The World of our Hearts

Here's another poem by me, I don't know what inspired it, but I wrote by accident, and it ended up less than awful. So here it is, guys! 




The World of our Hearts
When the air of the sun
Let's the light flutter by
Then the snakes and the Mayans
Gaze up to the sky.
And as the world spins around
Like a big Lollipop,
And we fly to our hearts with even no shock.

Burning Song

Fire has always been of great interest to me. It can cause life, yet it also causes death. To honor this peculiar element, I out some song into in and wrote a poem.

Song is the fire
The fire is the song
The song is the fire when there's always something wrong.
Fire will be thrown
When the song is sung.
When the song is sung
the fire will be done
We will run
But don't forget
The songs we've sung
And as we skip along the sun
We're burning with the fire.

Wings

Here is a poem by me. Hope you enjoy it.

Wings

I may not have song

I may not have speed

But I have my wings

That's all that I need.

I fly through my heart

And fly through a thought

It's not with my legs

But with wings that I trot.

I don't have the looks

Love's without much ado

I may not have the charm

But I sure got the view.

Look out to the sky

Where you'll see me fly

And far, far, up high

I'm going to try.

Lily

Tonight I'm going to share with you a poem of I place I often imagine when I want peace inside my mind. 

Lily
There is a place
Where one Lily does grow
As it waves in the wind
And stands in the snow
There is a place
Where one Lily 
And it's waiting
And waiting 
For someone to know

There is a place
Where one Lily does grow
As it laughs with the skies
And laughs at the crows
There is a place
Where one Lily does grow
As it stays there and watches
How the wind blows

Hans Christian Anderson

Tonight, I want to share a poem by Hans Christian Anderson. He's not known for his poetry, but it's just as beautiful as his stories. Short and sweet, here is his poem - very meaningful to me.

Hans Christian Anderson

To move, to breathe, to fly, to float,

To gain all while you give,

To roam the roads of lands remote,

To travel is to live.

Have you ever contemplated why the human species sometimes does such destructive things? I have. In fact, I have, enough to write a poem about it. we're so inventive, creative, and resourceful, yet we still do so many things to the earth that let's us be so innovative. I've thought a lot about that earth, too. We need to make the conscience decision to appreciate and help it - I realize that writing poetry won't do that, but it will certainly enrich the lives of those who live here, and maybe inspire someone to make a change. I know poetry does that for me. So here you are, "Graceful is the Ocean" a poem from me to the environment.

Graceful is the Ocean

Graceful

Is the ocean

As it  twirls through endless waves

Gawky

Are the fisherman

As they tumble through rods, nets, and other toxic gear

Regal

Are the mountains

As they gaze upon the worlds below

Spiteful

Are the workers

Who fall through miles smokey building built upon the icy tops

Caring

Are the tree-tops

As they soar with birds and run with deer

Reckless

Are the Loggers

As they tear down leaf-green hopes from the sky whilst still with both feet firmly positioned in the soil, as if they were afraid they would walk away by the end of their work.

Early in the Morning

Good morning! I think the early morn' is my favorite time of day - everything seem so fresh, and everyone around me seems wide awake and ready for a great day. I've always liked slightly windy mornings, and although that doesn't happen too often, I now have a new swing and I'm able to create my own swift wind in the chirping, bright morning. Now when I say everyone around me is wide awake, I'm usually talking about the birds and other animals, because most people that I know are horribly sleepy morning heads. Dedicated to this special morning, I'm posting a beautiful poem by Li-Young Lee

Early in the Morning

While the long grain is softening

in the water, gurgling

over a low stove flame,

the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced

for breakfast, before the birds,

my mother glides an ivory comb

through her hair, heavy

and black as a calligrapher's ink. 

She sits at the foot of the bed.

My father watches, listens for

the music of a comb 

against hair.

My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tighter, rolls it
around two fingers, pins 
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.

But I know
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening

Not Really

Good morning, and happy September! But why is it September? Why did we decide on months? Why not Gargalides to tell what time of year it is? It could be Gargalide Three if you wanted it to be. Is it really September? Things are not always what they seem - Sometimes you think everything around you is changing, although, really, you are the one changing.
A poem that I have written about this strange matter itself, here is "Not Really":

Not Really
The crisp is not so crisp
The grass is not so green
Is the air more than just a wisp?
Well, not really.
The ripple isn't water
The mist is more than air
Are the pages getting longer?
Well, not really.

However, there is a certain reason it is September. Just saying.

To The River

Edgar Allen Poe is a classic. His work never gets old, so here I am, sharing some more of it.


To The River
Fair river! in they bright, clear flow 
Of crystal, wandering water,
Tough art an emblem of the flow
Of beauty - the unhidden heart -
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within they wave she looks -
Which glistens then, and trembles -
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies -
They heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.

   -Edgar Allen Poe

Frozen Poems

I'm not usually into writing love poems, but this one just hit me after watching the Disney movie Frozen - it's inspired by Anna and Kristoff. Enjoy! 

Worth The While

She laughs

It's twirling

Like her eyes

Their howls

Ringing

Never lies

He winks

It's quiet

Like his smile

But if you stick

It's worth the while

And, a bonus! Very obviously about the scene in the movie where Ana and Kristoff fall from a snowy cliff.

Sled Drop

Falling

Falling

Into snow

Hanging

Hanging

Let it go

It's like a pillow

Soft and smooth

My hair's now white

We've gotta move

HAZE by Carl Sandburg

 KEEP a red heart of memories

Under the great gray rain sheds of the sky,

Under the open sun and the yellow gloaming embers.
Remember all paydays of lilacs and songbirds;
All starlights of cool memories on storm paths.

Out of this prairie rise the faces of dead men.
They speak to me. I can not tell you what they say.

Other faces rise on the prairie.
 They are the unborn. The future.

Yesterday and to-morrow cross and mix on the skyline
The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets. One waits.

In the yellow dust of sunsets, in the meadows of vermilion eight o’clock June nights … the dead men and the unborn children speak to me … I can not tell you what they say … you listen and you know.

I don’t care who you are, man:
I know a woman is looking for you
and her soul is a corn-tassel kissing a south-west wind.
(The farm-boy whose face is the color of brick-dust, is calling the cows; he will form the letter X with crossed streams of milk from the teats; he will beat a tattoo on the bottom of a tin pail with X’s of milk.)

I don’t care who you are, man:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are gray dust working toward star paths
And you see them from a garret window when you laugh
At your luck and murmur, “I don’t care.”

I don’t care who you are, woman:
I know a man is looking for you
And his soul is a south-west wind kissing a corn-tassel.

(The kitchen girl on the farm is throwing oats to the chickens and the buff of their feathers says hello to the sunset’s late maroon.)

I don’t care who you are, woman:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are next year’s wheat or the year after hidden in the dark and loam.

My love is a yellow hammer spinning circles in Ohio, Indiana. My love is a redbird shooting flights in straight lines in Kentucky and Tennessee. My love is an early robin flaming an ember of copper on her shoulders in March and April. My love is a graybird living in the eaves of a Michigan house all winter. Why is my love always a crying thing of wings?

On the Indiana dunes, in the Mississippi marshes, I have asked: Is it only a fishbone on the beach?
Is it only a dog’s jaw or a horse’s skull whitening in the sun? Is the red heart of man only ashes? Is the flame of it all a white light switched off and the power house wires cut?

Why do the prairie roses answer every summer? Why do the changing repeating rains come back out of the salt sea wind-blown? Why do the stars keep their tracks? Why do the cradles of the sky rock new babies?

The Arrow and the Song

This poem is called The Arrow and the Song, and it's by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I chose this poem because lately I've been feeling extra appreciative about having the friends I do. I don't have crowds of them, but it's about quality - not quantity. One true friend is better than a million fake ones.




The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to Earth, I knew not where
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to Earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Dad's Haiku

Here's a poem by my dad, that he wrote in sixth grade - I found it in an old class poetry book from his school. This one is a haiku! From my dad to you, a special haiku.

Rain falling way down

From the high clouds above me

Hitting the wet ground

Plummy Tree

In my backyard, there are two plums trees facing towards each other and creating a shady arch. Today, I sat in between them and wrote this poem; dedicated to the Plummy Trees.


Plummy Tree
The glowing tree
Stares down at me
With a caring look
In its plummy eyes
With one slight roar
They're on the floor
But the blossomed fruit
Is revived.
In the spiteful wind
The world it spinned
But the tree, right here,
Did not budge.
So long, they say,
We'll see you soon,
But the tree just waves
Beneath the moon.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

Shel Silverstein is one of my favorite poets of all time - He writes all sorts of stuff, and can control your mood with a single word. His poems always seemed sort of alive to me, instead of just words on paper. His sentences wiggle around with ink and and they splash off the page to fly away and read to someone. This one, Where The Sidewalk Ends, is one of my favorites, and I always loved the the phrase "peppermint wind." Here is his poem, for you.

Where The Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where asphalt flowers grow 
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, the children they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
- Shel Silverstein 

Caged Bird

Maya Angelou is one of the most inspirational people in my life. She has many, many poems that I treasure and will keep with me, but Caged bird is one of my very favorites. This beautiful women was a poet, a writer, a dancer, an activist, and many other things in her long and treasured life. Most of all, she had a  beautiful heart, and that heart has inspired me beyond belief. 

Caged Bird

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares the claim the sky

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

Sings of freedom 

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing. 

The caged bird sings

with fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard 

on a distant hill

for the caged bird

sings for freedom.

- Maya Angelou 

THE JABBERWOCKY

This poem is one of the best I've ever read, and from an excellent book; Alice in Wonderland. Please enjoy the magic:

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.



`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

Ten Minutes

Whenever I come home from the store, from the dentist, and practically any time I leave home, both of my dogs are always there waiting. My pit bull, Tinkerbell, is always staring at me with the sweetest look in her eyes as her gorgeous spotted coat brushes against me. My Yorkie, Romeo, has his paws up and balanced on my legs, with his fluffy ears poofed up and a hopeful gaze in his eyes. Here is a poem by me, dedicated to every dog, because even though we were only gone for ten minutes, they're still there waiting like it's been years.

Ten Minutes
The light shown through
In the gentle noon
As my people went to walk
I paced and paced
I jumped and raced
I watched the clock-
Tick. Tock.
Years and years
Of endless waiting
I miss them so
It's irritating
I hear the deep rumble
Of a great broken garage
I run into the oil puddle
With a big oily splosh
They come back inside
As I wag my tail
They rub my back
I give out a wail
Why were you so sad?
We'll pet you with no limits
We're home, now, be glad
We were only gone for ten minutes

We Have Teeth, We Have Claws

One thing that I like about this poem is that it describes something so tiny (at least I think they're tiny, what do you think?) to be so big and powerful.
          Lily is my sister - also an accomplished poet, and here is a poem for you from her.


We have teeth
We have claws
We have wide and gaping jaws
We are few
But we have fangs
We were here before you came
We are giants
Yet we're so small
We will be here when you fall
-Lily Fox

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Hope can fly, and it can't be chained down. It comes and goes as it pleases, and we can only hold onto it for as long as we can, but it always comes back in the end. On that subject, here's a short little poem for you by Emily Dickinson. 

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without the words
And never stops at all.

The Scientist

Today I present to you probably the longest poem I have ever written (I'm more of a short poem girl). I love this poem with all of my soul, and it makes my eyes get watery just about every time I read it.Originally, the poem was modeled after Edward Scissorhands' story, and it was named after the man who built the main character of my poem, but after about a year of trying to find the right words, he developed with parts of me and many other people and became a scientist himself. Brave, strong, and neverendingly wanting the world to love, he is The Scientist.   

The Scientist

In a lab full of cobwebs
A man does rest
He looks like a human
Maybe at best
But deep in his soul
A sprocket gear turns
And right on his head
Smoke comes out of a hole
Although he has dreams more than thoughts like a troll
He's been kicked out of life
By the reject patrol
A creak with each step
As he climbs out of bed
For lonely in life
And alone on the deck
A blow for each microscope
He dusts each lab machine
For a guest comes tonight
A sweet girl named Angeline
Putting on his best smile
He straightens his tie
With a knock, knock, and hinge creak
Away his mind flies
Spinning
Dancing
Gazing up to the sky
They have the time of their life
In the observatory, high
What is this?
A second knock?
So heavy it pounds the floor
There is no answer
From the man in the lab
So the new guest just pounds down the door
A man with a badge
Dressed in fine leather boots
Wears an officer's hat
And a woven blue suit
The man with the gears
Will try to run
But the man in the suit,
Well, he has a gun
They get in a sprawl
Angi knocks down the gun
So surely, 
Just surely,
The badged man is done
But out from the shadows
There's little of life
But enough for the man 
To cause enemies strife.
The sweet girl visitor
Goes back to her home
And dressed in all black
Attends to a stone

A Poem of Poems

Poetry has many meanings - it still baffles me how it has the abilities to  make one cry and laugh just in one reading. So for poetry, I give you the meaning of it - a poem by my friend Maaida.

The Meaning of Poetry

Poems make me sad

But this one makes me glad

Many things have happened now

For me they're sad and glad

The future is uncertain

My present full of surprises

My memories behind the curtain

The curtain of memories is of the past

Not the first but not the last

How I express it shows what happened

But that is what I see

But poems are so powerful

It's so important to me

-Maaida Kirmani 

You Could Do It

Speaking of dreams, you've probably had a few in your life - You might want to be an actress, a writer, or a poet, maybe even a botanist (I might have just described my dream...), doctor, basket ball player, dog trainer, computer coder, or even a princess, prince, king or queen. There endless amounts of dreams in the world, but not many are achieved. I'm not saying to dim your dream light - I'm saying to brighten it. You have to get in the mud. Chase your dream through rivers, mountains, jungles, and wherever it goes as long as you end up with something that makes you HAPPY. So here's a bit of dream-achieving poetry by me, from me, and to YOU.

Could I Do It
I never really danced
But I loved to
I never really sung
But I pretended to
But when I try
I can do it
And when I fail
There's nothing to it
And I never really cried 
But I never really smiled
And when I tried
'Twas my inner child
So can I do it?
Can't deny it.
What is to it?


Laughter.

A Dream Within a Dream

Lately I've been thinking a lot about dreams. It's as if you're in a different world - you get transported to the land of your mind. Once I was told that dreams always have something to do with a memory, story, or something you've been thinking about, even though sometimes I have dreams that have nothing to do with anything recently. Is it just from the deep depths of our mind, or is it something completely different? Sometimes I fall asleep in my dream, and don't wake up until I really do, but I never remember my dream within a dream.

A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow
And in parting from you now
Thus much let me avow -
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night or in a day
In a vision or in none
Is it therefor the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream

I stand amid the roar
Of surf-tormented shore
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand -
How few! Yet how they creep
Throngh my fingers to the deep
While I weep - while I weep!
O God! Can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream.
 -Edgar Allen Poe
  

The First Raindrop of a Poem

To start off the storm, here are a few poems that I wrote with a touch of randomness - Including shark jaws, raven caws, and a lot of sunrises.


Little Breezes
I look around
There's only one sound
It's the sound of dripping water
I feel the breeze
I start to sneeze
It's only getting hotter
I suddenly feel
It's getting here
The wind blown in my face
The shark snaps jaws
The raven caws
I dive and then I brace

Sunrise
On Sunrise all the flowers bloom
On Sunrise all the glow is moon
On Sunrise all the smile is soon
On Sunrise all they give is doom

The Sunrise Awaits
The leaves will sway in the distance
While the wind cries in the night
The clouds will carry
Strong resistance
When the storm tries to fight
The Sunrise awaits