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Poetry Anyone?


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Part of my New Year's resolution for 2014 was to begin to write. For reasons unknown to my waking mind, I began to break the ice with bad poems on Wattpad. I think it was because -in part- I find them a short enough form that I can quickly write them. This may cause real poets to cover their mouths and shake their heads - great writing requires dedication and time spent - but these verbal sketches, while quickly drawn, did get me writing and in that regard they have achieved their purpose.


And so I thought I would torture you with a couple from my Wattpad page. Hopefully you will enjoy them. If not I hope they at least give you the satisfaction of saying "Heh, I write better than THAT guy!" :)


The Mismatched Man


Where goes the mismatched man,
I passed along my way?
His seven fingered hands were coal
his yard long toes were clay.

His knotted wooden head was oak,
thrust up - a great whale breaching.
His shoulders seemed a parapet,
far beyond my reaching.

I trembled as he thundered by,
so daunting was his strangeness,
he seemed to be made of spare parts,
malevolent and brainless.

With torso wide as sandy beach
and legs like redwood lumber.
I thought for sure, he'd eat me whole,
then lay down for a slumber.

Just before he disappeared
he turned - our eyes connected,
his story flashed within my mind,
it was totally unexpected.

He goes where others cannot see
for fear of drawing laughter.
while tears like tiny waterfalls,
trail down his chin thereafter.

They flood his beard of mossy green,
filled with salamanders,
while riotous robes of lichen hide
what on his chest meanders.

He spies us from the wilderness,
while we are busy living
and wishes he could join in all
the chattering and giving.

Yet when he opens up his mouth,
to share what he does ponder
owls fly out from deep within
to startle the responder.

He turns away quite mortified,
(he knows he is bizarre).
A careless sculptor's accident
not rendered by Renoir.

Is he troll or vagabond
misguided or misquoted,
what anima does he possess,
to what is he devoted?

Is his intent to do us wrong,
or simple conversation?
Is our fear justified,
or crass discrimination?

Perhaps he's like a weed,
that sprung up in a season,
and his teary passage then,
is born without a reason?

Or did some gentle providence
send him here as gift,
to dwell with us, so as to try,
our tiny minds to lift?

Not far beneath, each strange skin
we find a common story
when we take the time to look within,
our difference is our glory.


Old Oak

Does the old Oak
in darkling glade
ponder thoughts
as broad as roots
that like them grow
deep and twining?

Or as young Aspen
does it dwell
on flippant leaves
and feathered dancers
with toes-tapping joy, on
milk-colored branches?

Perhaps its musings
like the squirrels
swift-running leap
from bouncing boughs
lithe questions borne
twixt earth and sky?

I am uncertain.

Yet in the dappled light
of sovereign crown
whispered words
as acorns fall
their secrets
a special heart

Edited by stormweasel
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