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Best Poems Written by Allie Ogletree

Below are the all-time best Allie Ogletree poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Tea Time

Tea Time
at Pinehurst, North Carolina.

I was 11, my mom and I would go,
Father golfed, and it was just us ladies.
Sleepytime, it was called, in the dark blue bags
my fingers caught in the net of herbs.
Never can quite remember which one she chose.

Tea Time at 4'o clock sharp,
Mother and I weren't used to such luxuries.
It was always a delight, and I was 13.
Sleepytime tea, infused with pink sugar-free packets,
I do believe she used a bit of honey.
We sat in the lobby, fancy couches and chairs
were kings and queens in their sacred hall,
in my sacred hall of memories.

Tea Time, and we were running late,
I think I am still running.
Sleeptytime tea was all out,
and I had to settle for Earl Grey.
I was 14, did not know this would be our last,
did not know, as I swirled the black coffee straw
in mesmerizing patterns so the sugars would dissolve,
as we sat on the familiar yet foreign chairs,
as our laughter warmed the giant hall with its persian rugs,
Did not know this would be our last.

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Death Is Not the End

The body, in all its wonders and might, is still such a fragile thing.
We mustn't forget the ever impending mortality,
In order to prize each given day.

Likewise, we must not forget the ever present immortality of our true beings.
Our souls, our spirits, are only residential in the vessels of bodies.
The human brain clouds our actualization of supremacy.
It dilutes truth. It is the cause of sadness towards death, pain in temporary loss,
unjust fates of our loved ones.
It is unreasonable.

We must not forget that we are more than memories and emotions,
For, Death is not a sentence, but a cycle of reawakened enlightenment.
Just as life is but a mere drive towards a greater destination-
A stamp upon each being as they ascend into the vast beyonds-
Such is everlasting peace and happiness in knowing that all will rejoice in the union of long lost souls.

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Mother Is Gone

Umbilical cord, slain
By the silver hands
Of Death-
I grieve in mourning.

Naked babe is left,
To writhe and churn,
On tethered ground,
Cold, so cold.

Mother is gone.
The hum of wings fades,
In Time's net,
Of captured dreams.

And umbilical cord, tossed
Like scraps
To the hungry chute,
Is lost.

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Leaves of Gold

It idly sat in the sunlight;
A golden adornment for a barren yard,
From which Summer’s war left unmercifully. 
As a god does salvage the earth, so did this lone tree, 
Birthing from its branches treasures for the eyes to behold.
Yet much unlike an immortal entity, 
Such life falters when the spoiled adornments descend to their graves,
And Winter’s pervading air steals an abundance of nature’s most priced artifacts.

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Maturity Over Imagination

If only life were that of a child's imagination,
Of fairies, ponies, princes and princesses.
The happily ever afters.

The dejected hearts of dreamers cry for what was,
Such a feeling of inspiration, of possibilities.
Then reality hit.

Oh how the routines of life laughed merrily at the fallen visions of the mind.
Oh how the need to impress and to logically perceive the world did ruin the marvels of
mysteries.

Where is the mind?
Is creativity deemed unnecessary?
Why must we box ourselves into the adult world of paper work and uninspiring tasks?

The day Man discovers he no longer possesses the spark to progress
Will forever be the day the world withers in despair.
Maturity hath conquered.

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The Blind Man

A man of words he was, and words he was alone.
For not only did the prison of his own mind so masterfully contain him,
It did so effortlessly.

Where was this cage?
Succumbed to an open room was all he faced,
The impossibility of escaping being the true keeper of the nonexistent key.

This man, he sat,
Sat in the shadows of what he thought he knew,
Thinking on and on but to no avail.

And watchers shouted to him, they called out from only a short distance,
But alas, to him they were in a realm that he had no intentions to see.
Time grew weary and they ceased their calling.

His cloud of solitude, of the voices of negativity that only he could hear,
Joyously devoured the life that could have been,
Yet chose to waste away.

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Black Crow

Black crow swooping slowly,
Casts a dancing shadow on the pavement.
It is a mirage-
Do not be fooled.

A cry echoes off the buildings,
Lone stranger sounding as many.
Caw. Caw. Caw.
It’s mocking you.

What can one do,
The black phantom on the ground immortal,
Beast in the sky enticingly distant,
Other than listen?

Perhaps it lands,
Vulnerable at last,
Beady yellows giving warning,
Of dangers felt, not seen?

‘What to do?’ whispers the wind,
‘What to do?’ as he fades in the distance.
A black feather lingers in answer;
Absolutely nothing.

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Freedom

If words could but convey, my heart's resounding vibe,
My eyes would surely melt, in a sea of everlasting space.
Delight would set me free, from the tyrant of the waves.
The wind, no more would push and shove my soul,
As an apple bobbing to and fro,
In attempt to dance upon the surface.
I would be a ballerina, twirling about the frothy shores,
Hands above the head in an eloquent circle.
I would fly across the sparkling skies of awe and mirth,
Cascading droplets from the blue below on lover's lips.
And I would laugh, almost in a fit of madness, at the radiant light that is the sun,
That great beam of ethereal splendor, so beauteous and beyond my wildest reach,
As my fingers graze the tips of its rays,
Until my spirit, a captive not to be made upon the earth as its bodily brethren,
Elevates to burst into that wondrous orb and flick across the skies a thousand shards of flame.

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The Price For Wisdom

Sickness breeds in my mind,
They say. 
The kind of conniving tick
That spreads and spreads,
Like butter into the pores of my bread,
Till all is consumed,
Is swirling down the pipes,
Of those fibrous roots.

Till I am divine,
And see what others fail to see,
Hear what others fail to hear.
They'll slap a label on me for it-
Call me crazy.

That's the price one has to pay,
To achieve this kind of wisdom,
This flood of truth,
This dam of the brain
Broken into a million pieces
Of rubble and unintelligible splendor.
Lurching me into freedom,
And far away, so far away,
From the truly sick,

The truly demented vultures,
Who swoop and pick
At the remains of my innards,
In hopes of satisfying
Their selfish hunger-
Their selfish need
To fix.

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My Star

My star is gone tonight,
No twinkle for gone is the light.

Dark clouds float slowly closer-
Mother has hidden!
And closer still-
Brightness forbidden!

This is absurd,
I might just quake,
And shake,
My fist to give ‘em a word.

The veil which conceals,
My watching eye,
It steals,
A beauty of the sky.