Poetry in High SchoolCummings,
read their poetry,
see their meter
(or lack there of)
delve deep and pull out the hidden meaning.
Who says there is one?
Can't a poet write just because?
Or does every English teacher have to
dissect and tear apart each verse
in their vain search of
XCVIwhen all around me's crashing down
with feet no longer planted firmly on the ground,
i close my eyes
to find myself in paradise;
protected in the arms of my angel.
UnworthyHow did I ever get this high
or is it just a dream---
His eyes looking into my own
piercing my soul to the very core,
melting my heart with the
simple sound of
The Art of PoetryIt's often hard to find a muse
For poetry that one can use,
And effectively pierce the heart
And melt the soul
By tearing them apart,
And then making them whole
In the same work of art
By mastering poetry's control;
To captivate the reader in simple things
Such as lullabies a mother sings
Or the graffiti on city buildings,
And its exciting way of gilding
Those boring downtown walls
That you wonder how they stand at all,
Or the yellow lines on busy streets
That control the cars whose bumpers meet;
Or the little cracks within the sidewalks
Where little weeds grow in little stalks
Only to be trampled on by pedestrian feet
As they walk to little cafes that make it fun to eat,
Or the timing of intersection stoplights
That stays constant all day and night,
Producing a pretty boring scene
As they change from red to yellow to green;
Or an old church's or library's architecture
Along with the downtown abstract sculptures
With curving strips of steel and concrete
That are scattered among the cit
Shut OutCan you hear my voice---
calm and desperate for you
(do you know how much
I hurt for you to let me in?)
set your beating heart inside
dripping your tortured thoughts upon my flesh,
and seeping your imprisoned tears
Ode to the MurderedThe clock strikes blood,
cold, hard death
with sightless, pale faces
and frozen hands.
They leave this world unfinished
with silently stained secrets
engraved deeply by fate,
forcing their souls forever
from this peace less world,
forsaking them in this place without feeling,
this place where all they have
is not enough.
My WarThis war seems to never end
As I fight for myself every day.
My wounds barely begin to mend
When another bomb explodes in my way.
Daily I battle my darkest memories
While dust rises in the air of my strife.
Ironically I can still clearly see my enemies
As they hold me under their lethal knife.
Fairness, I guess, is not on my side,
And happiness seems rare.
Reality laughs at the tears I've cried,
But the world has never cared.
Trembling, I lift my weapon,
My own gun of hate.
All of a sudden my flesh is painted crimson
As it's pierced by bullets of fate.
Soon my soul is buried by smoke and stone
As I struggle through the confusion,
And when I find myself standing alone,
I wonder if I'm in reality or a delusion.
But this thought is quickly dashed
As yet another bomb blows up before me.
My body is covered by flame and ash
In my enemy's effort to kill me.
Desperate, my adversary murders and rapes
In attempt to stop my heart,
Yet somehow I always find an escape,
But it doesn't save me from f
Looking Back on VietnamWar is raging and
the earth, slick with blood,
covers my skin like
oil over water.
This arterial liquid
seeps beneath my clothes,
it infiltrates my mouth,
giving the taste of iron to my tongue.
Bodies, exploding into flames,
fuel my prayers to
fuel my memory
of the man who
died in my arms yesterday.
Cigarettes burn my flesh,
keeping my bloodshot eyes from sleeping,
forcing me to watch
flying bullets and napalm
light up the sky
like it was the 4th of July,
but instead of celebrating victory,
the battlefield glorifies death,
the infuriating disease
infecting the American spirit.
Communism or Capitalism,
what difference does it make
if in the end