Poem | |
I love my cat.
She has 4 legs
and a tail
and nice ears
and a cute little nose.
She is gray with black stripes.
Her eyes are kinda green
I don't know what colour this is?
Her name is Bast.
This is the name of a very pretty cat goddess
who lives where the pyramids grew.
When my cat is happy she purrs.
So do I.
My cat is soft and warm.
My cat likes to eat food.
Right now I am feeding her special food for young cats.
She likes this better than the last stuff.
She eats all day long.
I do too.
If I become fat
or she becomes fat
I will cut down on our food.
My cat also likes to drink water.
So do I.
I got rid of her cat bowls.
Now she uses the same bowls I do.
I think this makes her feel extra special.
When my cat wants to play outside
she meows and scratches at the door.
This is how I know if she wants to play outside.
My cat poops in the neighbour's yard
so I don't have to clean her litter box too much.
I love my cat.
If I was a cat I would marry her.
We could have a honeymoon in the park.
I would dance around
and watch her climb trees.
At night my cat sleeps on top of me.
If she moves around too much
she wakes me up.
This makes me mad.
But she doesn't care.
She just looks at me.
And looks at me.
Then waits for me to fall back asleep
so she can sleep on top of me some more.
But I still love my cat.
Even if she makes me mad sometimes.
But only now and then.
She creates far more happiness than anger.
I suppose this is how it is for some married couples?
Cats are great.
I wish more people had a cat like mine
because then everyone else would be happy just like me.
One great big happy world
filled with peaceful thoughts instead of so much pain and war.
I hope she lives a long time.
When she dies I will get another cat
because they are so nice.
And when I die
I will meet all of my cats
up in heaven.
I love my cat.
And she loves me.
Poem | |
Person of colour is coherently germane,
He is never insane.
Some things about this person of colour may seem strange,
He is simple and he is yet to engage.
This person of colour loves the critics,
It is from them, he ticks.
This person of colour is natural,
And so, he is not a trial.
This person of colour loves to exchange
Ideas beyond his range.
This person of colour loves keyboard,
Tis with this he comes on board.
This person of colour is a charcoal- a black beauty.
This person of colour is me.
Poem | |
I like many others have lived in our dreams
In this world where I lived amongst forests and streams
Where the Great Plains stretched and our rivers flowed
If you could see through my eyes, how my tribe glowed
Born from my mother of Arikara descent
My father a Sioux warrior, his stature, augment
My growing up was no different than the others around
For the learnings that grew from our ancestors surround
Hunting and fishing, being told of the dangers in life
Cultural indifferences, to fearing tribal strife
But it's what my father taught me every single day
To learn from our lands for through the years they'd display
Tracking, seeking, searching, living from our lands
Every year more learned, growing in understand
From a boy to a man becoming a warrior through my years
Protecting what was ours, allaying modern fears
But the changes that we faced, suffocated our souls
There was only ever one outcome, other man's goals
I like many others, to live and eventually fall
Born from Arikara, Sioux, my name was 'Standing Tall'
A little story from my heart, where the Indigenous will always be.
Poem | |
Let me tell you the story of Miss Jenny Prime,
who spent all of her days making everything rhyme.
It was thought she’d outgrow this strange childhood spell,
but her fetish just grew and made her parents’ life hell.
When Miss Prime was a baby, still sporting a bib,
each night she was cuddled, then placed in a crib
by her doting young parents, who thought it quite funny
to give her a pet name, “Sleep tight Hunny Bunny.”
And that was the start of poor Jenny’s plight,
forced to listen to vowel chimes night after night.
Before long she was making up rhymes for herself,
all her un-rhyming toys were just left on the shelf.
Even quenching her thirst could cause quite a stink,
no O.J for Jenny, her drink had to be pink.
They bought her some shoes, red, shiny and new,
“I’ve told you, I’m not wearing a shoe that’s not blue”
She demanded a dog so they went to the pound,
she picked the fattest one there, just to have a round hound.
Her bed had to be red, her jeans had to be green,
and a fish dish for dinner or she’d cause a right scene.
Stamping her feet she cried “I should be Jenna,
and for pocket money, I should be getting a tenner”
Each Friday brought tantrums, as she hardly had any,
reluctantly taking just a penny for Jenny.
Her increase in years simply brought more despair,
she bleached ebony locks for she needed fair hair.
The colours of clothes always caused her to cry,
so to get round the problem she learned to tie-dye.
Now I know it will come as some sort of surprise,
but Jenny had caught a young gentleman’s eyes.
He knew things would be tough, but he’d give it a try
so, with posies of roses, he dared to drop by.
The roses were great and he was kinda cute,
he’d even gone to the trouble of tie-dying his suit.
He was called Jack Kilkenny, his name did not rhyme,
so she told him to leave and stop wasting her time.
But Jack was his nickname, his real name was Lenny.
Alas, this information was not known to Jenny.
He was perfect for her, a match better than any,
for if they’d wed they’d be Lenny and Jenny Kilkenny.
Poem | |
Say not to me,
that it will not matter a hundred years from now,
that I was here.
For surely I have touched one life in a positive way,
perhaps in daily prayer
I've called your name one day.
Having no profound accomplishments or delusions of fame,
and leaving no progeny
to perpetuate my name,
still, it will matter that I was here.
For I have quietly endeavored to sow, and I have watered.
I love and am loved--should one desire more?
Life is good and hopefully God is pleased.
The tracks I'll leave, it's true,
will not be so ingrained as to stand harsh winds of time
and they shall fade as the evening sun,
leaving somewhere, only a name and date chiseled in granite.
Perhaps, if only in thought,
one pausing o'er me should question, who was this man?
Let God simply whisper, that I am His.
Poem | |
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone.
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs
like dandelion seeds blown from
My wistful lips when I was
waiting for them to bring back my wish.
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from
your father’s funeral.
It was the only time I watched you cry.
There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through
their watery colored reflections.
for the way your skin repels from my
Touch, quivers as though my finger-
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss.
You left her waitng..always.
I have been special to you,
she replies to your
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.
My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.
We will divide our booty
Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.
for the morning
now knocking on my window.
I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
the tangle of these vacant sheets.
Poem | |
Rain, if you were warm I would dance in you,
I would be like the breeze and whip around you
Rain, since you are cold I'll stay away from you
Its such a bummer cause I want to play with you.
Thoughts of running through the rain with you
Makes my heart go insane for you
I'll hold your hand and slow dance with you
Alone in the grassy meadow just me and you
What would I give to beat along with you
Dripping on the tin shed of the roof with you
Making sweet music on the wind chimes with you
Wet and soft on a blanket in the fields with you
Rain, I'd spend the entire night with you
Enjoying the touch and feel of you
No looking back when I'm with you
Rain oh how I would love to dance in you
Rain how intense is that storm the comes with you
The thunder and lightening that stays with you
Its okay because I still want to change with you
Rain oh how I want to become one with you.
Poem | |
"When returning love, becomes to Late"
From her eyes
His name the name
She mumbles silently
3 rivers, 3 years, 2 many tears
She loves him endlessly
Sending her soul
A free feeling,
Finally, he fell
Engaging, equal to the spell
Morning, mountains and more
Move across a new age moon
His heart happily
Traveling towards hers
Dashing dandy, onto her dinner plate
Too long she waited,
She's not hungry, her heart self healed
3 rivers 3 years 2 late
Her tears faded his rusty name
Poem | |
Fog settles on the tombstones. In the dark, an eerie blue,
the graveyard is a misty ocean Raven passes through.
She stops. The solitary site is grim, devoid of any sound.
Her long black gown, a ruffled slip, is satin sweeping ground.
Sable locks lie smooth and straight across her graceful back.
Stark contrast is her alabaster skin to hair pitch-black.
This woman - with a beauty that always captivates -
now stands, a pistol in her hand, and there steadfastly waits.
Told the man that she adores (who left some time ago)
lies buried here, the woman’s come, for Raven has to know!
She can’t believe that he could be here in this place of doom.
He’d left for war before they’d barely been a bride and groom.
Raven looks out on the sea of mist; her eyes have teared
because those birds that bear her name have suddenly appeared.
A sign it has to be, she thinks. The ravens drawing near
are circling above one stone. Her heart is seized with fear.
Raven walks to where the birds are circling above.
She pales. . . The stone she’s reading bears the name of her true love.
The fog, a sea engulfing all, has swallowed Raven too.
Gun raised, she drops down to his grave; she knows what she must do.
Inspired by the Contest "Among the Dead"
Sponsored by Constance ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Poem | |
Once in a forest, a long time ago,
there dwelt a young maiden, bright, sweet and fair.
Flowers she wore in her long wavy hair,
and each day she’d vanish into gloaming’s glow.
Alana Dulcita was this young maid’s name,
a name that fell sweetly from everyone’s tongue.
The townspeople loved her -both old and young,
yet nobody knew from where the girl came.
They only knew that, at the end of each day,
with sun dipping downward into the west
and sky splashed with colors Alana liked best,
was when, as if magically, she’d slip away!
“Where does she go?” all the villagers asked,
“And how does she leave us so quietly
that not even one of us ever can see?
Has some kind of spell on our dear girl been cast?”
Spell or no spell, the young maid had powers
as into the woodland she fled and then donned
a gossamer gown, hidden well near a pond
surrounded by beautiful flowers.
She peered into water after she’d kneel
as a lovely face gazed back at her.
In this perfect moment, what should occur
but, like magic, the girl became real!
Her filmy silk gown would blend with her skin,
shrinking into a stem, and her face
changed into petals till soon not a trace
remained of the form that a human lives in.
Alana Dulcita, her real self again,
breathing lilacs’ and lilies’ sweet scent,
would bow her fair face, a flower content,
to repose by the pond with her kin.
Awaking at dawn, renewed, she’d return
to the town where they loved her so well,
keeping the secret she never could tell
of youth’s beauty for which humans yearn.
She’d never grow old as long as she had
a place of seclusion where she might go
to water around which bright flowers could grow,
for this is what kept the soul of hers glad!
Never to marry and never to stay
too long in one place, she’d always move on.
Beloved she would be till the day she was gone.
This, for Alana, was the only way.
Alana Dulcita, where did she go
when forests grew small and lake beds grew dry?
Did the fair maid eventually die
or is she still sleeping where bright blossoms grow?
Note: The name Alana means "the bright fair one" in Gaelic
or "precious; awakening" in Hawaiian & "Beautiful dear child"
in Irish/ the name Dulcita is Latin for "sweet."
Written by Andrea Dietrich & Inspired by the "Reflections" Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France ~A Rambling Poet~