The record fills the room with music,
As it plays softly.
Its large, golden petals shimmering in the dim sunlight.
A new song begins to play,
And the record continues to spin over and over in circular motions.
Lyrics float out
Of the flourishing flower,
Which blooms from the surface of a wooden box.
But when the record stops playing,
The air becomes empty.
It feels dark and lonely.
And the music no longer fills the room.
He lays in wait, silently anticipating the rush of battle
sharpening his rusting orange blade
envious of his purposeful siblings.
He yearns for blood,
to burrow deep
within an
unsuspecting
host, to
have
a
Home
Can you tell me, dear pen, as I hold you in my hand.
Are you capable of taking me to a long forgotten land?
A cylindrical piece of plastic protecting a tube of ink,
or are you something greater, free to feel and think?
Should I do more with your unrelenting marks?
Tell the tales of warriors or monsters in the dark?
Some believe that you are mightier than a sword,
but I still mindlessly fiddle with you in the times that I am bored.
What are the possibilities? Are there infinite or none?
Should I treat you as what you seem or as a loaded gun?
My internal conversations have gone on for longer than I’d planned, My moral dilemma continues, as I hold you in my hand.
A poem
is like a can of Coke
The first pop when opening it Mhm, so satisfying
Then the drink itself, as you take sips at a time
Is immensely refreshing.
The can is eye-catching Simple, and timeless
A poem
is like a light flurry
The soft crunch under your feet
The little caress of your cheeks
The peace and quiet of the surroundings
Is like the immersion into a poem
A poem
is like an apple tree
Bearing fruit at the right time
Even if some of it may be hard to reach
It’s all the more satisfying when you do
To grasp the meaning.
Or the fruit, whichever
Or a poem, to some people
Is just blank.
A meaningless
chunk of words
Or just simply
too hard to understand.
Makes sense.
I mean
sometimes that’s me
He stood atop the white, vast mountain.
His home.
Covered in darkness
The wind chilled across the layers of life
the pitch black ripples in parts of Bear Lake.
His friends swaying loosely in the wind
Giving off pleasant drafts of sweet caramel and soothing vanilla
Nothing but silence as the falling of snow began to bow at his friendly feet
Every step causing the snow to hug to his boot one by one.
Walking towards a bright blue ball of light and warmth that rose in the midst of the white spects
Melting the hearts of living things around.
He no longer saw the dark ripples but saw them begin to
Transform to a teal and light blue body that freely flowed, elegantly making way for all in its path.
All except the friendly moose
gracefully eating the lush green
Wet silky moss hidden beneath the sheets of the ice.
As he stood up pridefully with his rack of enormous horns.
Light glimmered across the glassy lake
reflecting light onto the darkened trees
On the animals in the sky and on the ground.
An unstoppable force to be reckoned with.
If only he could be there to experience it once again.
Long and sharp-
a spear thrown by an ancient army
Swiftly soaring through the sky
Stabbing the target.
In the soldier’s mind
It scribes the horrors of war
Imprinting the moment
He was hit by the spear.
As the soldier grips the pencil-
Making dark marks on the page
He remembers when words instead of actions
Could have been the difference.
On the fateful day
A deafening boom
And he was speared by a shard
Leaving him in bed, with nothing to do but write.
Suspended and surrounded by nothing,
alone.
Neither to one side nor another,
Always up and down.
Always here and there,
But not in between.
A partner doing the same,
Farther away that I can see.
In time but not together.
Faster than light, or slower.
Or maybe not moving at all. No one knows.
Always present,
A part of everything, but
Never visible.
A frontier to never explore.
I can’t tell you what it should be
But I think I have an idea
Of the things my eyes see
Upon hearing your words of poetry.
It’s a dense forest.
You’ve lost your way
But the strong smell of pine trees
Gives you an escape
Back to familiarity.
The rough, grainy feel
Of dusty red bricks.
From the clay on this earth
That forms both past
And future abodes.
The deep blue of the blackberries
That you eat in summer
Like the midnight sky
Staining purple On your rose tinted lips.
It’s the campfires you built.
The logs and birch bark turning black
As fire consumes them
And the flames jump skyward
To disappear into smoke.
Like a memory in our minds —
Of your poetry.
A poem should be like a pie.
From the surface, its bland.
It can be any color.
It will always smell divine.
But it’s what is on the inside
That make it fine.
A pie can be sweet.
Or It can be sour.
It needs some some wheat.
It needs some flour.
It can be hot.
It can be cold.
Maybe eat it a day old.
A poem is like a pie.
You dont know whats inside.
Until you cut it up
And take a slice.
Eat it slowly,
It will be nice.
After you take the first bite
Then
you know what the pie is like
A poem is like a pie.
A dutiful match begins its ritual. Draws a flame with a scratch,
And a spark tags the wick. Shedding rings of light, the candle Consumes itself inside out, Leaving only a lucid puddle, a pool of smoke, slathered in waves.
You peer over. For a moment, you see your foggy reflection
Before its waxen memory solidifies, With your image locked inside. Even in darkness, it has known your face, Even extinguished, it remembers.