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Best Poems Written by Andrea Dietrich

Below are the all-time best Andrea Dietrich poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Cinder Girl

An ember sparked will softly glow,
and fed by fuel, will grow and grow.
I once was cinder, sparked by you,
first timid. . . till the flames then grew.

And so our start was touch of dawn,
with amber hue, for I was drawn
to eyes so welcoming and warm
I never guessed you’d do me harm.

Like morning glory, love in June
the rapture of mid-afternoon,
romance of which the ancients wrote,
our passion had no antidote.

And with the dusk, though scarlet tinged,
our love began to come unhinged,
for clouds arrived, which filled your eyes,
extinguishing bright twilight skies.

With cold of night came shadows’ pall,
and I could not tear down your wall.
By midnight’s hour, the fire was dead.
Mere ashes smoldered in its stead.

You left, and should you reappear,
I’ve vowed to shun you.  Now I fear
the very thing for which I yearn -
one touch. . . and then again - to burn.


Original date of posting: 2/6/2010(though written earlier than that) 

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010



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A Tale of Fire and Ice

Part I: Ice He shines like silver midnight moon - cool marble statue, this tycoon. And though he makes the ladies swoon, of ice he’s hewn; of ice he’s hewn. He’s poker-faced and can deceive competitors and can achieve most anything, but can’t conceive of Genevieve, of Genevieve. Like Neptune, distant from the sun - relationships he chose to shun. He thought the search for love was done. He has no one; he has no one. Now love’s allure has come his way. What will he do? What will he say? Will he grab hold, beg love to stay, or let it stray? Or let it stray? Part II: Fire This dragoness disguised in lace - passion’s flower with angel’s face, precisely picks the time and place each dream to chase, each dream to chase. Like ink the color red, she stains the hearts of those whose love she drains, and then she leaves when naught remains No lust she feigns; no lust she feigns. And now there’s one who would suffice. For him alone, she’d sacrifice her everything, so he of ice she must entice, she must entice. So Genevieve now strikes the flame. Will man of ice his love proclaim? Beneath her fire and his cold frame, they’re both the same. They’re both the same. For the 'COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE(29) any theme any form' Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012

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How Poetry Began

That thing that we call poetry -
when asked where it began,
I’d say it started beautifully
before the dawn of man!

It glistened on the oceans
before man came to be.
It blossomed on the grassy cliffs
that met the first great sea.

It glittered in the moon and stars
and beamed on earth below
in meadows where bright flowers danced
and on the pristine snow.

It sparkled on the lakes and streams,
and when man came along,
he took sweet words that flowed to him
and turned them into song.

This was how it always was
before we knew of time.
The poet who begot us all
made it to be sublime.

Poetry has now evolved,
and as with many things,
there are many kinds.  . .  but I
still like it when it sings!


Date posted: 9/13/14
Submitted now for Beata Agustin's Poem On Poetry Muse Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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FALL IN LOVE

F eeling enraptured, Autumn dances in the wind, then undresses.
A s bright robes fall to the ground, her passion paints the twilight skies.
L ike a nymph, she beckons, tossing her fiery auburn tresses.
L ongingly she sighs - September’s bliss lingering in her eyes.

I ndian summer days come; then they go.
N ights though chill, embrace her in indigo.

L ater, in November, her sweetness wanes.
O ctober cannot stay forever loving her.
V acantly she gazes through freezing rains.
E ndearments whispered - cease - when Fall loses ardor.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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The Wintered Soul Among Wisteria

One need not read her horoscope to know this woman's fate, and though wisteria cascades sweet blooms of lavender like snow outside her door, it's still Siberia pervading the dimensions of her mind, for not one fickle thought or patch of moss can thrive where bleakest shadows are enshrined. No bittersweet, no dew drops. . . only loss surrounds her heart. She tries to reminisce, but like a barren continent grown cold, she can't perceive one particle of bliss. She's clasping grief and cannot be consoled! Wisteria's perfume is in the breeze, but in her soul remains a winter's freeze. 9/24/14 For Janice Canerdy's Sonnet Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014



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September

"September, beautiful month of my birth, is nigh, but I cannot feel glad." September, drifting in with glow of moon, you stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves. In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon. Your breath grows cool. You’ll blow and loosen leaves. The hills and woodlands will reflect new hues. You stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves. In Autumn’s chill, the colors are a ruse! You're passing on, and trees are set ablaze. The hills and woodlands then reflect new hues. Though warmth may linger through your final days, old Sun is waning, yet he still seems strong! You're passing on, and trees are set ablaze. September, you’re a melancholy song. Though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk! Old sun is waning, yet he still seems strong. October looms. . . Your ending will be brusque. September, drifting in with glow of moon, though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk. In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon. 8/29/11 for the '2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 7' Poetry Contest of Mark Toney

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011

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It Matters Not


It hovers here, a moon opaque, obscuring mountain trails I take. No other living things appear. A moon opaque. . . It hovers here. I follow on along a ledge; below a swirling river’s edge. In front of me, the canyon’s yawn. Along a ledge, I follow on. I see no hue when fog congeals. Oh, doom of one who no more feels! The moon has fled, as so have you. When fog congeals, I see no hue. Now all is dim; it matters not. My dear one’s heart I have not got. No use in living without him. It matters not. Now all is dim. At peace I’ll be if I should fall to murky water from this wall. Oh, yawning canyon, swallow me. If I should fall, at peace I’ll be. Submitted June 18, 2022 for Mark Toney's 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 3 Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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In Strangler's Wood - tanka version

At a dead man’s throat lies the rain drenched woolen scarf that stifled his screams. Cold Winds howl through decayed trees - witnesses in the shadows.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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Star-Crossed - For Love of Day, For Love of Night

(this is a form called Swap Quatrain, where first line's phrases swap in the last line of each stanza) In shadows’ veils, at end of night, sweet Moon removes her modest light and softly, yet again, exhales - at end of night, in shadows’ veils. As she departs, her love’s released to climb the stairway to the east. They cannot meet to share their hearts. Her love’s released as she departs. She watches him while hid from view, the way he kisses morning’s dew, and sees gold rays spill from his rim. While hid from view, she watches him. Sad Moon, alone for centuries, with awe has watched Sun leave, cerise. while she, afar. . . how cold she’s grown! For centuries, sad moon alone. She takes his place so he may rest. And though forlorn, she’s always dressed in lace, for Luna has great grace. So he may rest, she takes his place. For love of night, for love of day, she can’t implore him that he sway from course. To be apart’s their plight. For love of day, for love of night.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

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In Strangler's Wood

In forest's night, the trees bend low
beneath a slice of half moon’s glow;
          silent shadows waver there,
          chilled by gusts of autumn air.

Quavering, as if afraid,
they fall on stumps from trees decayed.
     Among those stumps the shadows creep
     and shroud a form that seems asleep.

Lightning flashes . . . Thunder peals.
A sight forlorn the light reveals -
          a man, quite dead, in woolen coat,
          with scarf of death left on his throat.

The shadows saw, and now they quake,
lone witnesses in murder’s wake.
     They cannot speak, but if they could,
     they’d tell all travelers of the wood:

"We’re not the foe.  It’s one of you
that makes us tremble as we do.
          Although we loom and cause you fear,
          something worse is lurking here."

Then Thunder echoes in accord
as from the sky, cold rain is poured.
     And silent shadows start to shrink
     into a night of blackened ink.

Date: 2/9/2010
for Anthony Biaanco's Hello Darkness My Old Friend Poetry Contest









Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

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