Tag: poem

Getting Wet

What harm can come from walking in the rain?
Most folks I know would rather stay inside
As if getting wet causes severe pain,
Holding on to the safety of their pride.
I enjoy the world without company,
Pretending I own all the puddled streets.
I think it funny, they need it sunny
As my footsteps complete the splashing beats.
An umbrella will provide no shelter
As I walk on such a beautiful day,
For it washes away all the clutter
Of what it means to experience play.
So let the clouds continue with their tears,
For the city is mine until it clears.

Raindrop on a Bench

The drops of last night’s rain cling to the bench,
Hanging on to a fear of letting go.
Ever since they fell from the sky, they clench
To the only rail that they ever knew,
Beading into an individual
Bubble that appears like all of the rest.
They know that if they lose their grip and fall
Originality found in the nest
Will be lost upon reaching the puddle.
All those little things that made them distinct
Will be gone, gathered within the huddle,
When to the bench, he is no longer linked.
To continue to clutch on or to fall,
The choice that determines the fate of all.

Antique Clock in a Storage Unit

For years, my springs have not been tight enough,
And I have been lying around dormant,
Sitting amongst all this forgotten stuff,
Given no one to deliver my rant.
One day that sliding door opened to light,
So I could run my hands across my face.
My innards wanted to put up a fight
To let you know that I was in this space.
You moved on to browse the other junk,
And I wanted to make my voice be heard,
So with the rhythm of a ticking punk,
I shouted out my only chiming word.
I did not know it would give you unease
To hear from rarely given vocal tease.

The Happy Camper

The kitchen is over in the corner,
And the water comes from pumping by hand.
The dining room table is a loner;
It wobbles when you wish for it to stand.
Across the way is the room for living
Which is really nothing more than a couch.
Underneath it you can keep your clothing,
What we call our convenient storage pouch.
At night, it turns into a single bed
Where two of you can cuddle together.
The back door id where you will rest your head,
Safe against the cold, Icelandic weather.
In here, across the island, you’ll scamper,
Ready to become a Happy Camper.

Lost Statue

I would like to pay a little tribute
To a god that I find most important.
Though Apollo may wish I remain mute
The beating of my heart tells me I can’t.

I must mold and shape this slab of marble
‘Til I reveal the beauty of your face
For I find it more than admirable
While I chisel away at this stone base.

For it will reveal your grandeur of form
Of a deity who enjoys the grape,
And within it who created the norm
Whose bright mindset lowered the theater’s drape.

Did your image bring this fate on to us
For it’s in tribute to Dionysus.

Maria’s Place

It must be nice waking up being you
With the joy that you greet each single day.
Your sky must always be a crystal blue,
Another opportunity for play.
To all you meet, there is an infection
That gives them the same happiness to spread.
They will see the morning introduction
Soaking up the cheerfulness that was said.
You are not able to leave your hotel
Because of the arrival of new guests,
But it is not a bed that you will sell,
Rather a relief from life’s harsh duress.
The holiday here was comfortable
Only because you were personable.

Santorini

We are reminded by the white facade
That hangs on the edge of the caldera
Of the nature of the volcano god
Whose might destroyed an earlier era.

But now we climb up to the highest peak
To nestle within our homes among the ash.
The color of our walls remind the meek
That we would lose in any future clash.

World wearied travelers come to our ring
To marvel at the beauty of our town,
But they don’t understand how much we cling
To our modesty that could be blown down.

Our survival lies in tectonic fate,
Hoping the fickle god won’t get irrate.

The Olive Tree

In the courtyard live an old olive tree
Who has witnessed the change of the island.
From the ancient ships from across the sea
To battles fought on the beach’s sand,
It has stood watching ages come and go.
For its majesty, they built a courtyard
To shelter its branches from Winter’s blow.
The shade its leaves provide will act as guard
For this simple table where we will dine
On this culture’s culinary delights.
We will toast her with our glasses of wine
On how her, here now, makes the perfect night.
I don’t know if this was our destiny,
The pairing of us and our olive tree.

The End is Near

I see you have reached the desperation
Of a fool whose options are running out,
So you strengthen your contamination
While weakening what you are all about.
This does not mean we can let our guard down
For you’ll return with a new mutation,
But even that will have lesser renown
When facing the anger of this nation.
You may keep our smiles behind a thick mask,
And we may continue to jab our arms,
Making the routine no longer a task;
We will not fear your diminishing harms.
Though history will be filled with shed tears,
We will get over these bitter, old fears.

The Tomb of Kings

The lives that they lived were the lives of kings
Though the blood in their veins was not royal.
The comfort and happiness that wealth brings
Is not always based upon life’s toil,
And the select few who strut these cities
Did not break their backs to build their roadways;
Instead, they pointed to the groves of trees,
Deciding that there the buildings would raise.
They would sit back with their glass of red wine,
Sighing while watching all of the legs run.
They’d brag at how their money made things fine
After the hard labor’s work was done.
But all this greatness was soon forgotten
When they were sealed in a tomb to rot in.