Tag: free verse

Old Books- an original poem

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"Old Library" by Dusan Jovanovic
“Old Library” by Dusan Jovanovic

Old books-
those I like the best.
Mildewy pages
yellowed by years,
bound in leather and
bandaged with peeling tape.
But it’s not just
the timeworn scent
that clings to the pages
or the feeling of imprinted letters
running over my fingertips
that makes me love them;
it’s the questioning,
the curiosity,
the wondering
about who could’ve held
this book before,
who could’ve cherished its
chapters and reached for
it on rainy nights.
I don’t just care about
what happened to the protagonist
in the next volume;
I care about what happened
to the person who long ago
inked on the title page:
To Lizzy- with love, Margaret,
Christmas 1909.
I wonder what became of them,
who they were and what they did,
and why they loved the book.
Old books
carry more than words
and classic tales
and forgotten histories-
they carry memories,
people.
Their readers gave them life,
and still, ten or twenty or
two hundred years later,
they mold to my fingers
like an old friend,
like they’ve done this before.
I like them the best-
old books.

Little known fact about me- I collect old books. My oldest book is a 130 year old history of Julius Ceasar, and I have first editions of Edgar Allan Poe, Amy Lowell, Mark Twain, and even a second edition Emma by Jane Austen (as well as many more). I hunt for them in flea markets, thrift shops, silent auctions, and once, I found a number of first editions in a sale at a library that was closing down. Like the above poem says, I don’t just like to read them (though some of them are so old that it’s hard to open them without the binding falling apart)- I like to imagine who once read them. A few of my books even have dedications and names written in them, the oldest being a man’s name and contact info scrawled in beautiful calligraphy on the title page- from 1850.

Really, I could go on and on about my love for old books, but I think today’s poem explains it enough.

The Night is My Canvas- an original poem

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by Benjamin König
by Benjamin König

I shape the night
with fingers that glide through
sunset, and lips that
kiss stars into the
bruised black and blue of the sky.
I can mold light
into ribbons of purple and green
with only a flick of my wrist,
and whisper secrets
into the wind with just a sigh.
The night is my canvas,
and I hold the brush,
my fingertip prints the moon
and my silence paints the hush.
Each eve is a gift that I
craft just for you,
and if you look closely enough,
you can see my name signed
in the constellations,
pricked in stars and each night
written anew.

Soon- an original poem

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“Soon, my love,”
you said amidst silence,
“Soon I’ll return, and we’ll
dance in starlight
and drink from fountains
and never see hardship again.”

“Soon,” I repeated,
“you’ll return to me,
and even in rags we’ll be
richer than kings,
for you’re all I need
to live out my days wealthily.”

So I sat by the waves
and stared out to sea,
and waited right there
for you to return to me.
And still there I sat,
when seven years passed,
and your voice became thinner
as your memory lapsed.

“Soon, my love,”
I wept amidst silence,
“Soon you’ll return, and we’ll
lie on the silver sands
with the night on our backs
and we’ll be happy for as long as can be.”

“Soon,” I repeated,
“you’ll return to me,
and every promise you whispered
into my ear will come true,
and when I am nothing but stardust,
we’ll dance for all eternity.”

Reality- an original poem

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There are some days when reality
feels like a thousand threads
woven together,
and some areas are thick and woolen and strong,
while others are weak
and so thin that
you feel as if you could pry your fingers
between the fibers
and rip apart
time.
On days like that, when
reality is fraying around me,
I question what’s real; if the
threads holding together the universe
can be easily snipped,
or if the seams can be re-sewn
and stitched up
again.
Because most days, reality is
a blanket that surrounds me,
and I can feel it between my fingers
and it’s good and sturdy and warm.
But I still fear the thin patches,
the torn hems and rough pleats,
and cling hard to my
blanket
so that I don’t
slip.

I Grow Up Alone- an original poem

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I grow up alone
in a world teeming with life.
Every day I reach higher,
but you’ll never see my age-
only my might,
which to you is fixed
in stone
and constant
as the winter winds.
I rumble and roar,
I weep and remorse,
I laugh and make merry,
I change my own course.
But to you I am silent,
a gentle giant unprovoked,
unfeeling and distant,
nothing but a rock to climb
and build upon
and carve out.
I’ve seen many lives
many species,
many races,
flit across the land and leave
it in traces.
Their spans are but a blip
on my grander scale,
and one moment they’re
bleating and breathing
with life,
and the next they’re the dirt that
combs the countryside.
But I remember every one,
each soul and spirit,
though their lives are but seconds
in my ancient existence.
And they remember me,
but they’ll never know,
for in a world teeming with life,
I grow up alone.

I’ve spent the past few days in the beautiful mountains of New England, and I only wish that I could stay longer. My trip did make me wonder; if a mountain could, what would it think? Think of us? Think of itself? How does time pass for a mountain? Then voila, the above poem was hastily produced.

Scream- an original poem

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The clawing
never ends.

The fingernails digging
into my skin,
the lips whimpering
against my flesh,
the hands grappling
my teeth.

They always want something,
they always take something,
and they leave me
bare bones
and threadbare,
a skeleton
with nothing more to give.

I want to give them everything,
my flesh, my blood, my mind, my eyes,
my left arm and right leg.
I want them to stop
stop
pleading,
begging,
taking,
needing.

The clawing
never ends.

And I want to scream.

Speak- an original poem

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by Melanie Delon
by Melanie Delon

A word
can wield the weight
of a well-honed sword.

A sentence
can summon the strength
of a thousand armies.

An idea
can fall the knees
of an entire world.

But
with a sword that’s coated in poison,
with an army undisciplined and un-bled,
and in a world unwilling to hear-
my words
my sentences
and my ideas
are no more than specks on a screen smudged with mud.

“Speak,”
they say,
“and the world will listen.”

“Speak,”
I say,
“and the world will fear.”

Elegy- an original poem

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My lips still on a poignant note,
mournful and mellow
and unafraid.
This is where the song ends,
where the breath escapes the melody,
where the bitter words that once
shaped the night
and kept you alive
dissipate.
The death march must cease
eventually,
and my lament hums in the air
like a fog.
Ravaged and choked was my voice
as I sang of shadows
and what could’ve been.
It is my last gift to you,
and now the silence is hard and cold
and biting
and lonely.
My lips still on a poignant note,
for the elegy has ended.

let me sleep- an original poem

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"Cet ete" by j-acques
“Cet ete” by j-acques

sleep isn’t always a matter
of rest
or relief
or rejuvenation

i am safe in the dark
unbeatable beneath the blankets
without worry when
tendrils
of
sweet, silky nothingness
murmur over my lids

there is
something about the not knowing
that comes from dreams
it’s warm
and nice
and soft
and sometimes scary

but sleep
is what keeps me safe
even through the nightmares
and when i wake
it all seems so dull
so grinding
so rough and razored and rude

and the day is so long
and these sheets are so warm

please
let me sleep

Might and Light- an original poem

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"Dark Thoughts" by David Senguin
“Dark Thoughts” by David Senguin

Sometimes
I dream that a mighty hand
will thrust through the sky,
pulling apart the clouds
and letting in a light-
a light not of this world,
a light unfelt in ages.

If such
a light exists- a beam
beyond the blood splattered sky
and brighter than the dying sun,
then why hasn’t it shone before?
Why does gloom make its home
in the air, and why hasn’t the hand
batted away the smoke?

Sometimes
I dream that I am that hand,
titanic and teeming with the prayers
of a thousand weak and strong.
But are my fingers sharp enough
to rip apart what has been sewed?
I dream that there is a larger light,
but I fear that I’m too small.