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Best Poems Written by Julian Garretti

Below are the all-time best Julian Garretti poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Monsters

Monsters may not want blood,
and they may not have claws,
nor the mandible, drooping—
the smiling jaws;
without scales or hair,
even growling, I dare
say that monsters may lurk
deep inside you.

Still, without teeth
they may gnaw at your soul;
without mouths, they may take you
and swallow you whole,
or leave you in tact
save a broadening hole
that pulls you inside
and reminds you.

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Til Then Burning

Today I awoke, half-eaten by
a stubborn flame that cannot die

though long the coal departed;
I lay here broken-hearted,

like it was yesterday she said
she needs me not before she fled

as times before, though yearning
and every time returning.

I wonder as the months go by
her lodging, and the reason why

she bore it all, untethered
then left me just her feathers

and the most pretty memory 
for my diurnal reveries

assuring, to be clear,
to me she’s dying to be near

and yet dreams of returning,
to quench me, ‘til then burning.

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Living Without You

How do you sleep at all
when a poem learns to breathe
and begins living inside you?
(not behind the shelf
the sexton has the key to)

Why should I sleep, anyway?
I dream enough awake
and couldn't find rest
if I slept for days.
(because you'd saturate sight)

I just want to think of you
when I choose to, and love you
the way your friends do,
(without prayer,
and that pale sustenance)

but tonight I'll not sleep at all;
I'll whisper and sprawl.
Poems aren't alive, but you and I,
(with just the door ajar)
we are.

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Hocus Pucus

At every birth is God, by whom
each lifespan is decided,
and when One spends another year,
a cherubim will then appear
to note the age, lest one spend more
than what the Lord's provided...

...and in the wood, behind the thick,
Medieval wenches, ravenous
for skin that clings to flesh like silk,
and in light shimmers, pale as milk,
have a special, ghastly trick
for keeping health like maidens:

Bring a victim to your palms 
and hold It to your lips,
purse them, then consume the soul
(slowly; never take it whole,
or leave It even partly full—
waste not a bit!) in sips.

Mind the age of every one;
the rest of what's allotted
upon ingestion of a soul
will be reckoned with your own
longevity, it should be know—
by children, be besotted!

Stay you healthy, young and fine,
for ever uneclipsed,
and them stay humanly resigned,
until they separate, in time,
as we're each to eternity
eternally affixed!

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Keep Your Jack-O-Lantern Lit

Remember,
keep your jack-lantern lit
‘cause on this eve should its flame quit,
dead-bolted doors won’t protect you 
from baleful spirits pouring through!

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Realize

I remember the first time you lied
to allay your fear of ineptness;
you told me that I oughtn't try
for my lack of finesse and depth.

I realize that things were at stake:
your "prowess," your pride and some other.
It was tougher to pin, but your veneer is thin:
't was the love and respect of your mother.

The motives are merely suspect,
for I can't simply verify any,
but you once were besotted, and purring you lauded
my every line. There were many

lies that I told you, as well:
commending... a generous bit.
It was mostly benign had I chosen "divine"
to describe a new stanza you writ.

Yet, it sometimes seemed magic because
it was you whose hand penned every word,
and my love of it grew for the buzz
that you got just by striking a chord

'cause in truth, discord lives in your blood;
it rules how you write and the way that you live,
and the curious way that you love,
and your custom of taking with nothing to give...

but that's an aside. It was obvious,
but typical, typical me:
too naive, too frightened and modest
to know that you lied through your teeth.

Despite practise, performance and even
recording yourself for the fans
you hoped to accrue... let's be honest,
your best was still awfully wan.

Had sooner you stepped from the altar
and stripped yourself clean of intent,
released from the fear that you'd falter,
you may have achieved some ascent.

Still you may, but now everything's hidden.
I've suspensions about that, as well.
But whatever the reason, I realized your lie,
and I wonder if you ever will.

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Mistake

Some errors you "should not” regret;
some things should change for ever, yet
it's not like hearts to soon forget
what once they knew so fondly—

but sometimes you need not restart
despite the season of the heart,
for only reason can impart
the nature of a person.

The heart moves quickly to assess,
and far too quickly to address
by what it truly is impressed,
and lo, it's skilless effort

ends in error; shameful change
that needn't be, with needless blame 
perverts each person's blameless name 
for nothing.

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To Her

Here's to dying, rueful eyes,
beautiful but made to cry;
to a mouth too choked to sing, 
and ears that can't hear anything.

Here's to needles 'neath the skin,
burning just to be on him;
to the blood that swells and drips,
reminiscent of his lips.

Here's to spasms of tortured flesh,
strong until she 'came bereft,
and palpitations in her chest;
heartbeats fading with her best.

Here's to shrieks and severed bone,
the fleeing of her mobile home;
to a new found heart of stone,
broken with a warning.

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In Any Event

I’m surmounted by 
age-old anxiety,
and bright dreams of 
laying under a stone
to mark my place among 
people on every side of me,
worm-eaten and absolutely alone.

I move through the days 
in chains of nostalgic tragedy,
with new reasons to bury
beneath the old oaks
with wounded flesh and 
all of the things that madden me,
a heavy heart, and a vessel
that has to go.

Details | Julian Garretti Poem

The Fall

August carries with it every time 
It comes again—like a familiar rhyme—
The sweet and tender sense of bygone days
Like this; a promise kept that all will be
All right for friends and family, and me.

Proceeding it each year, September’s kiss:
A cool and subtle flame, not unlike this—
But passionate, erasing my malaise;
Her lips come off me with a charming growl,
And echoes of October’s eager howl.

October comes with light and dark abreast,
And not unlike a hasty party guest—
Such energy and charm, do ever stay!
She grins, “I love to be here, don’t you know?
“Though really I adore it, I must go.” And

When she goes, enters my friend November,
With always something pleasant to remember—
Then how my spirit climbs without delay!
He walks me to an unreached elevation,
And parts with just a word, “Congratulations.”

Then,
When autumn chooses to no longer linger,
I’m met with sweet December’s icy fingers.
Upon the coming year I fix my gaze—
Spring will be here as soon as January;
We’ll wallow life and love, and all be merry.