The Dinosaur

A dinosaur, he sits beneath
A toppled chair, alone –
Abandoned by a little boy
For sake of ice cream cone.

Forgetting

Forgetting stumbles in the dark basement,
stifled in his too-thick sweater,
playing an ever lengthening game of hide-and-seek.

Song of Polyphemus

My days were simple.
Care for my rams and craft cheese.
Simple. They were simple.

My people are more
than savage killers and thieves.
They are more than you.

We had a prophet
many, many years ago.
He spoke. We listened.

 He told me “Someday
the man Odysseus, will
steal your gift of sight.”

This man I pondered.
I considered and wondered
whom this man could be.

Strong? Of course he is.
Impressive? Oh, he must be.
Smart? Certainly so.

But my life passed on.
The prophet died, and his tales
ebbed from memory.

My rams. My kinsmen.
These filled my days, and I was
content in my life.

You. You came and stole.
You demanded I give more.
You told lies, small thief.

You and yours are not
the same as me or my kin.
Your blood is bitter.

Did they deserve more?
Was their leader truly good?
No, Thief, you are vile.

But you refused to
lay down and die easily.
You tricked me, Mortal.

You filled me with wine.
Bitter falsehoods you fed me.
My mistake: I slept.

Searing pain. My screams.
You wretched worm of mankind.
Oh, this white, hot pain.

Have you had your eyes
stabbed out with a burning stick?
No. You have both eyes.

You robbed me of mine.
My sight. My dear brothers’ trust.
You stole these from me.

Taunt me. Shout at me.
I hear you. Poseidon hears.
He will avenge me.

 And these, my dear rams,
I will tend with my last breath,
but not near as well.

Rest is my freedom.
I dream and my eye still sees
the pastures, the rams.

You could never take
everything from me, Thief.
You can’t take my dreams.

Night Pondering

What lingers in the dark?
What muffled horror?
What passing chill?
What monsters stand
and wait
and listen
for coming feet?

Warm breezes pass through screens.
This, a whispered calling,
a gentle summons,
peaceful, humble,
brings me,
camera in hand,
out.

Far from fields of barley,
late night coyote calls,
star freckled sky,
and solitude.
"Safety"
I exit
and on sidewalk step.

No roaring night life here,
no drunken people,
no speeding cars.
Slam on the brakes.
Stumbles,
not of feet
but souls.

I wander,
pause,
and breathe.

A yellow lamplight stands,
glowing of long past,
sad memories
for which I was
absent.

Lens open,
I gather together
stray pieces of light,
parts of shadow,
and dissmissed colors.
Now still
memories
trapped
within.

Illuminated trees,
reflections on water,
a lonely wooden bridge.
How different
the world is
in obsidian hues
with the faintest
kisses of light.

I pause and
breathe,
wonder.

In the darkness of night,
when fear writhes in hearts,
fevered nightmares come
from within me.
Streetlights
and
glowing stars
light the way
Home.

Amber

In memory of a dear friend. For her, those she touched, and those like her.

I'm beautiful
you tell me.
I am your dream,
but why am
I unable to sleep?

You want me near
you all times.
I haven't seen
friends or close
relatives for a while.

It's safe inside
where others
can't see me or
hurt what's yours.
You say I'm your princess.

You never mean
to hurt me.
You wish I would
understand.
I think I'm scared of you.

Maybe I do
deserve this.
Surely I am
the reason.
This is for my own good.

It's love?

If I let you beat me,
will you be satisfied?
If I do all you say,
will you stop hurting me?

Pain.
Screaming.
Broken skin.
Fresh, dark bruises.

Please let me rest.
I promise
you can proceed.
I beg you
a moment, please, of rest.

You fell asleep.
And I knew
If I stayed here
I would die.
I had to escape this.

No more.

I have turned my weakness
into strength,
My running blood
to amber,
gem of courage.

Because I was broken
I can help
heal those like me.
I reach out
into darkness.

They are lost in the dark
as I was.
I bring them home,
back to light;
they aren't alone.

I touch lives and change them.
Whole classrooms.
Individuals.
Forever
taking new course.

From weak to strong,
I am anew.
My Father calls.
"It's time to rest.

"Come Home."

Roses

Time, sun,
and we dry out.
Our dreams and velvet patience
evaporate, leaving us
hard and dark, curling up
a little more with each day. We crumble
at gentle touches.

Swept off the floor,
the counter, the table,
we give in to the final fate.

A breeze and we skitter
across the cool surfaces, soft
voices unfurling into stories.

Can it be:
roses do not simply die?
Fragerences last, as distant
voices whisper fading words.

Perhaps,
just maybe,
we still hold worth
to the special few.

The Unexpected Gift

In the early morning,
before the sunrise,
little padded feet
approach the Christmas tree.
They are not the child's;
she rests above.
They are not Santa's,
for he has come and gone.
These belong
to a Christmas kitten,
covered in soft,
tabby fur.

She stalks the stocking
of the little girl.
She thought she saw it move.
Surely,
it moved.

The stocking falls over,
toppled by one quick whap.
Candy falls out,
but doesn't skitter.
It is the mane
of a little
unicorn
that draws the attention
of a pair
of gold green eyes.

Oh, alas.
The unicorn had no chance.
Pounced upon,
kicked,
and licked.
All
savagely.

A light clicks on,
and a gasp breaks free.
Little Tina on the landing.
Her unicorn badly mauled.
She doesn't cry.
She doesn't scream.

She laughs,
and that
by far
is her favorite gift
that night.

Beowulf

Herot saw Grendel

come to feast on man flesh in joy.

Beowulf said no.

A terrible fight

and Beowulf is victor.

Bad dude lost his arm.

Grendel’s mom was mad.

Then our hero killed her too.

Beowulf. So cool.

He went home and ruled

for fifty years in glory.

Fate ruined it all.

Dragon went raging

through peaceful Geat countryside.

Beowulf said no.

Though now old, he fought.

The dragon wounded the king.

Oh, that had to hurt.

Men were cowards, but

young Wiglaf ran to help him.

Young fool or hero?

The dragon got killed.

There was lots of gold to loot.

Beowulf. He dead.

Funeral is sad.

Dudes are shamed, got no fame.

Wiglaf is the man.

Big Sister, Poetry, and Related Things

My apologies for not blogging last month. I had a lot going on, but that's really not an excuse.

I was able to spend last week with my sister, which was one of the best things that has happened recently. The first day that I came home from work when she was home, we were wearing matching shirts. She didn't wake up that morning until I had already left, so there is no way in happened on purpose. We spent a lot of time together, usually laughing. I took some very beautiful pictures of her. Some of my favorites were accidental takes when she was laughing. She's amazingly beautiful when she laughs.

It's National Poetry Month! Huzzah! I'll try to post some more poems while I have the excuse to. I'm still going to stick to free verse. I can't rhyme. Not well anyway. I tried to make a version of "Way up in the sky, the little birds fly" for worms. After hearing my attempt, my mother made her own: "Way down in the dirt, the little worms flirt." See? That's cute. Mine? "Way down in the dirt, the little worms squirt."

That is why I don't rhyme.

Have a lovely day! 

Masquerade's End

The room stands gracefully full.
Bright colors swish
against slender ankles.
Ideals dance with dreams,
stepping in perfect time
around the ring, casting a spell.
Take care to not be caught.

Laughter finds an echo
in the gentle cacophony
and ricochets off a single heart.

There is no comfort here.
The food does not fill.
The spell is only an illusion.

A hand reaches up,
unties the chains.
The mask falls,
shatters.
Strewn glass and gems.
Far gone feathers.
The metal frame contorted,
bent grossly out of shape.

Stand.
Perfect.
Whole.
Cast aside
the glamor.

I Want To Believe

You remind me of the babe,
so
walk this way
and
listen with your heart.
It's bigger on the inside
because,
my Precious,
you're a wizard.

I'm a leaf on the wind,
and
no one knows the wonders I've seen.
I had bad days,
and
it always comes back to the duck.

Just
use the force,
beam me up,
and
dial the gate.
I want to believe.



Reference sources in respective order: Labyrinth,Young Frankenstein, Roar, Doctor Who, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Serenity, Farscape, BBC Sherlock, Fringe, Star Wars, Star Trek, Stargate, and The X-Files.

My Wil-O-Wisp

It's national poetry month and I've finally written a poem. I don't know where it came from. It just... came. This poem is for all children who have left their parents early.

Whisper
and listen,
my little wil-o-wisp.
Can you hear
the tree frogs?
The night birds?
They're singing for you.
They sing
to welcome you
into their realm.

Gaze
at the stars.
See?
They wear their best
for you.
Will you dance?
Will you dance with them?

Go my child.
Dance among the stars
to the night music.
I will follow
in my time.

One day.
One day I will follow.
Till then
dance,
dance among the stars.

Struggle

She screamed,
a sound
raw with terror
and confusion.

Two wolves,
to which her heart
was leashed,
were running
different ways.

One of anger.
The other, remorse.
One rabid.
The other tame.

The strain
on her heart,
the angry snarls,
the pained yelps...

Her scream
echoed
from the trees
and although both loved her
neither paused.

At last the pain,
too great to bear,
woke her.

My Mother's Poetry

Alright, I haven't posted poetry in a while. In truth I've been spending more time with my nose in a book than I have been writing. For you. A poem. I wrote this when my mother was working on a project, sitting on the couch with her laptop on her lap. It's not exactly a masterpiece, but it isn't horrid.

Her whispered words
drift
through the air,
as gentle and distant
as snowflakes
through a closed window.

Each word
is a mystery
to me,
as I sit
pinned to the recliner
by an old, loved cat,
with his nose tucked
under my chin
while he occupies my chest.

Each word
is only for her,
to test the sound,
so she may revise
as needed.
I dare not speak to her
or raise my voice,
least I disturb her.

All I can do,
as I sit
beneath a blanket
of cat fur,
is wait
and hope
that one day
I too may hear
her poem.

Can You See Me

Can you see me?
Or just a mask?
Everything important tucked away
tucked away
from prying eyes.

When people look at me,
sometimes they see my sister.
They see her mirrored talents
and interests.
I am not my sister.

When people look at me,
sometimes they see my mother.
They see her features
and poetry.
I am not my mother.

When people look at me,
sometimes they see and adult.
They see serious
and intelligent.
I am far from grown.

When people look at me,
they don't see me.
I don't know if anyone can.

I am a little sister,
a daughter,
and a friend.
I am a fairy child,
a dreamer,
and an artist.

Many see shapes or colors,
but they can't see
the picture.
The painting that is me.
They can't see
the centerpiece.

I don't want
for you to look at me.
I want you
to see me.

In my heart
I hold hope and power.
I hold my lord,
my king, and sovereign.

There.
Can you see me?

All Things End

A tear,
glistening,
flowing,
down the porcelain slope
of her soft cheek.
For hours and hours
tears stain their way
down her face.

The sight
of the body,
torn,
distorted,
in a way unnatural,
is too much
for her little heart.

The matted
bloody fur
is stroked,
over and over.
As if to caress
life back
into the cold form

This is how she learns,
that all things end.
The loss of a friend
that still hurts,
no matter the time
that passes.

Get Me An Orange

Get me an orange,
me matey!
Give me a nice apple too.
I've caught me the scurvy
and you have too.

We'll capture some vessels
and raid us them fridges,
in the hopes of a plum
or a pear.
If we find us some fruit
my life'll be spared.
Go find yer own,
I'm not sharin'.

Amethysts 'ave lost their luster.
I'd rather see a grape.
The shipmates be droppin'
faster den de flies
and the fishies have full bellys.
We've got to survive
this curse o' the seas
and out live this plauge.

Get me an orange,
me matey!
Give me a nice apple too.
I've caught me the scurvy
and so have you.

A Part of Love

A voice,
indistinct over the phone.
A calm,
flooding warmth through you.
A giggle,
bursting from you.
This
is only a part of love.

The Stage

You step from behind the curtain,
makeup and costume obscuring your identity.
The lights shine in your eyes,
you cannot see the audience.

Practices were frequent.
A lot had been changed last time.
You take a breath and say your lines,
and then you are yourself no longer.

As sound comes from you,
you become the character.
The stage is not simply a stage,
but your school, your home, your world.

Then suddenly,
the lines stop.
The scene has ended.
Your part is done.

The music plays
and you depart,
yet as you step off the stage
you know,
that you
cannot come back.

Each time is slightly different.
Each time there is something different wrong,
but each time
the stage is only the world.

Fleur

Pale green stem
bending in the breeze.
Colorful head
bobbing up and down.

A single organism
of incredible beauty,
graces my lawn
with its presence.

Many cultures
and many names,
but I
call it
flower.