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The Pirate Ship
A great big ship, sails torn and tattered from battle. Imagine cannon balls flying, piercing the canvas sky. Water slapping against, the water-worn wood. Rough and splintered, like the men ...
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Among the Everlasting Hills
In my Lang/Lit class, we had to pick a paragraph from a book we were currently reading and use the words found there to rearrange into a poem. So here's ...
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The Piano
The Piano I'm awed how you stand with such stately grace as I brush against your rust-colored wood. Such a strange bond that my heart holds a place, yet you ...
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Ode to a Porch Swing
Ode to a Porch Swing So many hours spent; in the place I love the most. The porch swing with it’s plush, padded seat. Memories of dragging pillows outside, and ...
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Maybe Skies Are Blue
Okay, I edited it a little and added another stanza. It still needs more work, though. ______ The oceans were once painted gold, full of hope and wonder. What has ...
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In a Sea Shell
I’m forever moving; pirouetting across the world. Tiptoeing over lives, I sing idyllic melodies. I sing crashing refrains. Through a sea shell you can hear me, ringing in your ear. ...
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My Sweet, Rotted Creature
My sweet, fair child, what has become of you? You have collapsed into my hands once again, but, my child, who are you? You bleak, pale creature of the darkness… ...
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Catching Wind
catching wind, slender fingers reach out, grasping everything and nothing. curling over like dead men: five fallen. this smothering air you breathe in; you live for the unobtainable. yet it’s ...
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In the Way of Mankind
Strip me of my leaves and I am nothing.Barren, my branches hang in shame.You’ve made a spectacle of me,naked and rooted to the ground.I shiver, unsheltered from the obstreperous wind. ...
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The Life not Lived
So... I wrote a poem. And I don't care that it's not capitalized. It's staying that way. Comments are appreciated. Thank you._____curled up at the window sill, ghosts—each a small ...
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The Windmill Man
He blots out the sunas though it were a stain on his sweat-sodden shirt;a hand raised to the sky.And the whispery fingers of thewheat grass pull him in from where ...
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Wasted Days
The days are paper-thin. Gauzy, insubstantial fabric, slipping from my fingers.I watch them float away,twisting about softly as theyclimb the skies.I often wonder wherethe days that I’ve lost have g