Tag: poetry

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.

Just A Name- an original poem

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"The Assassin" by Leafbreeze7
“The Assassin” by Leafbreeze7

It’s just a name,
I tell myself
as I notch my arrow and
narrow my eyes.
It’s just a name,
I know it is,
just another name that
has to die.

Some letters on a piece of paper,
a foreign title I will never know,
ink and words and nothing more-
no room for any emotion to show.

It’s just a name,
I know it is,
a job to be done and
coin to collect.
It’s just a name,
I tell myself
as I aim my arrow at
his neck.

Fantasy fiction is one of my favorite genres to read and write in, and this poem taps in to a bit of my recent work. The character here is obviously an assassin who is feeling conflicted about her career choice (though of course she won’t admit it). 

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.

The Theatre Lives Long- an original poem

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She loved the stage
and the yellow lights;
she spoke of red curtains
and endless bright nights.
Champaign and hairspray,
shining sequined gowns,
ballads and promenades,
feathery gold crowns.
With her hair piled high
and her lips ruby red,
she glided across the stage,
and spoke of acts long dead.
“Stars grow old and die,
props peel and decay,
the lights fizzle out
and the curtains close away.
But even as the crooner
commits his last song,
and the cabaret crumbles-
the theatre lives long.
The seats are all empty,
the pit soundless and sad,
but the stage sings of starlets
and the scenes that it had.”
And she danced across rubble,
atop dust and flaked paint;
she wrapped herself in tattered red
and sang like a saint.
For here on the stage
is where she truly belongs,
and while the lights may dim,
the theatre lives long.

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.