A poem is a half-digested butterfly being regurgitated into the mouth of a newly hatched baby bird.
though this isn't the first poem i ever wrote, it's the first one i really worked on. cocoon was inspired by a real event. a caterpillar i had captured for biology class in high school formed a chrysalis and subsequently hatched. she escaped into the house with her wings still wet and i had a difficult time getting her outside. but finally, i chased her onto the sidewalk in front of my house and watched as she made her first wobbly flight into the sky. then a bird swooped down and ate her. no lie! so that's how i got hooked on poetry.
Far away from the world and its woes,
I weave a cocoon
Isolate myself from the life that I chose
Trapped inside yet my mind is still flying.
Morphing and growing,
Insides truned out,
Changing and showing
My life turned around.
Enveloped, confined, trapped in this cell
Struggling against the bars
My safety becomes a living hell
Suffocating in my wrapper
Ripping the fabric that's binding my mind
Wings unfurled for the first time.
Stretching my muscles as I find
New life and existance--a freedom that's mine!
Huge wings beating above my own,
But faster beats my heart.
A pain of dying an a groan!
No time to think. Freedom is death.
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The Bob Sestina
a sestina is a type of obsessive poem, meaning it uses repeated words or phrases. it consists of seven stanzas: six six-line stanzas with the same end words (repeating in a specified pattern), and the seventh stanza combines the words in a different way. on second thought, that's an awful description of sestinas. go to a real poetry site and maybe you'll get something better. well, here's an example anyway...
I know a man named Bob
Whom no on else can see.
We have adventures together.
We write lots of poems.
Sometimes, he is a ray
of sunshine. Sometimes he's not.
We tried to tie a Gordian knot.
I did better than Bob.
Bob got mad, pulled out his death ray,
But I told him to calm down and see
How each new event was a poem.
So we cut the Gordian knot, together.
We are always together
Even when we're not.
As I write this poem
I can look up, and see Bob
Through the screen. He can see
Me, absorbing the cathode rays.
He sings: so la ti re
I sing with him together.
He says he hopes to see
Us never doing that again…not
Because of Bob,
But because I write poems.
Bob also writes poems.
His are always gray.
They are not about Bob,
Or about us being together.
They are about naught.
They are about what people see.
Today Bob and I attacked the sea.
He thought I would burst into poem,
But I did not.
Afterwards, we basked in the sun's ray
I began to wonder about Bob.
It's funny how only I can see Bob,
How our poems together are really mine,
How he disappears in a ray and I do not.
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broken pink angel
this poem never really was finished, only abandoned (apologies to Paul Valerie). i'm not quite satisfied with it enough to send it anywhere, but i like what i was trying to say in it. so here it is on my webpage...
she withdraws into herself,
an angel in a world of broken pink.
from within her recessed consciousness
the pastel shadows gleam.
Jesus is holding out his hand to help her,
but her dark-adjusted eyes won’t even look His way.
she’s too busy hiding her half-moon treasures
from the societal monsters
who guard their precious hoards of normal.
no being has ever deserved her trust
so she keeps it to herself.
beneath the palmetto fronds of her mental haven
gazing at her favorite knife.
a meager blade of sunlight
creeps into her haven—
she notices it.
cast it out!
but the effort is almost too much,
and the sun-sickle creeps towards her,
there is no hope among the dead,
no hope in her pessimist eyes.
but He’s not dead He is risen!
He’s waiting for her to turn to Him
but angel’s too busy,
the knife falls from her palm to gleam
under the sun’s greedy glare.
she lives her videogame existence
a self exile
and the characters on the screen are calling
don’t be broken
break into wholeness”
she drops the controller
and picks up a book
reads the pages one by one
shadow across her face
“For God so loved the world…”
modern brutality still echoes across the screen
“…That he gave His only begotten…”
the sun is rising
“…Son, that we may not perish but have…”
she closes her eyes
and plunges ever lower into the depths of soul
who she is
that’s all that matters
not nobody else
there’s somebody else
and the knife has been found
by sun-sickle, to cut—
watch the blood—
to make her
be one of
and just as the blade draws nearer
she takes a half step toward Him
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