Poetry For People / My Stuff
I have a diary!
In fact, I have several. As I was going through my drawers, (still cleaning out–getting those pictures organized), I found all these notebooks that I had been writing in. Actually, one, looks like an official diary. It has a rich, brown, leather cover with a strap and snap button on top, with thick, vanilla, lined paper inside. It’s nice and I don’t remember getting it, but my daughter wants to have it badly.
At any rate, I must have used it for something because there were some things written, and one thing that I thought was pretty good.
So here it is, posted just as I wrosted (That was a deliberate misspell) No title, as usual:
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And now I must go to bed
and dream of wild men.
And in the morning I am going to
put curls in my hair.
I didn’t know how the story ended.
Middle of the bed
Middle of the balcony
In a huge apartment
On the floor;
I will bet that you can’t remember
even half of it.
If you would dance with me
If you would lay with me
There was rain and we had rain
There was a jungle that you ran through
You were always chasing me
in the dark.
I could never get away.
Poetry For People / Mine and Stevie’s
Have a few things; working on; like everyone. No titles. I just never got into the habit. Maybe it will come to me after it’s out. Remember, be kind.
Cotton gray in a humid yellow room.
Denim blue crumpled in a brown corner.
Green eyes flashing, staring into the smoke of my own.
Tan against peach; skin slick with exertion; fine hairs bristling.
Pink scar that traces down the side of your body.
Loved you.
The colors we made stay much clearer than anything else;
All I recall, thinking of you now:
Silver and red, serene and raging.
Your black fury and my wishy-washy white.
Gold, gold, gold.
Bright and shining, gleaming chrome.
Individual hues that never bled into each other.
Started missing you.
Hazy and flat;
Metal days and copper veins, spilled onto the floor.
I hate to remember now since no box is big enough to hold all that we created.
Except there is no creation.
No crayon is colored deep enough
to survive in the heat of the sun.
After reading some of the things I wrote, my daughter gave it a go. I think it’s pretty good. She’s 10. No title. Here it is:
As well as you know me
Like the sky is blue
The air is fresh
And death is right around the corner
You and I will always be connected.
—Stevie F.
My Stuff
First post is always the hardest. Let’s do one serious and one silly. Free style and rhyming. Don’t judge too harshly….here goes…no titles…
And my castle fell to the ground today;
my knights have fallen to dust.
So where does that leave me?
In a smoky, concrete field,
surrounded by the ancient waters of my people.
Before me lay the blade that cut my heart,
and the hand that took my life.
And you can tell it was he,
for the blood is still there on his soul,
and his spirit cannot leave the ground
with the weight of my love in his heart.
He is my last knight and my last love.
Since I cannot cry, he will have to,
and his armor will rust blood-black.
Finally, he will ride again,
stained, but living.
In his lifetime, there will be a grave he visits.
Never hard to find;
Warm, where it should be cold,
and marked with the crimson stain of love.
Dramatic a bit…kind of along the warrior theme there…but we can be silly too. And that’s what’s fun about poetry!
Oh my little animals!
I love each and every one.
They sit so quiet, peaceful
as they lie there in the sun.
Every night I say good-bye
and wish them restfully,
turn off the light and close the door,
I miss them already!
A smile and sigh, they curl up tight
and sleep and wait for me.
just shy of pretty 