In the wee hours of the morning
when all the world is still,
I lie awake, pondering,
with a restless will.
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The social circle holding tight
long into the dark of night,
as each of them try to inspire
their companions by the fire.
But their company raises walls –
stone-cold sentinels that stand so tall
that those outside can’t bear to dare
to dream of being welcomed there.
Now the hearth just looks so cold
to the people who are told
that they just do not belong,
that they should just move along.
So they turn and walk away,
for they cannot bear to stay
and watch people that seem so warm
but treat them colder than a winter storm.
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A fragment of a fallen star –
ages old, yet without scars.
She shines like a diamond in the night,
piercing the dark with a silver light.
Now the sterling celestial seed
blooms like a flower amid the reeds
to bring such beauty and such grace
to an ancient deserted place.
A poem inspired by Erica’s jewelry over at Inspired by Nature, a handcrafted and custom jewelry seller that operates through Facebook and Etsy. The unique piece that inspired this poem has been sold since this poem was written.
If you like my work, please consider supporting me through Patreon where you can get early access to posts, exclusive content, and more.
Little Morty, all in bed.
Little Morty – yes, he’s dead,
but Little Morty isn’t sad.
In fact – Little Morty’s glad!
You can see it in his grin,
how it’s painted on his chin,
and how it never leaves his face,
and how his dead eyes stare off into space.
A poem inspired by Erica’s jewelry over at Inspired by Nature, a handcrafted and custom jewelry seller that operates through Facebook and Etsy.
If you like my work, please consider supporting me through Patreon where you can get early access to posts, exclusive content, and more.
With a grumble and groan,
the trembling tower
clung to its “fifteen minutes,”
for well over an hour.
Eventually the strain
of holding itself high
brought the tower to its knees,
revealing the sky.
Now the steel Samson lies exposed,
and the vultures pick it clean
until a skeleton of rust
is all that remains to be seen.
*This poem is a continuation of a project where I chose a color, and wrote a poem on the first three words that came to mind. In this case, they were metal, weaken, and decay.*
The ocean rises, rich with rain
filled to the brim with heaven’s pain
whose tears were so great that they fell
to rise again with every swell.
*This poem is a continuation of a project where I chose a color, and wrote a poem on the first three words that came to mind. In this case, they were ocean, rain, salt/tears.*
I’ve lost my home, my place, my time,
lost my luster, sparkle, shine;
the lonely road broke my stride,
broke my back, and scarred my pride.
They laid a deep foundation
out of their beliefs,
a faith which they believed could shoulder
all the world’s griefs.
They built the walls up, stone by stone,
with pious prayers and tears
in faith that they’d stand tall and strong
through the endless years.
But when they went to raise the rafters,
much to their surprise,
they’d exhausted all their faith
and run out of supplies.
Midnight sex’s quite heaven-sent,
a passion which won’t relent.
For even in the darkest night,
the fire still keeps burning bright.
This patchwork quilt city is composed
of buildings all lined up in rows,
though their stories are of different hues:
reds and browns and whites and blues.
And towering over the different peoples
are the restaurant roofs and church steeples
who compose an elegant skyline,
both jagged and yet quite sublime.
But woven through the very work
are the opinions, pride, and, yes, the quirks
of all the people who live here
who think it mad, yet hold it dear.
A (wise) man of two faces 