Poetry has been my writing form of choice since before I even knew I liked to write. I wrote poetry way back in middle school, when I was convinced I wanted to be a computer programmer like my mom. As in most things with me my poetic muse has waxed and waned in phases, but I keep coming back to it, and for that I am glad. I thought I’d entertain with a few poems I’ve written since beginning college, and because this has really been more of a waning period there are really only about five, which I thought to be a perfect fit.
My poetry is constantly evolving, just about every time I read it I change something. I even changed some things while copying them into this post. I’m not sure why that is, but sometimes some words just work better for me. It’s probably a mood thing.
If you like my writing, you should look into the man who has inspired my current style, Billy Collins.
I hold on to the thought of you
like an anxious Noah held on to the olive branch
waiting for his roaming doves to fly home.
I remember our time together like Moses
unsure if the flaming bush he thought he saw
They must have wanted to tell the world what they knew
but were doubtful, scared that it was all a dream,
all false hope.
God is lucky I’m not one of his chosen prophets
because if I had been Moses
I probably would have chalked it up to the heat
and someone who had never heard of Smokey the Bear.
2) On Losing a Notebook
It is depressing indeed
for a notebook to be left behind:
with many blank pages on which could have lived
a thousand new poems, ideas,
or maybe just directions to the eyeglasses store.
If found, would anyone care enough to mail it back
to the neatly scripted address inside the front cover?
Would they leave it, unconcerned with its value?
Or would they read it,
and discover the writer’s most intimate thoughts
and most unpolished ideas?
I should hope mine will be returned to me,
but I wouldn’t mind so much
if someone read it first.
3) A Scrape
My heart hurts
when I think of you.
It’s not a big hurt —
not fatal like a stab wound or anything —
it’s just a little hurt,
like my heart fell down and scraped its knee.
And in reality, the hurt is more like
when I look up from my bloodied skin and
see empty space,
realizing you’re not there,
waiting to pick me back up again.
4) On Completion
How pathetic it is
to believe something complete;
how self-centered and arrogant!
halting a work of your mind,
which itself is constantly evolving,
and stop any further development.
Do you believe yourself better than even God,
who gifted his creations
with the ability to adapt and transform?
This God did for the birds;
are you so great your trivial poem
does not command the same luxury?
5) A Benediction
May this journal be filled
with all of your greatest ideas
that may someday change the world,
with your most private thoughts
you hope will never see the light of day,
and with every mundane,
trivial detail in between.
May this journal be your refuge
from judgement and cruelty,
from heartache and pain,
and from whatever petty insult saddens your soul.
Let these pages be a silent voice
for every thought you’re glad you didn’t say
and those you wish you had.
I hope these pages echo your mind
and when you listen to their reverberation,
I hope it helps you discover yourself.