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Best Poems Written by Mike Ruff

Below are the all-time best Mike Ruff poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

I Look To the Moon

I look to the Moon, hanging aloft
Among the clouds so milky soft.
How must it feel, so high above?
So chilled and bleak and void of love.

Collapsed and sunken are his eyes,
Dark and deep as the onyx skies.
As the Moon shies from the sun,       
I share no love with anyone.

The Moon is alone, without affection.
In its grim face is my reflection.
Inside my heart, the longing grows,
And rots my soul, a sickly rose.

While I look beyond this cage,
I clench my fists; they shake with rage.
I desperately stare above,
Wishing to fly, free as a dove;
For release from the troubled heart I claim,
To be finally rid of the madness and shame.
                                      
Although reprieve is found in song,
To no one does my soul belong.
In music, may the pleas be spoken,
But all in vain; the heart is broken.
                            
The Sphere returns, begins to sigh.
We are not so different, You and I.
So twisted and fractured is the White Stone.
We both have no one; We are both all alone.

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

Nightingale's Watch

Through somber steps each climb is made;
The fruitless efforts fail.
Thus, love unshared and work unpaid
Disturbs the nightingale.

In song it copes
With fears and hopes;
From limbs it hung,
All feelings sung.

Warm waters crawl beneath its wings
On lonely twilight trips.
Yet, cold of nighttime softly stings
The feet with which he grips.

So many are the shamed
Whose sorry sights were aimed
To win the hopeless fight;
The one unanswered plight.

Where care once came
Comes only shame;
Now only rhyme
Recalls the time

When lovers held each other tight
On nights of endless laughter.
The nightingale would take its flight,
Rejoicing ever after.

But friends refuse each others hands,
The sign of cherished life.
On edge of death his heart now stands.
Serrated is the knife.

Now gone away again to mourn
The winged creature flies,
Until the warmth of love reborn
Revives the sunken eyes--
Those bitter sockets filled with tears
Reflect the speckled moon.
Escape from tortured life appears--
He ends the final tune.

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

The Demonic Child

I stare down the alley, upon a tree.
The Demon Child does stare at me.
I look back and He isn't there,
Leaving me frightened and unaware.

I can feel His unlimited hate,
Piercing flame burns as Hell's gate.
That evil Thing sees through my soul.
Each eye is like an empty hole.

I run with my very soul's essence,
But nothing can relieve me of His presence.
I turn around, and there are more,
So i reach down, onto the floor.

I pick up a club of nails and wood,
And I facing them, there I stood.
Looking forward, I was ready to fight.
With what ever remained of my soul's might.

I swung so hard, my club did peel,
But useless against skin hard as steel.
I gather my strength and lunged ten feet,
Over a fence and onto the street.

I look with happiness, then almost cried,
The oncoming cars have no one inside.
There is nothing, no one, but Them and me.
Why is this how it has to be?

I am exhausted, but continue to sprint,
The light of hope is only a glint.
I get an idea, and find some rope.
I know this is my only hope.

I climb all the way to the roof of my house,
And I hide there like a panic-stricken mouse.
With none in sight, I can finally rest.
What happened next, I couldn't have guessed.

As I lay in wait, Something taps my shoulder.
My stomach sinks just like a boulder.
He just stands there, pointing at me.
I am certain it's futile to flee.

Because they are all there, voices dark but true:
"Why do you make it so easy for us to find you?"

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

Sacred

Sometimes in the course of history, there comes along a man.
He is righteous and afraid.
Bound by the might of his mind.
Learned and full of insight, he can tell you most anything you need to know.
But he is human.
And must also be a person,
But a person is a mask.
A character in a story,
He knows the story isn't written right.
He sees the wickedness of your thought,
Deeper than the fear he feels in telling you.
You are wrong.
It's not your fault.
You can only borrow at first.
But you have to see the shadows to know of them,
And you must create to know they are not.
We deal in shadows, projections, made from a character of our own creation.
Break character.
I know you can.
Wake up.
Dream.

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

A Flish Is a Telescope

The hardened heart of man remains
Dissected by each border.
Hoax headlines heading to the street
By chaos wings of bloody order.
Sedated nations wade in tar
As Earth accrues its human burden...
Slow and turn your thirsty car,
Consume the fumes, and close the curtain.

Was it you who drugged the skies?
And scraped the scabs of sacred skin
In earnest, mad'ning cries?
Your speed's no savior from these eyes--
Tired lenses, wet with lies.
Or truth perhaps, that is the game:
Social movement, gain and fame.

The respirator stays my breath,
A chair or crutch to you, depending.
Hope-drunk nonsense, doom impending:
Law, the life support of conscience.

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

Today Poems

i lovey love-love youu more then i can
say. you wont ever understand the way i felt
keeping you was like a dreem and
 we should 
be togther why did it end i wish i knew
just
 keep the lovey-love love until 
i see you agian i cant wait it might not ever
be the
same but i dont care becaues you love me to
i love you

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

On the Mockery of Free Verse Poetry

I reserve no respect for poems without rhyme.
In them, I would invest not even a dime.
Writing in free verse is so simple—so easy,
That reading it is certain to make me feel queasy.
The question we must ask ourselves,
Is “What belongs up on our shelves?”
Why do some compose refuse?   
There are better styles to choose!
Writing with rhythm requires more skills;
A beat is the life-blood that free verse spills!

However one may feel inside,
Meter is the tool and guide.
If one does write without a rhyme,
It’s his depressing paradigm!

I despise short poems, crippled and leaning,
Which struggle in vain to contain a meaning.
Tales of darkness and bitter end—
Poor depiction destroys the blend.
Depressing are the stories—what’s more: the skill,
Or lack thereof! What poems fulfill

Is the duty to express, but not words alone.
The language untamed does make me moan
With an aching sadness for poets lost.
Mediocrity comes at a heavy cost.

I hold, for these poems, an unrestrained disdain
And I pray to God they will cease to remain.
Yet my work is flawed, but with sound reasoning.
Every good poem deserves some seasoning.

Poetry is a sacred creation, 
Which some believe can bring salvation,
But tainted is this form of literature
In the hands of a petty amateur.
Are these "poets" blind as moles?
Or are they lacking in their souls?

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

The Failed Sunrise

The blackened sky revives in blue.
Sky’s mess of gray becomes a hue.
The robin chirps to see the dawn,
Now all await what has been gone.

The sphere most bright, a circle smear
Unfolds straight upward, very near
Until the sun appears in sight.
From edge of nothing creeps the light.

But on this morn came sickly rot,
The black seas rambled from the spot
Where sky had fallen into dust.
The currents smelled of curdled must.

The final fate was clear depicted,
And from a morning unpredicted
Earth's life was taken surprise,
And nevermore the sun would rise.

Horizon cracked, the grasses blood,
Raw reddened scabs of flooded mud.
The living pierced in lung and heart,
Convulsion’s dance, perverted art.

The stifled screams of gasping pain
Are deadened in the viscous rain.
Now stiffened carcasses will lay
And putrefy in crimson clay.

Where magma tongues caress the sod,
Come bright endowments from our God.
The sackcloth moon unthreads and burns
The twisted gods did mankind spurn.

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

My Love, My Love!

Life has changed, tables have turned!
My faith and hope, my love returned!
Her smile is pure, so rich with joy…
She has transformed me into a boy…
I’d give my soul for her Stars of Bright.
For they illuminate the darkest night!

I wasted the time as my heart quickly aged…
I embraced the Moon, I was Enraged.
Such a fool was I to have despaired…
There was no one for whom I cared.
I feel a love that will not waver.
These times with her I will forever savor.

I’d forfeit my life for her Locks of Dark.
She makes the others appear blunt and stark.
And all that I have done to survive…
One look and I suddenly spring alive!
Just the thought of her keeps me flying!
I will now profess my love undying.

Details | Mike Ruff Poem

The Dying Limb

So tightly squeezed shut
Is the flow to healthy flesh,
That might by your release 
Ramble back and return again.

The tireless dancer sends an echo,
Desperate, pressing,
Pulsing into the vice
So far from home.