Hey, guys! I hope you had a great Thanksgiving if you live in the U. S. I sure did! Each of our three celebrations was delicious, and it was fun getting together with family. đ
Anyway, today I decided to share a few more of my poems, since you guys seemed to enjoy seeing the last ones and I seem to enjoy writing them. đ Again, they’re unrhymed poetry because number one, I am NOT very good at putting my thoughts into the boundaries of rhyme, and number two, I like the free, flowing feel of unrhymed poetry. Don’t get me wrong, rhyming poetry is amazing too, I’m just not good at it. XD
Ahem. I shall begin.
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sky soup
the sky is
a bright bowl turned over,
set upon the earth,
filled with clear blue broth
and floating mashed potato clouds,
peppered with black birds.
old one
skin crinkled and wrinkled
like a brown paper bag,
crumpled and creased
year after year,
until it is smoothed out,
soft and mellow from
the crush of Time’s hand,
lined with the paths
that the smiles and tears
left behind.
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galaxies
my eyes are galaxies
with a star for every time
they didn’t come back
and I was left again –
one star among millions
and yet alone in space.
but each time they left,
I stood up again
and swallowed my tears,
adding more stars
to my galaxies,
hoping that my eyes
would shine bright enough
next time,
that they would see this light
in the darkness
and come back for me again.
raindrops
drumming.
pounding.
whispering.
tapping.
fast free falling.
sticking without glue
to everything they touch,
but only for a time and then
moving on again,
sliding sadly downwards.
weeping
to leave everything behind.
wavering, shivering,
quavering, quivering,
collecting, reflecting,
greens and grays together.
a drop reaches
the edge of the window
and
falls
off.
talking rocks
what if
there is a rock somewhere
that watched as the world was made;
that saw its perfect beauty break
into a thousand sharp thorns;
that carried the footstep
of the first fallen humans –
and the only perfect one –
on its back;
that felt the first drop of blood shed
and will feel the last;
that was thrown at martyrs
and held by kings
look closer at the next pebble
you kick down the road,
and wonder what stories
are locked inside its silent heart.
abandoned house
blank eyes,
a dusty soul,
a cobwebbed heart.
broken teeth,
a dry mouth,
a creaking voice.
but when the breeze passes by
and lifts the tangled weeds
from the old mat in front,
you can hear the old house
still whispering, “welcome.”
orion
what would it be like
to recline among the stars,
held together with twinkling joints,
drinking big dipperfuls of the Milky Way
and conversing with
the man in the moon?
***********
Ahh, that was fun. đ I hope you enjoyed reading those, dears – I’d love to hear which one was your favorite!
Which do you prefer, writing poems or stories? Poems are easier for me (mostly because they don’t have a plot, heh), but stories are fun too. đ
***Allison***
I have no facts, no data about the people I see, only observations and the hypotheses I come up with myself. It’s a good exercise, and sitting on clouds helps with it somehow. My theory is that after my brain gets started by imagining clouds, it’s easier to imagine how old a person is, what their name might be, etcetera. I’m not certain of this, though, and that’s another reason I want to start this journal.
Allison Marie 