Home » Poems » Best » Michele Sherman » Best Michele Sherman Poems

Best Poems Written by Michele Sherman

Below are the all-time best Michele Sherman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

Modern Day Achilles Heel

this boy - 
he is mythology
he is the pomegranate sitting in persephone's 
palm - 
(looks can be deceiving)

this boy - 
he is a mirror
can show medusa what heaven really is - 
how pain really feels 
but medusa never looks 

this boy in the sun - 
he is the smoking gun 
in the death of icarus; 
he is the crime scene in the middle of the ocean 

this boy - 
this boy is murder 
he is cain holding a blade to abel's throat, 
holding a mirror up to medusa, 
force-feeding a pomegranate to persephone

this boy cuts the snakes off medusa's head
and makes snake-skin boots;
plucks the melted feathers from icarus'
cold hands and makes a throw pillow

this boy is murder when he wants to be;
this boy is murder when he needs to be

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

Small-Town Sanctuary

here is the house we grow up in;
down the road, there is the house we grow old in. 

somewhere down the road, split right down the middle, is everything in between. 

in this thousand acre town, there’s not much to know besides the way the grass rubs against our palms while we try to break our falls, or the way the concrete seems to have the same amount of cracks, every time we count. 

i found you in this town, three streets up, like you never meant to be far, to be hiding. 

i met you in the grass, dewy but ever so sweet. 
i met you with a chip in your tooth, dull but ever so sharp.
i met you, loud but never quiet. 

this town gave us fireflies in jars instead of train horns and city sidewalks;
gave us nights stargazing in your backyard instead of flashing lights in the middle of the street. 

this town was our match in a city-wide power outage, and we wouldn’t blow out the light for a second. 

this town made us, but it also saved us.

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

Honeybee

so, here's the thing. 

when you kiss me, there are no tsunamis. 
there is no hurricane behind my eyelids and there is 
no earthquake underneath us. 

but there is the buzzing. 
like a million, swarming bees, 
rattling around inside our veins. 

the buzzing is you, all soft and safe and
the swarming, well, the swarming is me. 

i am all chaos, all the time.
that unending rattling
inside of your skin. 

but in reality, aren't we really just the bees?
all lost and never really found, but searching - 
always searching. 

so tell me, honeybee. 
what comes first - 

the buzzing or the bees?

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

A Letter To Myself: No More Lighting Myself On Fire To Keep You Warm

honey, you are not responsible for the skeletons hidden in his closet. 

rinse. repeat. 
you are not responsible for the bones threatening to spill out. 

he can call you a doll and watch your cheeks redden,
but honey, 
you are only a doll because he has taken hold of your strings. 

you are not his marionette doll,
not a circus attraction 
with his name on the door. 

honey, he is not the ringleader. 

has no one told you, you aren’t 
responsible for taking apart his ribcage and fitting yourself beside his heart;
that you are not responsible for the emptiness you find there. 

he can kiss you sweetly and fill you with butterflies, 
but no one told you that butterflies turn into bees. 

and honey, more often than not,
they sting.

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

No Point In Changing You

i do not want to have to ask you to hold my hand 
i do not want to have to voice my insecurities 
like glass shards rolling off a tongue 
or a blade lodged in my throat;
it isn’t easy, to say the least 

i don’t want to feel like i am perpetually the deer in headlights, 
feeling the danger but staying, 
regardless. 

you looked so harmless in the summer light
but the heat has long since died out 
and the light is anything but warm 

i do not want to have to ask you to hold my hand -
you wouldn’t do it, regardless.

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

Ode To My Middle School English Teacher

ode to my middle school english teacher, who
taught me that even though you have a voice, 
it's better if you don't use it 

ode to my middle school english teacher, who
not only gave up on me halfway through
the year, 
but stopped feigning any kind of
support entirely

ode to the teacher who favorited the kids
who didn't deserve any favors

ode to the teacher that told a black boy to
go  himself

ode to the teacher that made a hispanic girl
cry; ode to the teacher who didn't see race,
unless it wasn't white

ode to the english teacher that almost
made me stop writing

ode to the teacher who cared more about
her cigarettes than the fact that
at least three girls in her class wanted to kill
themselves

ode to the only english teacher that mattered;
ode to the english teacher who only mattered
because she made me feel

like i didn't.

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

Tug-Of-War

welcome to this game of tug-of-war, where i always fall on my ass and always get back up for more. 

(i can’t tell if that makes me hopeful or stupid.)

welcome to this game of tug-of-war, where you are nothing but the apple falling from the tree and i am always the idiot biting into it, 
the idiot that always dies,
the idiot who never learns her lesson and takes bite after bite. 

in any given situation, i am the idiot and you are the sharp-tongued serpent with the quick wit and all the right words. 

in this game, i am the jester, the fool on a leash kept for your entertainment, held hostage by the god complex you hold so dearly. 

where’s the story where the fool fights back? 
where’s the fable or the tale where eve cuts off the head of the serpent, 
the jester spits in the king’s face, 
where the silly schoolgirl tells the asshole with the crooked smile to piss right off? 

here’s a hint: this is it. 

tired of being your plaything, your entertainment system on a leash, i am telling you to get lost. 
i am telling you the game is over, and this time, i’m the winner. 

this time, you fall and don’t get back up, not with this foot on your chest pinning you down. 

this is the story where the underdog fights back. 
this is the story where the used refuse to be abused.

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

I Think I'Ll Always Find You

'where do you think we go after death?'

she asks me this question with a rigid face;
stone cold and expecting
i open my mouth to answer and then - 
promptly close it 

i close my mouth in realization, wondering 
why it felt 
like the answer was supposed to be 
sitting there 
perched nice and pretty on the tip 
of my tongue
just waiting to pounce 

she asked me this weeks ago, maybe months 
and it seems i am unable to erase it
from my memory
i am also unable
to provide an answer

isn't it obvious?
we go back to each other; with another 
face and another voice and
a different name
we find our way back to each other 
back to the people we knew before
even if we didn't know it 

and the truth is
there isn't a way for us to know
we are no longer us; just a sliver
of a past life
caught up in something new

i told her this today, the words sitting
at the bottom of my throat
taking up too much space without permission

and at night i grasped her hand, curled
into her sleep warm chest
and i swear i heard her whisper
'i've found you again'

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

My Gaea

ever since i met you, you've reminded me
of the trees - 

all long legs and lean skin, my tree branch goddess
you flourish in the sunlight, basking in the heat

and for as long as i can remember, i have
thought about building a home inside of you 

you are safe where safe shouldn't be; i have
found comfort in your deep ridges

the vulnerability inside me is at ease
as i settle in the crook of your neck, 
wrapped safely in your branches

and it's reckless, god, i know it is
to live in a house with an unstable foundation 

and when they come kicking your door in
and chopping you down -

my dear, sweet forest girl

i will fall all the way down with you

Details | Michele Sherman Poem

The Ravens

the ravens came on a sunday.

i noticed them easily, perched in the bare trees like ink dots on a blank canvas
(i should have known). 

this unkindness did not come without penalty, did not come without bringing tragedy in their wake. 

she died on a monday, and i didn’t hear about it for hours. 
she died, and i never got to hear her say goodbye, never got to say it for myself. 

eleven years old and so very naive, i didn’t understand why the ravens were there one day, then gone the next. 
(i didn’t understand how she could be there one day, and then gone the next.) 

mom said she went in her sleep, that she was peaceful. 
dad didn’t say anything, because he never does. 

the ravens somehow disappeared, and so did saturday mornings at grandma’s, 
so did daily phone calls after school,
so did a childhood where ignorance was bliss. 

lately, the trees have been bare, absent with the flapping of wings and the cracking of the branches. 
lately, the air’s been getting warmer, and the skies are never gray.

the ravens were the tarot card, a sign with no misinterpretation, no misunderstanding of what they meant. 

the ravens are gone, 
the trees are bare, 
the canvas is blank

(fingers crossed it stays that way). 

the ravens

             for maya