away. back to top untitled (muse) Silent you've been; words freeze in your throat. They will not thaw. I would be sunlight for them. You choke, stutter. Your words stumble; Mine run. They are a torrent. They are a whirlwind. I'll speak for you. My pen will move with your voice. Lend me your thoughts; I'll put them to the paper. I know you well enough, now (your spider hands, the rhythms of your eyes) to ask you this. Lend me your lips (the stories I could tell with them!) I'll put them to my own. back to top