While I hardly consider myself a true poet, I do write poetry from time to time and thought I’d share it for those who are interested. It’s not great poetry — it’s free form and unpolished — but writing it has been cathartic and maybe some of you will find it healing to read nevertheless.
Most of my poems have serious themes, but the last one is a comic fanfiction poem that I wrote for a class when I was an undergrad. A couple of my poems are based on historical figures and events rather than my own personal experiences, but they had a profound enough impact on me that I felt the need to purge them through poetry.
The Wilting Flower
She seeks to thrive
In the light of the sun;
Her vines reach out
With intense desperation.
But the clouds,
Ever-looming,
Overshadow her passion;
And she wilts–
Her petals fall
Like warm tears from her eyes.
She feels raindrops
Falling down from the sky;
She looks up, and
Finds beauty in sorrow.
Then the sun,
Breaking through,
Shines down his great light;
And she sighs–
His rays embrace
Like warm arms around her.
Night falls; so ends
The rose’s fair meeting.
The sun leaves her
Shrouded in silver moon’s light.
Then the rose,
Looking downward,
Sees a vision in water;
And she blooms–
Her reflection reveals
Strength lies within.
This is actually an award-winning poem, the only poem I’ve ever dared submit to a writing contest, when I was a student at Seminole State College. The Chronicle Poetry Award was issued by the Dr. Stephen Caldwell Wright Poetry Awards in April 2016.
Collateral Damage
Though it was you
That was the target
Of your own self-hate;
I, the innocent bystander,
Whose only crime
Was that I loved you too much
To leave when I should;
You were the bomber
That left me in pieces—
A pile of ashes and carnage
In your wake.
Alone, I had to clean up
Shattered bits of myself
And put them back together.
But I’ll never be whole again.
Every time you left me
Broken,
Shards
Were left behind—
Like ashes, blown away
Upon the winds of your rage,
They can never be
Restored.
Don’t Be
I forgive you
But I’ll never forget
Those words you said.
Your truth is yours—
At least now I know
Where we stand.
Don’t be too happy!
I annoy you
When I’m at my best.
Don’t be too sad!
You hate me
When I’m vulnerable.
Don’t be neutral!
You need me
To feel enough for you.
That’s the bottom line—
You want me for you
Though I’ll never be enough.
Don’t be me,
‘Cause you don’t like me
When I’m real.
Take It Back
Kind words don’t erase cruel ones.
Compliments don’t erase insults.
Take back your words,
But you can’t take back
The damage they’ve done.
Every time you,
Who claim to love me,
Attack my soul
And belittle my spirit,
Your attempts to uplift
Become less effective.
I no longer believe your apologies,
Your empty admiration.
I doubt the sincerity of kind words—
At least, when they come from you—
Because the cruel words and the insults
Are what stick. They pile up,
A mountain between us.
Quicksand
I thought you were the rock
On which I could build a stable home,
But you were like quicksand.
Everything I tried to build sank.
Beneath the earth
It lies in ruin.
Poison
Decades of your built up
Trauma
Bitterness
Resentment
Have become mine.
They are a poison between us.
They’ve infected our love.
And they’ve settled in me.
And now they are mine.
I hate everyone
Who has done this to you—
To me—
To us.
And now that I’m infected
With your poison,
Your bitterness
And resentment,
I hate me
Just as much as
You hate them.
One Last Dance
Burning brightly, the flame is steadfast and strong,
Illuminating the world around her.
Heat emanates from her core.
She shines with hope in the darkness.
Until the air grows stale –
The flame begins to choke.
Clinging desperately to life,
She dances.
Slowly, her passion begins to wane.
The air grows cold around her.
Fading into herself,
She fears darkness will swallow her whole.
Her breath is shallow.
She tries to hold on,
But her light grows faint.
Without hope, the flame dies
Alone.
Swan Song
Heart thumping like the feet of a dancer pounds the earth
To the beat of a drum held captive in her breast.
Blood flows like a river burning through hidden channels.
Rapids race to pool up in the tingling basins of her extremities:
They throb like an ocean tide upon the sands.
The burning salt-tears run in streams to her lips,
Mingling with hot breath that seeps:
Volcanic steam from a deep crack in the parched dirt.
She whimpers like a newborn cub that hungers for its first meal,
And trembles like a field of wheat in the late summer breeze.
A sharp and sudden burst pierces her maiden flesh;
She cries out as hot blood seeps from the wound.
He thrusts his knife like a bird pokes its long and hardened beak
In search for a delicious meal, deep within a hollowed tree.
With one last sudden shriek, the maiden clings to him and dies.
We Seven: In Memoriam
Do you remember the cellar?
Smoke everywhere; it was all we could see.
Screaming—was it our own?
Gunshots, sparks flying all around.
Crouching, feet slipping in blood.
Head pounding in terror.
We cling to each other, one last embrace.
Angry faces appear through the smoke.
With a spark and a flash
My head aches and it’s over.
We didn’t want to die, barely begun yet to live.
God, forgive them…they know not what they do.
Innocent lives taken by hate.
We sacrificed all—was it for something?
Was it for nothing?
We Seven lived always together
Now together we lay
Inseparable, even in death.
In honor of NAOTMAA, the Last Imperial Romanovs.
Widow Newton’s Boy
The wimp’ring of a baby
Still too small yet to cry
Broke through silent Woolsthorpe
On that solemn winter night.
O sweet Christmas child,
‘Fore the world knew of your light,
You first brought light to darkness
In a grieving widow’s life.
A heart filled with sorrow
Learned to love once more,
For her husband’s only child
Was born that wond’rous morn.
This poem is about the birth of Sir Isaac Newton, told from the perspective of his mother, Hannah. She is the protagonist of one of the historical fiction novels I have yet to finish: it stalled when I realized it had too much material and very little plot. Eventually, I will pick it back up when I have a clearer picture of what I want to do with it.
Lurbuk: A Poem Inspired by the Dark Brotherhood
I have to kill a bard tonight. He’s an orc named Lurbuk,
Who plays terribly at the Moorside Inn, in Morthal.
I met him once, some years ago, while traveling through Skyrim.
He’s really a harmless fellow, though he sings like a dying troll.
I admit, when I first heard him sing, so sure of his talent, I wanted
To slit his throat myself. But then
He’s not a bad sort of fellow. If not for his singing, I might
Even think him a worthy friend. Of course,
The moment he opens his mouth to sing
I want to drown him in the swamp. I never heard
Such awful singing, such clumsy fingering on the lute.
Everyone who’s ever heard him play wants him
Permanently silenced. He’s so well hated that the Dark Brotherhood
Had to hold a lottery to determine who gets to be the lucky client
To claim victory over his evil song. The Night Mother
Had to hear the prayers of so many, begging for his life
To end. And now, I get the honor. So why, when I sit here
And watch him play, drinking my mead and waiting to strike,
Do I hesitate? Why do I feel this sense of guilt when his music
makes my fingers itch to take my dagger to his swamp-green flesh?
I’ll walk up to him. I’ll look him in the eye and ask
Will he play me a song of fear and death?
And the poor fool plays, singing of shadows that creep,
Of phantoms that leap. Staring into my cold eyes of death,
The poor fool sings his last tune.
This is a comic fanfiction poem inspired by one of the Dark Brotherhood quests in TES V: Skyrim. An assignment in one of my undergrad creative writing courses prompted us to “Write a poem of something you could kill and walk yourself through the same poetic process as [Jim] Harrison.” This was the result.
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