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Best Poems Written by Andy Sprouse

Below are the all-time best Andy Sprouse poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

A Flame Without a Match

The first flame will always be its own.
None can ever mirror it.
A second flame born of the same candle
may be coaxed to life;
but 'twill ne'er be the first.

Go ahead, grab the matches, grab the candles,
everything you need to start that fire.
Light that first flame.
Revel in its fervor, enjoy it while it lasts;
don't be too sad when it burns itself out.

Try to light that same candle, a second time;
if indeed it can be lit at all,
it won't thrill you the same.
Yes, it's still fire; it still mesmerizes,
still creates that heat, and still burns.

But 'twill ne'er be the first.

Now, take a second candle, and put
flint and tinder to that one instead.
Watch it, live with it, savor it -
and when that one too eventually dies down,
riddle me this one question.

That first flame is oft times the fan favorite,
but which, in the end, is truly more precious -
an attempt and mayhap success, at a second,
imitation flame,
or a fresh first, with a different candle?

Make no mistake, on rare occasion that second flame
of a first candle may even be better than the first.
Yet, even were it more ardent than the last,
every single fire is unique -
and some small part of you will always remember that first flame.

Any others may be
more wonderful and fierce,
may be slovenly mimicry,
or may be raw magic in their own right -
but 'twill ne'er be the first.

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

A Letter To You, a Letter To Me

What if I could talk to you,
if you were more than a memory?
What if I could lead your path,
instead of the fate that led mine?

Would you know me as truth,
or think me a wild dream?
Would you see yourself in me at all,
or not recognize the man before you?

I received a letter the other day,
from you, from me - a slice of time.
Words planned and sent forward,
in advice, in earnest plea.

I would love to be able to answer,
to write back and say that you're okay;
but more so, to go back even further,
and say these words to the boy left behind.

'I beg you, do not follow the path
that's laid so clearly before you.
Don't make up your mind so quickly,
for your sake, take a step back.

'I would stop you if I could,
but I think we both know better.
Just hear me, and what you'll live with,
should you choose to stay your course.

'You will bloody your knuckles so many times,
on doors, walls, concrete, anything;
not healthy, but recourse nonetheless
when your hate bubbles and spits like a pool of lava.

'Your spirit consumption will worry your friends,
and you'll message your father "save me";
you will fall many times, stumble and wonder
if this one is your last - keep thinking "not yet".'

Hearing such, would you dismiss me,
as easily as you did the rest?
Would you wave off my words,
like smoke clouding your breath?

Or would you perchance heed them,
as only you have ever changed your mind?
Would you take the easier, smarter road,
and let mine simply fade away?

Would that I could, 
would that I may,
write a letter to you, as you did for me;
only reversing the way of the days.

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

The Mirth of Monsters

A picture appeared on my phone today,
on the proverbial page I perused.

A view of an evil most vile,
villainy veiled behind verve and vim.

Sadists from Auschwitz,
smiling in a storm.
Shoulders shrugging,
to shield from the sky.

No hint of the horrors,
the Holocaust they heralded.
Not haunted like the humans they harrow,
but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.

Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed,
their cheer chills me to the core.
They caused such wicked calvary,
a calamity that echoes into the current century.

Yet they dare to delight,
while they deal in death and dread.
Their depravity so deep that they grin,
as they decry virtue and destroy millions.

But what mortifies me more is,
how mundane their mien.

Will we fear the next fiends fittingly,
or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

Family of Fellows

Getting up early to embark on a trip,
a snowy drive to Jersey.
Trying to quell my heart's rapid beats,
favored songs in my speakers.

"Hey man, I don't want to be alone,
not for this - not again."
"I've got you, bud -
when and where?"

Visiting his grave one more time,
now two years from the day.
Thinking of stories of him,
trying to remember his voice.

Two vets talking near a silent one;
chatting about old times and new.
I think he'd like to chime in,
and wish he could so bend our ears.

I didn't have to go there solo this round,
though it wouldn't be the first or last time.
My request for help via companionship,
so swiftly asked and answered.

Some brothers don't have the same blood
that runs through your veins;
through deed they cement the same bond,
through trials they bear the same scars.

Whenever you can, find these souls,
these spirits kind and kindred;
for when you fall, you may be stunned
at the number of hands there to lift you.

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

And It Was Good

I still remember you.

No matter how far I get,
halfway across the world or not;
whether or not it's been two whole years,
two long years where so very much has changed;
doesn't make a lick of difference.
Damn, I still remember us.

Just last week, on a day
when the rain fell on our group
as we examined relics of the past,
a little of my own shone through
as I described to a fellow
our first kiss.

He talked about how he liked rainy days,
because when they came around 
he used to go to his girl
with flowers and watch movies,
and it was great.

This reminded me, gloriously,
of how, on a day much like that,
when the rain made anything possible
and you glowed;
how we went in my front yard to stand beneath it.

And how you hopped, skipped, and danced,
seemingly on the wet air,
laughing lightly as you did -
how, then, I simply had to have a kiss from you,
and it was magic.

Just a few days ago, I examined my life,
and how my parents are proud of me.
They've been for some time, and it's only grown now,
with my job and the distance.

In that, I thought of what my father sacrificed,
for my brothers and me,
part of the reason I've walked the path I have.

This reminded me, wistfully,
of a time when he knew I despaired,
over being suddenly bereft of you -
and he took me for a drive.

He let me vent, let me discuss you;
let me show him with words
some of the memories that to this day
dance behind my eyes.

He let me talk about how down I was,
first discovered my poetry;
half of it, at that time, about you.
He let me go on and on, and gave his advice,
and it was great.

You see, even where I am now,
even though it's been so long;
even though I've been over this for some time -
even though I swore I wouldn't do it again;
I still remember us.

I still feel connected.

It's infinitely different now,
and feels more like an old friend
with some special caveats
and very special memories,
than any yearning for us again.

You and I;
hard to describe.

It was short-lived, but hard-hitting;
like the raging tempest that passes
faster than breath, faster than thought -
awesome.

All I hope is one day, for something so wondrous
to exist once more, for each of us;
whoever it ends up being.

Don't mistake my intentions -
this isn't a letter of longing for a love, a life long lost.
It's just a letter.

A letter remembering what you may or may not,
what I do;
what has passed.

It was good.

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

Grandma

There's not much to say.
I knew her, know some things,
but certainly not all.

I know how little she put up with fools,
how her cooking surpassed so many others',
how simultaneously sweet and hard she could be.
I know about her smoking,
about her jewelry, her faith,
all these I'll hold close to me.

Every single spark, every star,
shines with such a glow, such a marvelous radiance,
that we can't gaze too closely at it,
lest we cause ourselves pain.
And yet, despite ourselves, again and again,
we do;
because it's not within us to resist
the sheer beauty of it all,
of stories and of life.

A bouquet of tulips for you.
We all miss you already, Grandma.
I miss you.
I know Heaven's got you, taking no guff as always,
making sure we're all doing alright.
I love you.
Andrew James (McGillicutty) Sprouse

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

Nature's Fury

The storm was unrelenting,
Possessed of a fury unmatched by anything he had ever seen.
The wind blew the rain towards the ground in regimented and precise layers,
Legions of droplets descending on the earth like some vast army.
In stark contrast to the disciplined layering of the falling lifeblood of the clouds,
Sheets of water whipped violently about in intricate patterns on the path,
Raging and frothing forward in the manner of a screaming barbarian horde.
He stood in the midst of it all,
Watching gusts of wind propel walls of rain at him.
As they hit him they dispersed into their separate components,
Letting him feel the sting of each individual droplet against his chilled body.
All of a sudden the heavens erupted, spewing forth a bolt of lightning
With a peal of thunder mightier than the most glorious battle-cry.
He watched it race to earth,
Forcing the night sky to shed its dark cloak and reveal all in one awe-inspiring moment,
Captured in time and memory.

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

Dreams of Children, Realities of Men

As children, we all dream,
tales of magic, of mystery,
and our own imagined destinies;
we dream of future prowess, of our own fantastic wyrds –
of our glorious, important place in the cosmos.

Whether those dreams are of firemen, police,
soldiers, artists, scientists,
writers, musicians, or something that isn't there,
like superheroes or the princes and princesses of old,
we all want to be something greater, even in youth.

I, too, dreamt these childhood dreams
of glory and legend, enchantment and song;
I too felt their pull,
heeded their call and let imagination sweep me away –
for a time.

Eventually we move on from the past,
accepting its existence, its wonder, sometimes its pain,
its place in who we have since become –
and so did I, from the fanciful paths of yesterday
to the more grounded ones of today and tomorrow.

Or so I thought.

For, of late, and a litte while before,
I have been tending a magic all my own;
not the magic I'd envisioned, the kind of fire and ice,
light and fury –
the kind of word and verse.

Now I voice my thoughts in phrase and letter,
birthing a new, separate being;
a being of explanation, of concepts and sensation,
with a life all its own, on the page and in my heart –
parts of me, grown in my mind and given form as poetry.

And now I've discovered, it's this kind of magic I prefer –
the dreams of the past truly can't compare
to the realities of today;
not when I can take the barest thought, slightest inspiration,
and change it into something so much more.

Not when I've become not only myself, but a vessel,
a repository for idyllic words to come coursing through –
for my muse inhabits my mind, beside me,
forever changing my outlook and my output;
yes, that's my kind of magic.

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

The Long Night

We stood there in silence,
never asking for more;
we stood prepared for the violence,
garbed in full raiment of war.

In a moment of lightning,
a flash and a flare,
our defenses fell to the frightening,
our fortresses laid bare.

We knew what lay ahead,
and yet we carried on;
we experienced the chaos, the dread,
and still, the still face we don.

We bent our backs through the long night,
battled the forces arrayed against our ragged platoon;
to learn, to grow, to know what it is to fight -
to prove we and our forefathers of the same stone were hewn.

Then, after so long a struggle, finally came the dawn.
The sun rose, and we were men.
The sun rose, and all regrets over the pain were gone.
The sun rose, and we knew strength stood within our ken.

As our leaders spoke words over what we had just fought,
I felt on us the strings with which fate so often intervenes;
heard the call and knew what we had ultimately wrought.
As the colors flew, we saluted; forever we are Marines.

Ever on in silence we'll stand,
awaiting orders, waiting on your need;
the eagle, globe, and anchor forever our brand,
semper fidelis eternally our creed.

Details | Andy Sprouse Poem

One Day

One day - a beauty, a blessing, a boon.
One day - a promise, a prospect, a pledge.
At times a faint hope of the unobtainable,
at times a great vision of what's to come.

One day, I yearn to be among equals once more,
to allow wit, warmth, wisdom and wonder
to again have their time in the light around me -
one day to see them, too, have their day.

One day, I long to finish this hateful accounting,
to forever close this tedious, tiresome tab;
to stop thinking, over and over, of the fateful tally:
one more day down, one more damn day done - each day.

One day - the best benefaction for the besieged.
One day - the preeminent panacea of the plagued.
One can keep going, keep fighting, given that one day;
can change it all, if they can only hold on - to one day.