Young Writers Society

Poem Thirteen

Cherry Blossoms

Murmur something.

Barely started, powered
into mankai
at the mercy of
erratic rain,
blown, snowing
pink - helpless candy-floss,
no stick.

You should be white,
resigned and delicate -
no.
But you ripple and make me
smile up at you,

clouds I will never touch
but always love
no matter how
the rain rages,
weighs,
and drags them down.

Poem Fourteen

Scarf Making

Knitknit. No purl.
Growing rainbow frills,
unicorn tail,
flying up
as you smile,
then make it dance before me.
"Look!"
And I oooooh and you
tell me how easy it is- "See?"
You show me.
I
hadn't believed you
but my
disbelief unravels with each click
click click click click.
Your fingers mist,
not sore this week.
You smile as you brandish
your creation,
lasting and beautiful,
guarding
loved ones against cold.

Blue poppy:

like a witch's,
like the spiked leaves <<< would add more emphasis and help the flow.
which frame you

Really, really loving the second stanza.

Cherry Blossoms:

Murmur something. <<< Maybe a They at the beginning here?

And I'd like to know a little more why they should be white, resigned and delicate? It sounds like it has to do with them being sacrificed or something but it would be nice to have a pretty little explanation. Other than that, beautiful.

Scarf Making:

Nice simplicity to this one and I've no criticism.

Keep up the good work <333

Poem Fifteen

Process

*submitting*

Poem Sixteen

Sustenance

You wake when I do, even though
you do not need
to be up yet and last night is still
spinning round in our heads and
you've had a busy week
and rarely sleep,

and make sure I have
warm towels for
my shower while
you make my breakfast because
you will not let me leave
the house without it.

This
is the sort of care
that endures when
communication is scrambled,
when I hurt even
in my fingernails
and behind my eyes and
in my hamstrings and
nostrils and throat.

This
quiets me,
kindles
my strength
and my love.

Moreso because
my thanks are
waved off by you.

Poem Seventeen

A Welcome Rain

Separation.

This neighborhood
which many visit,
standing in
the flowery gardens
is silent save
for blackbird song
in early spring.

Backs turned,
no words,
flowers given
to the sleeping,
not a single
smile for waking...

and even sitting
in the sun
I feel just one
smile from a stranger
visiting this
neighborhood of pain


like me

would be a welcome rain.

Poem Eighteen

Nightingale

I've never seen a nightingale.

In my imagination,
they are lilac and un-Florenced,
with rounded golden beaks.

But all I get
are robins, magpies, crows,
sometimes, maybe, a blackbird or two,
chirping at
all the wrong times,
like before the sunlight squirms
through my closed eyes.

Now it's night
and they're all gone anyway,
mirroring the quiet
of my silent house,

already done with
flying south,
but you wouldn't
know it now.

Song
sails on the breeze
when
the nightingale's out.

Poem Nineteen

Jungle

Any noise, any wild bird screech,
a parrot mimic, maybe, something
that may have been a gun shot,
a heightened purr behind me,
a zzzzip as the insects buzz buzz
will stop me.

I will
put down my water
as if I don't need it,
put down my satchel -
food, hat, compass, map,
and wait
with nothing for nothing

which will, still, be something
to occupy my mind
and mean
I do not have to watch
the vultures circle
in their hearse-sleek covens,
then dive, waddle,
pick, pick, pick
the warm flesh off the bone
with a squawk and a squabble
as the dead blue eyes
of the antelope
look up at me as if
they can still blink.

Poem Twenty

Paperclips

I like to take paperclips
and bend them out of their curves
and into a line
which can be easily followed
and prick my fingers
when I lack care.

Useless.

Sometimes
I bend the tops only
to make them into little rainbow snakes
which I lose along the way.

Sometimes
I give them to friends for no reason.

Always
I love how a paperclip,
used to hold
assignments together,
and sometimes myself,
can provide such
futile distraction.

Poem Twenty-One

Another Space

Spider lamp, ten-legged
instead of eight,
casting light into all
of the cobwebbed corners,
waltzing
across my plate
as I eat.

New friends and old.

I sit between
three different conversations
and chime in when
it most easily fits

and like that I can
exist in this space where
I don't feel

absence

absence

absence

always.

Poem Twenty Two

Morning Time

Washed, too much
pear shower-gel,
waiting
for nothing
in the gaping silence
of morning
until
I can start a pointless
race to sit
in the prime spot
beside the plug
and learn about things
that never happened,
but spannerify
my insides
none the less.

Poem Twenty Three

White Roses

*submitting*

Poem Twenty-Four

In The Silence

"Oh, flicker, flicker..."
all the eerie goblin voices
hissing, coaxing, cooing,
in my hazy head

when I go to bed,
when I tie my shoes,
when I brush my teeth,
when I pull the curtains back,
when I cannot discern how to act.

Briars, thickets, scrambling,
wounded now, with scratches
too shallow to
cause any alarm

and the owl
daring me to sleep.

No.

I saw the sun maybe
three months ago
and you have my word I
will see it again,
I'll
feel it on my skin and
I won't let it go,
I'll keep it better and
I'll love it more
than I could before, and
you will see how my eyes focus,
no longer dull. You will
notice how my steps are
in time with bird song,
how my gaze is strong, how
my smile sometimes creeps up
like sweet-pea on the wall

and I will not fall.

I was pancaked by
that cold sledgehammer
but now I'm puffed out,
reformed, back

and are you prepared for my attack?

I will smile
and smile
and smile
and smile.

This destruction
was not worth your while.

Poem Twenty- five

Dear Reader, Please Excuse Me While I Fade Out, Yours Sincerely, Jasmine Hart

*submitting*

Poem Twenty Six

You

You sit in silence,
absorbing
your notes like sunlight,
sipping
on your coffee
which
I like the smell
but hate the taste of.

I learn.

I think I have learned
and will continue
hopefully
the gold star
and not
the sore scar way.

I
can feel the ache
dull a little
sometimes
with you,
just the way
you say your words,
point to a squirrel
darting under a bush
when we stop for lunch
out in the sun.

When
you take my hand I find
I do not falter.