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Best Poems Written by Lynn Simms

Below are the all-time best Lynn Simms poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Whispered

Whispered.
A sound undistinguished,
forcing the ears to listen
more intently,
giving the mind, flashing 
images of the whisperer.

We both know only you and I
are here.
We both know neither you, nor I
spoke, full voice or
in a whisper.

The animals caught it, too,
lifting their heads to the sound.
A low, rumbling growl, is emitted by the
dog, as hair on his back rises.
The hairs on my arms and neck rise, too,
in response to the sound.
A cold chill enters the room
and we look at each other,
sure someone has entered,
though the doors are locked 
and we see no one.

If a mind can travel in fear,
to respond to imagined words,
how far can it travel in joy?

Locked in the parlor, not
wishing to move to the whisper;
in joy I'd travel to the moon and
beyond.
Yet here we are, choosing to be frozen
by fear.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Stations of the Cross

"Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet & Watch,"
and everyone laughed, as he pointed
to each location.
Irreverent,
to some,
but in the rhythm,
a silent prayer.

No God could control him;
have him tow the line,
put fear of retribution,
or threaten him to a life
stoking the coals for Beelzebub.
He would give you the shirt off his back.
Comfort those he didn't know and
face death square on,
while laughing it down, to his last breath.

Courage, unending love for mankind, for life,
today, they talk of his character,
his gentle manner, and kind and humorous
heart.
With respect for his decency,
they honor him,
and still laugh at his jokes.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Pottery Room

Early morning in the Pottery Room,
I gather my tools, bits and pieces of
heating coil, broken and brittle.
The kiln still warm from last firing,
but empty now,
I walk in, turning on the switch that
heats the coils as I pass through the arch.
Where are the bad spots?
I await the coils to turn red.
I see a gap, find a piece of broken coil
and push it into the gap with a wood
handled screwdriver.
Another and another
each chunk repairing a break, melding the
coils together, for now.
The kiln is getting hot.
Each break is fixed.
I back out and turn off the unit.
Next firing should be better, all
elements working.

I can focus now on my Raku ware.
Three small vases fired to bisque.
I have marked them with glaze.
One shows signs of having gotten
salt from another's glaze.
At the outside kiln, red hot,
I lower the pots carefully not to
touch one another, setting them gently on the pegs.
This firing is not long.
Once hot, the glaze shining, smooth, I lift them
and drop them carefully into the trash can
filled with dried leaves.
Ignited, the leaves smoke and smolder.
I'll leave them there until the fire goes out.

Once they have cooled,
I can wipe and polish their surface.
Amazed at the red and violet
colors that come out against the matt white smoke,
and the black shiny spots from the salt.
No artist can duplicate these creations,
like archological finds 10's of thousands of years old.

I see the Zen potter
making a pot for Tea Ceremony.
I hear the Zendo chime,
smell the smoke from his firing.
As doves rise with the smoke,
we melt together, bonded by tradition and
ritual, as we polish our pieces like a tile.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

So Little, So Much

Cracked gray and gnarled bark,
bleached and covered with moss.
Leaves yellowed, the underside
spattered with rust.
Blackened are your buds where fungus
overtook the healthy green.
Not as old as one would think,
Rhododendron. Stressed from
dry salt wind, forest fire ash,
overhead watering and fog.
Tiny creatures feed on your
weakness. 

Winter rains overpower any strength
you have left.  Bathed and battered, your
foliage a breeding ground for hungry pests.
Last week I sprayed your branches, top and 
bottom. To my surprise, today your leaves
look better and the green buds have survived.
Blackened buds and dead branches I will
excise with a sharp knife and will burn until
their flowering souls float upward and out of sight.

If doctors can treat the wretched, wracked with disease,
I can care for you, Rhododendron, to bring you back to
blooming health.
I do this to satisfy my love of plants,
to feed my inner soul,
with hope that if I were left discarded and ignored, 
someone kind would still see beauty in my grayed head,
bowed shoulders, beaten brow.
Would caress the gnarled and wrinkled skin,
and see the bloom still possible
behind the saddened eyes that hide my soul.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Plum Inspired

I attacked her branches vigorously, 
clipping crossed limbs, suckers and waterspouts
that reach straight to the clouds.

The day, too early for the warmth we'd been getting,
bright, sunny, bee-dazzled.
The bees flitting from pink bud to pink bud,
racing me for who would reach the branch first,
before it was severed from the framework, to
debris on the ground.

I pulled the tallest ladder to the tree,
wedged to the trunk by two branches,
checked for steady ground and climbed
to within one step from the top.
Bees eye view of the world.

No limit to the success I felt
to see the vase shape of its limbs
open up to the sun, with each cut I'd made.

Forty minutes from branch to branch
and nearing the top and the end,
I turn slightly to make sure the last few cuts were right.
When my life toppled slowly to the ground.

Ladder sank, one leg digging deep into the soil
and the ladder fell out from below me.
I tossed the clippers with one hand, while holding a limb
with the other.
Still sensing security, when the sound of a crack and the
movement of my body downward, connected.

In the blink of my eyelids, I was sliding
rough, rubbed skin to bark.  Chin snapping upward on
a crotch unseen, as my legs hung loosely below.
No step to take that would find solid surface, until my back
and shoulder hit the ground.

My glasses flew off somewhere, with the impact.
I lay startled and laughing, tree limb in hand.
I knew I would be bruised some and scraped for sure, but
all bones intact.

The ladder had fallen away in such a slow motion,
I saw myself as Bugs Bunny
reaching the end of a cliff and with surprise,
seeing no land beneath his feet, legs moving to touch soil,
when in amazing speed gravity came up and caught him,
as his body rushed to the ground.

That tree was so plum inspired, it pruned me in a snap of a branch.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Life After Death

I am living proof of life after death.
Weakened and not yet at full power,
My heart beats in a quieter rhythm
than when you were alive.
I have been making the necessary repairs.
Hammering out the dents.
Checking for a spark.
Watching the gauges.
Listening for a hum or a ping.
Polishing the fenders.
Perfuming the interior.
I would rev up the engine, but I
wait 'til someone turns me on.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Blank

My words are not diminished.
They may even be crowding out
the thoughts that get cramped behind,
computerese and lost files, that "can't
be totally gone", so I pray to
the God of High Tech.

I'd pray to the other God, the one
most men claim saved their lives
and gave them strength,
but I don't have his e-Address and
I'm not so sure he's up and running.

Besides, can I get him to explain
the error message that has me
staring, dumb founded, to a blank
screen?

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Tender Blessings

Glass eye, opaque and quizzical,
staring up from the creel.
A question escapes as a squeak,
when picked up by the belly
and held firmly in one hand,
as the other hand inserts the knife at the
anus and slides it through the flesh to
between the gills.
No sound, no change of expression now,
as fingers reach between the wound
and excise the stomach and intestines;
clean the blood by running the thumbnail along
the spine, leaving the guts on a rock at the shore
for some bird or varmint to savor.
All the while holding the fish and dipping
it again in the stream, for its final baptism
before the sizzle; as skin crisps, eye whitens,
and meat becomes opaque in the cast iron skillet,
at the camp site, where blessings are given
with the upward waft of trout, on an early morning
sacrifice, in the name of God.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Rain

September dripped hot winds
through the screen door.
The floor sticky from the
slap, slap, of bare feet on tile
parading back and forth
to the fridge for ice.
The dog hides in shadows,
side plastered to the cool 
sticky tile, tongue limp
and touching the floor.
I expect him to rise slowly
and be startled as his tongue
stays behind, glued to the tile,
but it doesn't happen.
We all move slowly, in sweat stained 
tee shirts and shorts.
No place is comfortable to sit.
The dog was right in his choice.
Would he growl if I walked over
and pushed him from his
spot and took his place, 
my tongue hanging to the tile?
Tonight the smell of eminent
rain slides through the screen.
I'm looking forward to it.
Make it a rain so hard the
puddles form in minutes, 
with big drops that plunk
down on the street, lawn, cars
and beat the tile roof to shards.
A rain that more than settles
the dust, greens the lawn,
one that chokes the manhole
as it tries to gulp all it can
only to spew it upward and
out for the traffic to by-pass.
I want a rain that will drench
the heart, cool the skin,
and irrigate the mind,
washing the crust of soot
that clogs my thoughts
and makes the heat hurt 
my brain.
I want a rain that will
clear the soul as it digs
grooves across the lawn.
A rain with a beat so loud that
trains whistle to let it pass.
And on the morning after,
clear blue skies
with a puff of white cloud
and a smell of fresh
laundered earth,
glistening until the sun's heat
dry it, and we begin again.

Details | Lynn Simms Poem

Exposure

Buddleia bush, like a small tree
broke in half,
fell into the neighbor's yard.

Planted to block the view of others,
nature decides
I must come out of isolation.

The yard, now open to the world,
personality identified,
facing the first of many changes.