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Best Poems Written by Gretchen Wertlieb

Below are the all-time best Gretchen Wertlieb poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

Eros' Arrow

When Eros shoots the heart of one 
The piercing point of Beauty’s son 
Borne of love and lust and loss 
To pine for one’s a lover’s cost. 

Eros with his quiver filled 
Leaves a trail of hearts he’s killed 
For the one that can resist the bliss 
Is one that Eros’ arrow missed. 

One cannot avoid their fate 
Eros is most tempting bait 
When you’ve been blessed with heartache’s kiss 
It sends you down toward raw abyss. 

Power drives to seize and pay 
But love desires to waste away 
For Eros shoots not more than one
The villain strikes and knows he’s won.

Eros built of marbled stone
Sat atop a church or home
Our pray to him to hear our call
That Eros’ arrows find us all.

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

Poor Pirate Polly

There once was a pirate who was bored
so she went for a walk and explored.
A patch on both eyes 
and no warning cries
she walked herself straight off of board.

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

The Genie

If you had a genie in a bottle

and it told you that you could make any 3 wishes

You would not wish for gold

you would not wish for riches

you would not wish for fame.

You would wish for wars to end

Student loans to be forgiven

poverty to be fixed 

equality to be spread.

and the genie would stop you midsentence

and say

"my, but you only have three, so be wise and choose quickly"

and you would be stuck there with power

burdened by centuries of mess and corruption

deciding what to fix first 

oceans and forests whispering your name in the leaves and waves

their voices choked by debris 

the people suffering around the world calling out

always there in the back of your mind

your own country falling apart as the hands of power and revenge join in cursed matrimony

and the genie starts counting back

and you rattle off three random things

but the genie looks at you sadly

shaking its head with a comical frown

"my dear," says the genie, its frown growing to a sadistic smile

"you wish for things that are too great. Why do you not wish for gold or fame? A mansion or your perfect spouse?"

and you look at the genie and realize that its bottle is only plated gold

and underneath is the same tarnished, rusted glass that this world is comprised of.

so you leave the bottle

and the hope along with it

and your hollow eyes see the world anew

but the quiet voices of the water and trees still speak

the wars are still raging

and you take with you nothing but the knowledge that genies exist outside their lamps 

and you walk among them.

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

Because The Monster Writes Poetry

The Monster is massive

with fangs and with claws

all lacquered and sharpened 

sticking out from its jaws

 

The Monster is ghoulish

with deep, sunken eyes

it speaks whispers of wicked

and paranoid lies

 

The Monster is cruel

it sneers and it spits

always waiting for something

to tear into bits

 

The Monster is hidden

from inside its dark lair

just plotting and pacing

in the dank, musky air

 

The Monster is mournful

it wails and it weeps

for its heart has been broken

but the pieces it keeps

 

You know of the Monster

you've heard the tall tales

and despite what they say

no terror prevails

 

The Monster is cared for

and treated with grace

because the Monster writes poetry

from behind a fair face.

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

To Be A Poem

If to be a sonnet is to be vain, then to be a sonnet is to be a friend. 

If to be a limerick is to be laughed at, then to be a limerick is to be a child. 

If to be a haiku is to be unnoticed, then to be a haiku is to be the elderly. 

If to be an acrostic is to be childish, then to be an acrostic is to be a parent. 

If to be an epic is to be a fantasy, then to be an epic is to be an idol. 

If to be free verse is to be messy, then to be free verse is to be a teenager 

 

because to be a sonnet is also to be adored

to be a limerick is to be playful

to be a haiku is to be wise

to be an acrostic is to be safe

to be an epic is to be fantastic

to be free verse is to be free.

 

If to be a poem is to be both distained and revered,

then to be a poem is to be human.

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

Heaven and Earthworms

I have given many a thought to what happens when we die, specifically, what happens to our bodies. You have the option to be classically buried, cremated, donated to science. I think I don't want to be cremated, kept in a jar or the specks of my former self thrown across water. I think I don't want to donate myself to science, lying on a cold metal slab for years. I think I don't even want to be buried, at least not traditionally, set in a wooden or metal box marked by a plain slab of stone. I want to be buried in the forest, no casket, no headstone. Mark my resting place by flowers, wrap my body in leaves and let me melt into the ground, decaying alongside bones of animals forgotten, let birdsong be my funeral organ, let the willows do the weeping, let the toadstools and earthworms feast themselves on my corpse. And let it be that my soul does not rise to heaven above nor to hell below, rather seeps into the soil, into the seeds and moss, allows the remnants of my earthly form to grow into beauty once again.

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

The Blue Glass Vase

Two plastic plants, a blue glass vase of dead flowers, and a cactus. The cactus is the only living thing left of the four, and lucky it is, for it gives me hope that I can at least keep that alive. In the blue glass vase, there is a collection of white and red roses, all dead, all dried up. Back in the days of majesty, flowers had meaning beyond their beauty. Red roses symbolize a classic love, the kind you tolerate on Valentines Day. White roses symbolize reverence, young love, and eternal loyalty, growing up only to realize promises can be broken. But these flowers on my desk have died, shrunk in size, diminished in prize. Where one might see shriveled hearts of flowers, I see beauty in their new forms, for they have taken on new hues, and therefore new meaning. The red has deepened to sweet wine maroon, and the white to velvet cream. Maroon roses take on deep rooted passion, a far cry from the superficial tenderness of the bright red. Unconscious beauties that know their worth, and are willing to wait. Cream colored roses embody thoughtfulness, grace, and richness. Taking time to make your life worth living, not giving your whole self to things that deserve none. These roses I keep in the blue glass vase on my desk are dead. They spent their lifetimes as white and red. How awful it must be

To only show your true colors when you’re gone.

Details | Gretchen Wertlieb Poem

On Moths and Butterflies

You must never touch a butterfly

and fear its fragile wings

for if you touch a butterfly

what horrors your touch brings

 

The dust glitters as it falls

and the insect starts to wilt

for like the flowers on which it feeds

its lovely death brings guilt. 

 

But make sure to kill the moth

that ugly, furry thing

it's circling the porch light

like that lantern is its king

 

you must kill it quick and hard

as it's flying from its fate

the lantern is its only hope

and yet its perfect bait.

 

But dust glitters as it falls

from the moth's beige colored wings

for only when it's dead and gone

you see life to which it clings.