Writing Mystery Poems

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Details | Quatrain |
Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.

With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.

He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.

Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.

I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.

A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?

My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013




Details | I do not know? |
Raindrops
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
my spine

Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty 
about what tomorrows
pain may bring

They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
illumination. glistening
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best

Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide

Ready to Receive
whatever
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
my spine

My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
does bring
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
home

For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine

Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
The Ink Bottle sits, alone,
It’s only Companions,
The Feathered Pen,
The Paper Pad.

The Desk, once alive,
The Words,
No longer,
Written.

Love, abandon,
But wanting not,
The Freedom,
It has.

A Wooden Chair, dusty,
Reclines not,
For the Comfort,
Once given.

Time, a mystery gone,
With passing,
Never to be recovered,
Longing.

Days of gloom, waiting,
Shine not, The Light,
The Heart,
Once brightened.

Come back, to Me,
My words, of Joy,
Of Laughter,
Wisdom, once known.

Copyright © Kenneth Fordham | Year Posted 2008




Details | Sonnet |
Betrayed Expectations 
    (Sonnet) 

I flew to Olympus, to find its heart	
armor intact against Hades' dark wrath.
At birth the power of light made its start 
as Homer's ghost sent me upon my path.  

Yet there I found only an empty throne	
where once Zeus in glory firmly reigned.	
So sad! For no lighted wisdom was shown.	
Such that grievous and blue, my heart was pained.
 
Thunder and lightning I didn’t yearn to find  
Nor divine favors for eternal youth. 
I wanted reassurance, peace of mind, 
justice for all and no distorted truth.	

At the foot of Olympus I sought love	 
but no compassion came down from above.

--------------------------------------------------
Robert Lindley & Paul Callus ~ 29TH November 2015

Note: It was a true pleasure collaborating with my friend
Paul Callus on this poem. His poetic advice and addition
both were top notch. And appreciated greatly was the 
opportunity to learn from him.
You have my sincere thanks, my very talented poetic friend.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

Details | ABC |
Alphabet Constructs 3 2 1

Annotated Achilles amends fallen frame amputees

Bulimec Barbies browse media monkey banalaties

Cameo clouds cling to beaded breath curios

Dopamine dreams dilenate check cash desires

Echo endorfins eulogize bullet brain excrement

Fecal folly fantasies reveal relevant frivoloties

Gonadial grownups gulp secret scrotal generosities

Helical hemorriods hinder senior stricken hemocraps

Idiotic ideals idioiosyncrate post partem iconoclasts

Jack Jill juxtapositories seek sexestential jouveniers

Kryptic killer kisses ascot arrogant kingdumbs

Liquid lipid loiners fear frontline lucklullibies

Malovent mommies masterbate rich reflective mommocules

Nevertheless nightengales nourich ruby rich noonbeams

Ovulatory occults outsource torrent tofu outrages

Pensive picses picnics lovelorny passions 

Queer quiet quintensials release rancid quotients

Rape ripe residuals nullify nimble reprocussions

Silky seafoam silohouttes fornicate frothy sandlets

Tepid torch trilogies belie beligerent tourniquets

Useless utterences utilize organize orgasmic utopias

Venimous vixens violate cruel.com visions

White willow wombs softly seed hospice hell winds

XY XX xfactors envision extracurricular xraydoms

Yearning yoyo yesterdays calculate clearcovert yeilds

Zen zealous zions mirror maginfy Zoneotones 

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
As I think back to that dark time in our community I don’t know if I’d ever seen anyone quite 
like that (Cinder Girl). We girls thought she had (Lovely Bones). The last time I saw her alive, 
she was sitting on her porch blowing a (Dandelion Wishing) for a long life.I think she knew 
that (Before Night Falls) her (Worst Fear) would be realized. The beast from the nether 
world, who I think directed everything was that (Dog That Wears a Cone). He sat in her side 
yard staring at her. The locals called him Cujo, he was (By Any Other Name), (The Beast of 
Our Making). Cujo aside, (That Guy Paul) Cujos’ minion, was one (Bloody Bastard). He was 
going to involve Cinder in (A Rural Tragedy) of epic proportions.
 
It went down on a (Heavy Slush)y winters’ eve guaranteed not to be a pastoral (Scene On a 
Road in Winter). I had entered the old abandoned farmhouse on my way home from town. I 
was cold and my feet were wet from the slush. I sat down in a small room out of the draft. I 
heard voices outside. Paul endured (The Wait) for his accomplice in the cold. When she 
arrived he began talking to (The Girl Who Wears the Dragon Tattoo). Then I saw what he 
had done. 

(What was I Thinking) (What If) they found me hiding (Inside This Little Room). Paul and the 
dragon lady were sweaty (Toilers at the Trench), digging frozen dirt in winter is hard work. I 
heard Paul laugh as he said to “TATS,” this time we’re (Cleaning House)… Was I next?

Suddenly, the opportunity for escape from this nightmare arose. Jake the bumbling county 
snow plow driver unknowingly swung the truck onto the farmstead with its’ halogen lights 
probing deep (Into Night). He had (Thwarted) their hiding this heinous crime. The sight he 
illuminated gave me the [That Potent Urge(Gotta Go, Gotta Go Right Now)]. I ran from that 
house into the night. No one ever knew I was there and since Jake was the only witness the 
court needed, I never came forward.

Jake had never been (My Kind of Apple) because (Jake Sure Loved His Beans). Regardless, 
Jake unknowingly saved my life that night. I never thought it would happen but over time I’d 
grown accustomed to the gas. We were married late last fall and as we left the reception I 
saw Cujo on a nearby hill wearing that ominous cone. I thought to myself as he watched us 
leave, he knows…

            Oh God, he knows I was there!

            *This narrative derived from the titles of one poets work here on the Soup.

Copyright © John Trusty | Year Posted 2010

Details | Haiku |
Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)

           Understanding A
       Metaphysical Moment …
       … Nature’s Mysteries



                 This Haiku is for:
       The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))

                        MoonBee

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Verse |
Extraordinary, I am 
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding  the gift I shouldn't fought
 
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
My passion
The food of my soul
 
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
 
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
 
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When  my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
 
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart

Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |
Come on artists
lets play a game
its all different to me and i want you to see how i am different
and let me shine as you sign up another way 
as i prove to you my leadership of this new age wave

cards cards
give them new meanings
like you never knew you could 
and lets make the psychics pine through our words to figure out
what they are reading and believing

I wanna see your hearts and spades
dressed in tall grass or lemonaide
i wanna see your cups and wands
inbetween whispering winds and songs lead me there
i know you can come on 
come on 
come on be strong 
like a suit of clubs or diamonds
show me something
and then sprinkle your writings
and we'll make collectors out of all those we invite here
as they read and ponder the meanings of our literature

whats in your hand?
a royal flush a pair?
and as we deal the cards they stumble upon at this endless game 
of cribbage or poker
or tarock
or war who is winning and getting points?
what card means what to who and why

tell me artist as you write with your style on low and high
what makes what suit smile and fade shine and slide?
inside outside sphere of influence
be their collective the object of the psychics to crave?

blind leading the blind
and something they are after for days and days

a few cards your favorite cards play smart or dumb
shuffle the cards pick a game deal a hand
reveal what your playing and one day i'll tell you what we're playing what your 
cards mean
if nothing
to someone one day when the stumble your way
the mystery of nothing speaks something
and we rebuild the puzzle of cartomancy better and better this way

just inspire
once you know you can't
blind leadin gthe blind
so after you read this you can't
play along your uninvited
strike it off your list of things to do
round one is over now go find all who wrote
all who write all who have wriitten the masterpieces
of cards and see what they mean today and collect them for that is something no 
one else can do
until round two....

Copyright © Troy Nelson | Year Posted 2007

Details | Quatrain |
I am so far out of my element
It almost seems unreal
When in truth, which I always seek to find
Pretence is all that I feel
In this, my second language
I aim to express the glistening skin
That hides the shallow graves of conscience
Trapped so deep within
The pottery I shape in craft
Though pedistilled and on display
A camouflage that’s merely drafted
words of wisdom most portray
And in the spirit of fairness
As a virtue which we all possess
Accept my resignation
For this sport has had its best 
I’m off to party hard and waste
My life as best as I know how
The animal within this chest
Needs freedom to survive for now
The playing game of words
is but a winding road that’s filled with stone
I’m parched in parts unheeded
As my cluttered soul heads home

Copyright © Brandon Basson | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative |

The art of my pains 
is in the blood stain ink of me
while I write day and night 
to give insight of me that bleeds
while the world reads ,
 
this is my own battle cry's 
that are left in my mind 
I see all the dead souls around me
while I dream my darken pains
of the days of rain that hasn't gone away,
 
I was born in a painful storm
the memories stayed with me 
oh how the pains had cut me deep 
the words that hurt made bigger storms 
I hold my breath like I was dead
thinking it would all end ,
 
I now realize as I got older 
you cannot fix anyone 
that don't want the help 
so why in the hell did this life paint me
and put me down into a devastated storm 
the past has away to paint my life gray 
this is the art of me that bleeds .
 
Poetic Judy Emery (c)

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2016

Details | Dramatic Verse |
Words are just a decoy
An excuse to dance around the truth
Underestimated silence
Proves language is uncouth

Your gut will always tell you
What your heart tries to ignore
Most try their best to silence it
Stirring an internal war

Why deny yourself of happiness?
Why pretend logic is correct?
Why hide behind a curtain?
Why pretend our hearts select?

Ignorance is truly bliss
Too bad that's not our case
Lets take a risk and show our courage
Let our souls meet face to face.


Copyright © Leah Werner | Year Posted 2011

Details | Rhyme |
Writing with a pin,
I know it is wrong.
Writing with a pin,
Blood is being drawn.

Writing with a pin,
My skin's burning and searing.
Writing with a pin,
It's wrong, but it has a satisfying feeling.

Copyright © BRITTANY MOON | Year Posted 2010

Details | Light Poetry |
‘ A  Metaphysical  Moment ’

A Metaphysical Moment
Electrifying To The Touch
Breathless, Thru The Clouds
Can My Heart, Take So Much

… Can My Eyes Endure
All This Vision, I See
Can Voice, Even Speak
Over Roaring of This Sea

… Can Ear Even Listen
When I Am Flying So Free
Soaring, So True With You and
Metaphysical Moment and Me …

A Metaphysical Moment
Will I Ever Understand
This Mystery of Our Universe
The Mystery of Woman and Man …


(And I End This with an Haiku for
The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno and
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))


Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)

          Understanding A
      Metaphysical Moment …
      … Nature’s Mysteries


Metaphysical (definition) as an adjective:

Metaphysical of early 17th Century Poetry
Relating to the poetic style of John Donne,
George Herbert and other early 17th Century Poets
Who used consciously intellectual language
And elaborate metaphors that compared things

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Imagism |


As midnight bursts like stardust on a cobblestone My raw vision transports me beyond earth’s floor, Where marbles with painted dots turn into hallways And shamans in long robes on axis roam: Here I write of gothic myths and folklore Releasing secrets through drumbeats of old tribal songs As dark mysteries lay deep on hidden pools… The acid in my bones spreading unknown lyrics While stylus of quill darts on flamed parchment Unraveling my soul … coaxing the young to dream. Ir0nic ZiNk’s Contest written 1/31/2017 It’s Too Early To Write Poetry

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
This is the center
of all my work
I write one line
before and after each line
and you will see
when you place my lines of other poems in between
this is my reality coming undone
for this is my center

For I am but a fool
out to trick myself
I am a clown
stuck in the middle
of something
and somewhere
wondering what else?

This is the key
of what i said before and after
the reality of my craft
and the solutions
to all my upcoming endless 
psycho babble chapters
of genies and wishes
and batters and pitter patter

This is the center
I'm spiraling out from
a line above and below
to read between
each piece
a true obviousness
of limited wonder and laughter
moons
and hanged men

For this is just the middle
of everything
but it's not really
so this is my disguise
of a confession

Copyright © Troy Nelson | Year Posted 2006

Details | Rhyme |
Fingers nimbly tapping his
heart onto the page
a rich tapestry of heartache
gentleness and rage

perceptions that astound me
engaging my soul
first one way, then another
a fall down the rabbit hole

who is this gifted writer
who speaks in shortened lines
tap tap tapping out his magic
til my heart he entwines

Copyright © Jill Martin | Year Posted 2006

Details | I do not know? |
College none,
Highs school drop out indeed.
English I am still learning.
Tutored not in the writing.
Asked,
"How?"
Given life from Above,
Heart to live & breathe,
Seeking beyond me.
Author He is, 
Entrusted me with the pen,
With Lovely Words of Faith,
"Now do something with all of these."

Copyright © Mark Hansen | Year Posted 2006

Details | Free verse |
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot 
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine 
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians 
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them

Copyright © Green Trees | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |
He draws you in -
Compelling mental images
of atmosphere and entryways;
state rooms; glades; soft nudges.
Letting your fear flourish unaware. 



Note: Author Dean Koontz

Copyright © Judith Angell Meyer | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative |
Back in roman times I was called a stylus
I wrote messages and stories on papyrus Writing since Before Christ, 
Don't matter what the time is 
Even wrote for the great poets known as the vikings 
I translated Roman-to-English with just hyphens
I can go back and forth on the timeline 
Used by the dude who even wrote "Mein Kampf" 
But before that used for maps to draw islands 
I even wrote that rap and I screamed "BYE STAN!!" 
I've seen everybody’s diaries, but I don't speak 
I write the dreams they have seen, it's punishing... 
I'm their best friend at quiet times 
For poets,and rappers that write rhymes 
Or artists, that compose the lights eyes 
Oops I mean the end of night, it's the "sunrise" 
I cry when they draw their mental picture 
I miss it easy, like the ancient Egyptian scriptures 
Last week I wrote a broken heartfelt letter of a boys dead sister 
His tears made me smear, smudge and bitter as well
 I mean i'm supposed to be emotionless, but this feels like hell 
I guess literature is the only way I help 
This is how I'd explain it, if someone asked how I felt 
I'm literally consumed in everybody’s literacy 
Different languages, but I still know their history.... 
I’m the victim see, every word written composes verbal imagery 
Even carved Mozarts spirit in every symphony 
I take everyones thoughts and write it down lyrically 
Have you solved my mystery? I need some sympathy 
One second i’m drawing so skillfully, then destroying paper so viciously 
So if you’re crazy just like me, take my spot and fight off this infantry 
Then you will see, all these sad letters of these casualties 
Of when France defended against the great Italy 
I’ll riddle more, I was even there when the bible was born 
I was even used for the art of the Tribal of course 
I even wrote of the tale of the Trojan horse 
I even seen the great GRA fight 
GRA meaning arts and culture 
I’m running out of graphite.

Copyright © Trent Billy | Year Posted 2016

Details | Haiku |
the less i have of
the additional use of
the more it breaks down

Copyright © Trevor McLeod | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |
It's a grand thing, yes, it is.

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse |
Ones who wage,
Ones who rage,
Ones who take,
Ones who pay,
Ones who craze,
Ones who rave,
Ones who crave…

Ones who fear,
Ones who breathe,
Ones who give,
Ones who need,
Ones who will,
Ones who weave…

Ones who plead,
Ones who beg,
Ones who beseech,
Ones who entreat,
Ones who appeal,
Ones who volunteer,
Ones who disappear…

The ones who follow,
The ones that don’t know about tomorrow,
The ones who don’t deserve the morrow…

The ones who sleep,
The ones who cry,
The ones who live,
The ones who die…

The ones who proclaim,
Those who say they create,
The ones who ache,
The ones who don’t wait,
The ones who hesitate,
The ones who don’t concentrate,
The ones who fornicate,
The ones who procrastinate…

Those who fall in temptation,
Those who get in frustration,
Those who sometimes feel desperation,
Those who keep going without caution,
Those in motion,
Those in tension,
Those losing notion,
Those being poisoned,
Those getting in distortion,
Those following the broken diction,
Those dying like the billions,
Those without unction,
Those washed in the oceans…

I might seem cold,
But it is you who is bold.
I might not express,
But it is you who doesn’t let me progress.
I might not seem like I seek,
But it is you who doesn’t know me…
I might seem like I need,
But it is you who might always be begging on your knees.
I might seem dull,
But it is the one that is fool.
I might not be alight,
But it is you who isn’t truly alive…

I will remain neutral,
I will remain silver,
I will remain gray,
I feel darkness,
I feel light,
I will remain hallowed…,
After all, it is you who deserves no life…

I am a metal hawk,
I am a mountain goat,
I am a silver bird,
I am a gray wolf,
I am a white tiger,
I am a mystic rose…,
I am I…

I’m alive,
And I survive,
You are here,
However, it is you who deserves no life…

Being human does not imply that you have humanity…

Copyright © Ruben Alejandro Hernandez Diaz | Year Posted 2013

Details | Name |
            So many amazing Artist ~
             one would never complain

            Just to be amongst all Soup 
             my name will never be plain

            I love all indiscriminately 
            My friends you'll  remain 

            Not to confuse or cause pain
            for the reason lies not in Vain

             From now on just call me 
                Shanity Rain ~

           However my Children remind me , I'm Insane ~
        '   Shanity Rain  my new Pen name  '

Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
Check i out

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Bio |
I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation 
                     of words cascading from a nebulous eye 
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto 
                     a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,

and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly 
                     sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades 
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry 
                     fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,

Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion 
                     itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so 
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever 
                     careering from caustic career path to another new low,

Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s 
                    counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the 
                    fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp 

Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent 
                    with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering 
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond 
                    farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering 

Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and 
                    gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the 
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed 
                    existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a

Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding 
                    gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of 
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels 
                    in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love. 


Praise no other; I am poetry.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
As naturally and effortlessly as birds fly
Unannounced and quietly an Idea came by
Faster than the weightless wind it flew
Where it came from no one asked, no one knew

Longing for a cloak in which to be wrapped
It knocked on many doors asking to be dressed
It wished to be given a shape and form for all to see
It wanted an existence, and in this world a chance to be

The farmer was farming, the worker busy working
The judge was judging, the thief in the shadows lurking
The preacher was of the invisible kingdom preaching
The poet alone with his heart and soul for the Idea reaching

It seized him and became the fire in his veins
The beating in his heart, the throbbing in his brain
It became the movement of his arms and legs
He asked for the right words like a beggar for food begs

The Idea through the flesh was about to be born
The invisible by the visible longed to be worn
Like newlyweds neither knew too well the other
They had to unite: each’d be both father and mother

Now the idea took control and led the poet’s pen
Then It was overpowered by the brutish man
Now he’d try to bend It, to suit his words, to shape It 
Then It bent him so that into each other they’d fit

He wished to be a channel for the Idea he sensed
It had a burning desire, a purpose to be expressed
When possessing parts of both the work was done 
An idea of the Idea was born - a battle both lost and won

Copyright © laszlo kecsedi | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
Duke Luke by his bateau
Arrived at his chateau,
Had he travelled through large eau!

His mysterious rendez-vous 
with Henry Thoreau
Yielded him a scarlet portmanteau.

Entering his bureau,
he took off his manteau
and opened the portmanteau:

The Snow Man was inside
And though not well could he sing,
Sang he a song of himself:




Stopping by woods on a snowy evening
He met Annabel Lee on a large shelf,
Frightened he was by the raven
And took the road not taken:

Crossed he the mending wall
And hearing the anecdote of the jar
To noble savage Billy Budd an honest fare he paid

Large and far
Travelled he
From spring to fall

Self-reliance: the idea he hath
The American Scholar guided his path;

He slept a long time
In a clean well-lighted place;

One winter he woke up
In a station of the metro:
He fastened his tender buttons
and found a red wheelbarrow;
'No ideas but in things' -
A lovely image this brings!

To his disappointment and sorrow,
He never saw the snows of Kilimanjaro.




Duke Luke in disbelief
Wiped his eyes
And pinched his ears;

The Snow Man disappeared.

Duke Luke
Took a look 
At his portmanteau
In hopes of seeing something


He found


Nothing.

Copyright © Lukasz Walterowicz | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
As children, we all dream,
tales of magic, of mystery,
and our own imagined destinies;
we dream of future prowess, of our own fantastic wyrds –
of our glorious, important place in the cosmos.

Whether those dreams are of firemen, police,
soldiers, artists, scientists,
writers, musicians, or something that isn't there,
like superheroes or the princes and princesses of old,
we all want to be something greater, even in youth.

I, too, dreamt these childhood dreams
of glory and legend, enchantment and song;
I too felt their pull,
heeded their call and let imagination sweep me away –
for a time.

Eventually we move on from the past,
accepting its existence, its wonder, sometimes its pain,
its place in who we have since become –
and so did I, from the fanciful paths of yesterday
to the more grounded ones of today and tomorrow.

Or so I thought.

For, of late, and a litte while before,
I have been tending a magic all my own;
not the magic I'd envisioned, the kind of fire and ice,
light and fury –
the kind of word and verse.

Now I voice my thoughts in phrase and letter,
birthing a new, separate being;
a being of explanation, of concepts and sensation,
with a life all its own, on the page and in my heart –
parts of me, grown in my mind and given form as poetry.

And now I've discovered, it's this kind of magic I prefer –
the dreams of the past truly can't compare
to the realities of today;
not when I can take the barest thought, slightest inspiration,
and change it into something so much more.

Not when I've become not only myself, but a vessel,
a repository for idyllic words to come coursing through –
for my muse inhabits my mind, beside me,
forever changing my outlook and my output;
yes, that's my kind of magic.

Copyright © Andy Sprouse | Year Posted 2012