Young Writers Society

I haven't written a poem in about two years and I'm terrified. But I was reading some of my old NaPo threads and surprisingly didn't hate everything so I kind of miss it. I hope to do at least a few and inch my way back into it. <3

#1

we're going to save the world today!
the playlist is ready;
just the right track for
when we walk side by side
leather jackets, tousled hair
when we slay the enemies
blades that glint in the city lights
when we kiss the love interest
single tear on a rosy cheek
but then,
the music stops

we're going to save the world today
we hope

Heck yes we're going to save the world today! I would save the world with you any day <3 I love how you capture that pumped up feeling in a day with the kind of radio-lyricism. It is fun and fresh and uplifting!

#2

if I walk
and you follow,
can you honestly say
what I want to hear?
because I've seen
how your eyes well up
at the mention of gardens,
and tricycles,
and linen with embroidered initials
so sure, you can follow
and we'll love, and despair
but if you can't say it
I'd rather you stayed

#3

waltz has the potential
to slowly slice you open
from hairline to tiptoe,
to plaster you
on the mirrored walls of the ballroom
while spectators evaluate
only the feathers, the ice blue sequins
and the impeccable footwork

but those feathers can suffocate canyons
and those sequins make chandeliers tremble
and that footwork takes you,
with each rise and fall,
to inferno and back,
there and back

and on your lips is pasted
that same, immobile, stretched smile
that's not really a smile at all:
it's a sign that says

#4

the tale tells that
sometimes, if you are walking at night
(or early morning, before the blackbird has sung)
and meet a lake that is exhaling
wispy strands of sleeping mist,
reflected on the surface and thus doubled,
you may meet a woman, barefoot
and she will ask you a question:
depending on your answer,
she will gather those strands of mist
with a crooked finger
(and you realise they are her hair)
and wrap them around you:
depending on your answer,
you may wake up
but think of only her
and every time you smile at another,
you will feel like drowning

#5

these cobbles are lined with
pretended innocence:
hushed tones, downcast eyes
(then a sly look from under the lashes,
a necklace on a bounteous chest)

these branches are beggar's hands
tugging at your sleeve:
pining for scraps or rusty coins,
the weather whipping them
with a foreman's clamour

it's rarely a good sign
when a dead tree
reminds you of home

#6

did I find something I'd lost
or was it just you calling
into the night?
in this limbo between sleep
and awake,
I mistake amethysts for kisses
and keys for scolding words:
they are the same until
I must adorn my hair, open a door
sometimes it works; usually not
and when it doesn't,
I close my eyes and listen close
but you do not call again

Okay, I love the poems #3-6, and especially three due to the unique and powerful imagery, which is an aspect of poetry I always love. The ending is the cherry on top for me and I think you might want to look into getting that one published if you're interested in that type of thing. I also love your title for your NaPo which is a small thing but I always find them so interesting! <3 Much love, you have earned a subscription because dang, girl.

#7

you wear whispers round your neck
like an exquisite scarf,
a lovechild of sunset and thunder -
under the earth you tread are
geysirs of birthright, bursting free
on every other step:
minutes as your slaves,
hours your lovers,
you push through airs and graces
like they birthed and raised you
but scarves may unravel,
or catch on doorknobs,
and I'll be there when they do
to hold you down

#8

when I ask about crowds,
strange fruity scents, last weekend
your face becomes the spinning beach ball of doom
(you're that old school)
seeking, searching
for the right words
the correct balance of nonchalance
and calculated offense
perhaps hoping for me to grow tired of waiting
and press restart -
a slippery laugh, trickling
down the staircase like a slinky
one that used to tickle the corners of my mouth
but now has a revolting timbre
new to observant ears
the amusement and practised defense on your tongue
make you unrecognisable, and so,
I'm spared the choice*

*remind me later

(even though I know that
escaping is not an option
at the next log-in)

#9

how can I know 114 words for snow
but not one to describe your face at dawn,
how our thoughts entwine to form
an invisible fishtail braid,
one I never learnt how to make:
all I've learnt is what to say to someone
staring at foamy wave crests from a cliff
and how to tell how many days till summer
from a white wagtail bird and, I suppose,
what to call snow stuck on a horse's shoe
but these skills are useless
on Wednesday mornings
and at other people's weddings

#10

the first notes of the shiny saxophone
are welcoming in their familiarity
as you climb the stairs up to the balcony,
the airy jewel in the face of
the sunny school building
that you breathed a new life into
as a home for children
whose parents' selfishness took
what little they had in the first place

you were no saint, but you must have tried -
clarinets do not make sounds for
someone who does not try
and now, with the final rays of the
only April sun so far,
a bittersweet flute joins the band and
I think
you'll be okay

#11

icicles sharpen their ends,
ready to hold their fort;
if you cry, you are out.
birds migrate to the south,
return tickets booked;
V for victorious homecoming.
the last two stars of the plough
point to stella polaris;
the prototypal GPS.

all this (and more) without help:
does one truly matter?

#12

I've done this before.
I've dragged the same opinions
through my porous consciousness,
kneaded them,
watered them,
called them gold.
gold like shiny, valuable, becoming
against ivory skin
and burgundy lips.
but in reality it's soft,
yielding under pressure,
out of fashion
like domestic arguments
with laugh tracks.