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Best Poems Written by Zachary Siechen

Below are the all-time best Zachary Siechen poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Spyro Haiku 3

Bear has money, gems
Plops into a pool of fresh
water, and is sad.

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Spyro Haiku 2

Purple dragon glides
so peaceful
Stone Blue
Flame in a yellow tundra.

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Spyro Haiku 1

Faun over a sight.
Rip tide in the maple leaves
means peril is nigh.

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You Or Are Your Eyes the Green of a Shamrock's Leaf

Are your eyes the green of a shamrock's leaf,
or your nose the tide that comes and runs? 
Is your skin the plains of pearls and perplexities,
your hair the curtain to a rainforest peace?

Could be your ears the caverns where rarities dwell,
and your shoulders belfries that will never ring?
May your chest be a wound that never swells,
and your heart be the silence that learns how to sing 

Is your hand a ten-minute first-light,
your fingers the fleeting moment that stays?
Might your arms ensphere the the broken, the evil, the cold,
bring what ends, for sure, to the prelude, alright? 

Your legs and feet, perhaps, lucid dreams and strange fools,
with bizarres and bazaars, eccentricities galore,
Playing with colors, creatures, the cosmos, the rules,
that no matter duration, leave invocation for more? 

Your mind calculates, creates, contemplates, is there,
But without You, none of these could ever, ever be. 
For without the green of a shamrock's leaf,
the vastest of woodlands would seem nothing but bare.

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Spyro Haiku 4

Breeze through the harbor
Nasty though it may be to
get to the Tree Tops. 
The fools that spring to life in
These woods are invincible.

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The Old Crow

There was once an old crow.
An old crow there once was
who never pestered the world
with the sound of his caws.
 
There was once an old crow,
dreamed of being an owl,
and hated each time
passersby would scowl. 

He hated the taste 
of bugs, bread and lice,
and longed instead 
for wild field mice.

He despised the sun,
especially the way
it painted black on his feathers:
horrid black, everyday. 

He didn't understand
why he made such a poor nest,
and whispered to the sky
for a full, glorious crest.

When he studied the stars,
he saw no constellations,
but imagined them there: 
his best form of creation. 

He had not the beak
for wild field mice;
he had not the iris 
to see clearly at night.

But he did have the heart
and the courage to dream
of being an owl
and all that that means.

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Terminus of Tears

The fifth bell hasn't rang since I can't remember when. 

The sorrowful life 
is endless.
It goes and it goes and it goes. 
Like oceans of sweat pouring from spheres of golden blue. 

Behind those I hide. 
They forgot me as easily as building a statue around a black bell. 

The fifth bell hasn't rang since I can't remember when. 

They forgot me as easily as pulling a veil over eyes. 
It's not even opaque. 
I bet I forget just as easily. 
I bet I can. 

As simply as the tide turns and turns and fades into vanishing dribbles and the dry, dry desert sand. 

The fifth bell hasn't rang since I can't remember when.