by I've said before that I'm not a poet. I write prose. I LITERALLY only write about a poem a year, except for this little emo poetry kick I had in middle school...so anyways, here is my collection thus far of my annual poem by age (excluding the craploads of sucky emo poetry). Go ahead and laugh if you will.
At age 12- I was big on individualism back then, silly naive creature I was.
With Open Eyes
I used to see the world in two-dimension,
And on occasion three,
But that flat, dull person,
Is no longer part of me.
I now see in endless dimensions,
In a world without day or night,
I see the world in color,
Crystal clear and bright.
I can no longer read a novel,
This is not by chance,
For the words on the paper,
Almost seem to dance.
What was yellow is now green,
What was blue is now red,
The sweet sound of silence,
Echoes in my head.
This is the world as I see it,
My eyes no longer shut,
That is the world as I see it,
No ifs or whys or buts.
At age 13- Now entering my hippy phase, aka my life as an emo, vegetarian, environmentalist wannabe. Good grief. It was worse than my individuality phase.
Eulogy of a Good Day
A dearest friend
Smiled a moonbeam
Loved like dawn
Closing every sunset with ribbons of red
And painted clouds in blue and gold
Decorated the mountains in colors bold
Touched with a swirl
Sugary lollypop
Fields gently sweeping
Grass that was green
Flecked with candied reds and blues
Flitting gingers flowers
Smudged against the sky
Imperial buds in twilight bloom
Sing a pastel tree
Reaching branches vanishing
Into distant heavens
Soft limbs bathed in livid glow
Dew sparkles
Like river flow
Another day deceased
Another day to go.
Age 14- This particular poem was written for rememberance day. It's no a poem typical to this genra because it criticizes society's tendancy to warp the past with the glorification of heroism and little regard to the fact that we cannot truely experience the horrors of a period in time unless we have actually lived them. It's probably my favorite poem- it went on to be published in an anthology.
Lest We Remember
You see him November,
Standing on sidewalk yonder.
Plastic flower on his breast
Yet heart without thought fonder.
There lays a memorial
That young men’s names do garnish.
But in the stone we see a God
That corpses could not tarnish.
We see faces as pictures,
Through old movie reels we look.
There are no souls in these that
Black and white cameras took.
Dusty are these graves,
Between Flanders and dead grief.
With our blind spots we cannot see
Between the tombs there runs a thief.
You see the Poppy Picker.
Poppy pin makes him tart.
And yet, the pin digs not deep enough,
To prick him in the heart.
Age 15- My poetry is really shabby this year, and a practically give up. The best poem produced during this time is one written for an assignment relating to the novel the Lord of the Flies. I actually really enjoyed writing about the themes of that book- it is a fascinating piece of literature. Anyways, this poem compares the death of the character Simon to the death of Christ.
The Temple is Destroyed
How small a beast it was
Whisper the spears— scarlet-stained brows, their penitence crown
We watched murder in a court without laws
The high priests were intoxicated by war-lust
By the fear of the thing that staggered from the woods
So were motives of the creatures of dust
Beghast by the sky-fire, we spears were abandoned in the sand
And now the sucking sea tastes blood
Sighing, dragging, waves fall back from land
Onwards chase the brimming moon
Upon his face, Triton lays a veil
Upon the drunken party a swoon
Caesar and his frantic guard flee the crime
Pilate with his head in his hands and conch on his lap
Laments the bloody time
Barabbas’s place the martyr took
Punctured in the side and left for dead
An innocent for a beast they mistook
The tomb is sealed, no stone to roll
Save for the rolling sea
Striking forth, beyond the rampant isle knoll
Simon the Lamb, salvation’s tragic appointee.
I don't have a 16 year poem yet, maybe you will see it someday, lol.
At age 12- I was big on individualism back then, silly naive creature I was.
With Open Eyes
I used to see the world in two-dimension,
And on occasion three,
But that flat, dull person,
Is no longer part of me.
I now see in endless dimensions,
In a world without day or night,
I see the world in color,
Crystal clear and bright.
I can no longer read a novel,
This is not by chance,
For the words on the paper,
Almost seem to dance.
What was yellow is now green,
What was blue is now red,
The sweet sound of silence,
Echoes in my head.
This is the world as I see it,
My eyes no longer shut,
That is the world as I see it,
No ifs or whys or buts.
At age 13- Now entering my hippy phase, aka my life as an emo, vegetarian, environmentalist wannabe. Good grief. It was worse than my individuality phase.
Eulogy of a Good Day
A dearest friend
Smiled a moonbeam
Loved like dawn
Closing every sunset with ribbons of red
And painted clouds in blue and gold
Decorated the mountains in colors bold
Touched with a swirl
Sugary lollypop
Fields gently sweeping
Grass that was green
Flecked with candied reds and blues
Flitting gingers flowers
Smudged against the sky
Imperial buds in twilight bloom
Sing a pastel tree
Reaching branches vanishing
Into distant heavens
Soft limbs bathed in livid glow
Dew sparkles
Like river flow
Another day deceased
Another day to go.
Age 14- This particular poem was written for rememberance day. It's no a poem typical to this genra because it criticizes society's tendancy to warp the past with the glorification of heroism and little regard to the fact that we cannot truely experience the horrors of a period in time unless we have actually lived them. It's probably my favorite poem- it went on to be published in an anthology.
Lest We Remember
You see him November,
Standing on sidewalk yonder.
Plastic flower on his breast
Yet heart without thought fonder.
There lays a memorial
That young men’s names do garnish.
But in the stone we see a God
That corpses could not tarnish.
We see faces as pictures,
Through old movie reels we look.
There are no souls in these that
Black and white cameras took.
Dusty are these graves,
Between Flanders and dead grief.
With our blind spots we cannot see
Between the tombs there runs a thief.
You see the Poppy Picker.
Poppy pin makes him tart.
And yet, the pin digs not deep enough,
To prick him in the heart.
Age 15- My poetry is really shabby this year, and a practically give up. The best poem produced during this time is one written for an assignment relating to the novel the Lord of the Flies. I actually really enjoyed writing about the themes of that book- it is a fascinating piece of literature. Anyways, this poem compares the death of the character Simon to the death of Christ.
The Temple is Destroyed
How small a beast it was
Whisper the spears— scarlet-stained brows, their penitence crown
We watched murder in a court without laws
The high priests were intoxicated by war-lust
By the fear of the thing that staggered from the woods
So were motives of the creatures of dust
Beghast by the sky-fire, we spears were abandoned in the sand
And now the sucking sea tastes blood
Sighing, dragging, waves fall back from land
Onwards chase the brimming moon
Upon his face, Triton lays a veil
Upon the drunken party a swoon
Caesar and his frantic guard flee the crime
Pilate with his head in his hands and conch on his lap
Laments the bloody time
Barabbas’s place the martyr took
Punctured in the side and left for dead
An innocent for a beast they mistook
The tomb is sealed, no stone to roll
Save for the rolling sea
Striking forth, beyond the rampant isle knoll
Simon the Lamb, salvation’s tragic appointee.
I don't have a 16 year poem yet, maybe you will see it someday, lol.
