Home » Poems » Best » Michael Perriatt » Best Michael Perriatt Poems

Best Poems Written by Michael Perriatt

Below are the all-time best Michael Perriatt poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

When I Stopped That Day To Pick Death's Rose

I heard a little rumor from
a stranger on the road today;
he wore a heavy veil of dusk
to keep the winter's song at bay.

His face was well concealed; although,
his shriveled hands had drawn my sight;
it seemed like they were withering
and, like the moon, a pallid white.

"A little further down this road,
there lies a curse'd patch of grass
obscured by trees to hide its shame;
for that, I know I am to blame.

The flow of time had left that place,
yet still the living wandered in,
until they saw that wicked plant
whose very growth was deemed a sin."

The frigid notes were ominous,
like most of what the old man said,
and quickly did his coal-coat flee
to leave but silence in his stead.

A trav'ler's prank is what I thought,
but further down the road I saw
an isolated trust of trees
with polished trunks and lively leaves.

Surveying past the tow'ring brown,
I stood in awe at Gaia's gate;
if anything, I had to know
how nature could intimidate.

The grass was like an emerald floor,
a regal rug for royalty,
and aromatic jewels stood proud
amongst the scattered shrubbery.

But then, I sensed a mournful soul
and heard a fright'ning tearful call;
at center grew a single rose,
left weeping within wooden walls.

Its petals were like chimney soot,
but had the most enchanting smell;
its stem and leaves were silver clad,
a gorgeous blossom spawned from hell.

Despite the omens I had heard,
there was a certain beauty here.
If such a flower bred disgust,
I'd shelter it, neglecting fear.

There was no trace of bitter cold,
upon return from curse'd land.
I left that world with fragrant sin
clutched tightly in my mortal hand.



My heart gave forth compassion,
when I stopped that day to pick death's rose.

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

Words Like Wine & Water

It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.

I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.

Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.

Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.

Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?

I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.

It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.

But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

One Too Many Loves-Me-Nots

No desperate lover wants a fleur
with one too many loves-me-nots.
Should ever such a fleur occur,
be everything but soft with her.

Be sure to tell her just how mad
you were with her result,
and how the extra loves-me-not
could not have been love's fault.

That flower was not just to you;
therefore, no plucking should you do
again. You should do this instead:
forget the fickle flowerbed!

I left the garden and its woes,
I left the lily and the rose,
and left the dreaded floral sun,
on which my desperate plucks were done!

No longer should you ask of them 
if you are meant to be with him!
Discover for yourself what's true!
I did!--and he replied,

"I do."

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

Cement Seedling

I don't need very much to stay alive,
a little urban rain from time to time.
It's not luxurious, here in the ground,
but I'm content with it, this life of mine.

There's not a lot for me to view from here;
the iron forest always sees to that.
It must be nice to venture past those trees;
but trapped am I, within this concrete crack.

At times, my mistress seems unfair; although,
I'm quite accustomed to this static fate;
her morning eye and moistful firmament
ensure my needs are met, despite my state.

I'm well aware her sight does take a while
to reach my herbal arms from where I stand,
but being patient is a noble trait,
and one that's helped me flourish in this land.

Oh there's no need to worry over me;
I'm quite resilient for a city weed.
I know I can't get up and rule my life;
but as I said, there's not much that I need.

But what of you, my busy human friend?
How goes the life your maker granted you?
Forgive my prying, but I'm most concerned
with all the stress that you've been going through.

You have the freedom to decide your home,
the priv'lege to decide what you will eat,
the sov'reignty to change your day's routine,
and you were gifted with nomadic feet.

I cannot say decisions aggravate,
for they are favors I have never had.
But how can one despise such dowery?
I can't imagine how that'd be so bad. 

So listen to this humble seedling's word:
before you think your life is but a curse,
take out the time to reassess your gifts;
your life could surely be a great deal worse.

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

Scarlet Thorn

Forgive me, but I cannot stand the smell
of haggard roses, red from man's abuse;
though pleasing to the eye, the scent does tell
of love that was once fair, but now cut loose.

I wish to wallow in a grand bouquet
comprised of roses painted like the moon,
for virgin hearts are pure until they stray
from gardens seeded with their fathers' boon.

Tis true; an infant rose is white at birth,
but there are those who live to taint the bud
with careless hands, diminishing its worth
because her needles drink dishonest blood.

Fear not; I'd never yield a scarlet thorn,
for I adore the color you were born!

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

The Nocturnal Regime

Diurnal, nature's early damsel,
donned in dew and vivid peach,
I am in need of dawning's candle;
humor me as I beseech.

Amidst thy gown I often ponder,
musing on the great "to be."
'Tis true, in thought I tend to wander
when amongst thy company.

Alas, Nocturnal's robe lies rigid
on the quarters of my sleep!
His garb represses thought--so frigid
are the kernels of my keep!

I can no longer bear the torment
that escorts a smothered mind,
for when one sleeps with theory dormant--
evening peace one cannot find.

Why doth such darkness bear a beacon
brilliant like a sterling gem?
Why doth such radiance not weaken
what I feel when cloaked by him?

Dost not thou give the moon its polish,
though the distance holds thy light?
If so, then with that sphere, abolish
all his sabotage tonight!

Too long have I, a pensive person,
been condemned to sleep as such.
I wish for not my rest to worsen:
won't thou reprimand his touch?

I beg of thee: repeal my prison,
purge me of its blank regime,
and grant my slumber nightly visions--
be they sweet or bitter dreams!

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

To Count a Flock of Fireflies...

you'll need your fingers and your eyes,
a lantern and a comfy mat,
some juice and tiny party hats,
a cake, cut up in little squares,
a teensy table and some chairs,
some itsy-bitsy plates and cups,
and once you've gathered all that stuff:
prepare the table, nice and neat,
then call the fireflies to eat,
but tell them that, because it's night,
they shouldn't eat without their lights;
make sure that everyone's aglow,
or else the counting will be slow,
then let each firefly partake
of tasty juice and yummy cake;
when every bug has eaten one,
take note of that, before the sun
decides to start another day
and scare the little lights away,
then thank them all for stopping by,
and, while the fires take the sky,
add up the table's party plates
to see how many of them ate--

when last I had a flock to count,
I counted eighty-eight!

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

A Monster Underneath My Bed

If there's a monster underneath my bed,
I hope it's not too scary.
I hope that he...or she, has scales,
instead of being hairy:

cuz mommy says I always sneeze,
around the birds and bumblebees,
when running after Mac and Cheese,
because I have these aluhgeez;
so, yeah...please don't be hairy,
please.

If ever I should think it's there,
I'll cover up my head and hair,
and hope it doesn't like to stare,
cuz mommy says that's rude:
show manners, not your additude.

And I hope it doesn't think I'm picky,
if I touch its nose and say it's sticky,
cuz...cuz I would
-yawns-
cuz I would think...that's kinda creepy.
-rubs eye-
I guess I'm getting kinda sleepy.

BUT, umm, if it's a lady under there,
I hope she has a lotta hair,
because my little sister, Clair,
is really good at taking care
of dolls.

Besides, I think it's fair
that older brothers oughta share--

...weeeeell, sometimes.

But if the monster is a guy,
I really hope that he can fly,
cuz daddy drives an airuhplane,
but he has to drive it in the sky:

so I'd hop aboard my monster's back
and together we would tell him "Hi"!

And then we'd--Oh!

Well, there's my mommy's knock again.
I guess I'll see you later then,
my best imaginary friend.

But could you tell the he or she
that's lying somewhere under me,
that if it heard the things I said,
to not sleep underneath my bed,
because


...that's kinda creepy.

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

A Mouse's Telescope

If you leave a mouse a telescope,
I'm sure he'll look through it.
If you leave that scope upon a hill,
I'm sure that's where he'll sit.

If you leave it there in dark of night,
I'm sure he'll try to find a light
that's round and bright and made of Brie,
then gaze upon it happily
while wond'ring how to shake it down
and share it with his friends in town

because, well that's what mice would do.
If I were one, I'd do that too.

But I'm sure if he cannot displace
that roundish piece of cheese from space,
he'll set his little eyes upon
the specks of sparkling Parmesan

that permeate the purple night:
though small, they're just as good a light.

Details | Michael Perriatt Poem

Oh Little Sundae Dipper

Oh Little Dipper Dipper,
what are you dipping for?
the sweetly vast vanilla seas,
or ginger cookie shores?

Oh little starlit ladle,
what swirls within your cup?
a batch of cotton candy clouds
you gently gathered up?

Or maybe licorice lava, cooled
from swaying in the night.
Or maybe bits of sour sun
and rays of lemon light.

Oh little diamond dipper,
if something tipped your tin,
would sugar flakes begin to fall?
would chocolate rain descend?

If ice cream comets tumbled,
be they pink or white or brown,
I wouldn't wear my boots or coat,
nor would I wear a frown.

'Cause Little Sundae Dipper, dad
and I believe that that's okay--
'cause everything's worth dipping for within our Milky Way!