Monday, January 2, 2012

lemon 11: Poetry

I've found poetry to be very therapeutic. Even when writing for a class, I find writing poetry to be something that helps me clear my head a little. So.... here are some poems. Enjoy.


The sand tickled the dancing feet
In a rush of air, they fly
Over and around with speed
Until, with promise, they leap

The shackles lie there, understanding
That everything has its place
The waves, the stars, the trees all know
Every scar has their time

Leaping on the crackled sand,
It turns hot and burns my feet
The coals sting and whisper
“don’t stop dancing, don’t stop”

But the tears you’ve cried will run dry
A wave pulls back and nods,
For I know, and I always will,
Being free is like feeling fire

Sometimes you can jump
They told me I couldn’t, but
 I think you can
This world you want to leave behind
 can wait one more day
And I will be here
 too, jumping with you

Sometimes you can dance
They told me
I’m a bad dancer,
 but I think you’re great
This room is your stage, and
 it will move with you
And I will be here
too, dancing with you

Sometimes you can cry
They told me not to, but I think you should
The blanket that covers you
will keep you warm
And I will be here
 too, crying with you

Sometimes you can win
They told me I never would, but
 I didn’t listen to them
This crowd that now cheers for you
knew all along
And I will be here
too, always winning with you

Sometimes the sun shines, and sometimes you do too
And I will be here, shining
with you

Who You Are

It was that moment when everything stood still,
You stood and listened while the wind played its harmony.
A net of lights perched on sagebrush, stinging your eyes,
And you felt the moon watch you from its throne of clouds.
You knew who you were that day.

That moment you listened as her eyes spoke,
And from her lips a wistful, girlish vanity cascaded.
Blood trickled from the tongue you kept,
As she slid from your duck feathered back.
You knew who you were that day.

The day you fell, and couldn’t get back up,
Tangled like a Laoco├Ân on the pulsating ground.
It got the best of you and you left the struggle,
Defeated and alone,
You forgot who you were that day.

As you forgot, you lifted your head,
You remembered the sun and the sweet scent of grace.
Unfolding yourself, you reached up high,
You lifted yourself up, and brushed the orange leather sky.
You remembered who you were that day.

Triumph and Defeat

The force that kills you
Gives you life.
It breathes in you but
Makes you gasp for air.
It matures you and makes you
More immature.
Like a circle, you find yourself in the same place
You started.

It gave that fly its wings and then
glued them to the ground.
It gave you
your first kiss, then gave you your last.
It’s the tattoo that beats
against your heart,
It was put there when you first took
a breath.

It gave color
to a tulip,
Then sapped juice
 from its lips.
A green fuse of life,
now wilted
on the ground, to become the sole a
 lover’s midnight stroll.

It’s the tree you hid
behind, which becomes your last napping place.
The first touch
from your mother,
And the last touch
from a lover.

It is the most valuable asset,
And the most terrifying
It’s the first shooting star,
It lives in me, and
it dies
in me.
It is your triumph,
and your defeat.

Letters from No One

No One sends me a letter
every day,
Often he is my dearest friend.
He’ll write with soft
words that he has to say,
But unfortunately, those are the thoughts he forgets to send.

No One sends me a letter every week,
Birthday cards, greeting cards, and all words to
su primer amor.
None of these things are ever
superficial or bleak,
But unfortunately, he has misplaced my address, I am sure.

No One sends me a letter
every season,
With words of roses
and violets and poetry as well.
For his love, he gives me every reason,
And unfortunately, those reasons, even
I couldn’t tell.

No One sends me a letter every year,
I wait for the mailbox
on that day.
There is only one thing I fear,
Has he forgotten what to say?

Like a Towel

I feel like a towel sometimes, and I know that may not be a good thing.
People wipe off their dirt on me, and it soaks into my fabric.
I was once bright pink, and now I’m very pale. My tag was crisp
And freshly printed. Now it’s thin and weathered. People scratch
My skin and tear off strings of hair. If people knew how it felt,
To be dirty. This isn’t my dirt, it’s theirs. All of theirs. They drop me,
Swat flies with me, scrub floors with me. Then they stick me in a machine
And wash me. Tumble, tumble, tumble, squeezed, wrung. But do they know
I’m never the same? I get thinner, I lose color. I get rougher.

Rain- a Haiku

Powdered rain plummet
 On pavement piercing His hand
With sad tears from God


He opened his mouth wide to blind me with fear,
Later I would fall to my knees among the floating rocks.
I would have to let my child go.
Let him leave me in a beam of light, with the
Illusion that something didn’t exist.
I would go back to a realization that everything
Has a place, and has a time. For the world would be
Destroyed in fire.
As my child runs, he carries with him the hope
Of something reborn.
A tree sways, it beckons him. Will it protect him?
Will he leave knowing I would somehow be there?
There is only one thing I can know for sure.
Poetry can even make a bad movie seem profound.

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