Details |
Zachary Siechen Poem
Bear has money, gems
Plops into a pool of fresh
water, and is sad.
Copyright © Zachary Siechen | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Zachary Siechen Poem
Purple dragon glides
so peaceful
Stone Blue
Flame in a yellow tundra.
Copyright © Zachary Siechen | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Zachary Siechen Poem
Faun over a sight.
Rip tide in the maple leaves
means peril is nigh.
Copyright © Zachary Siechen | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Zachary Siechen Poem
Are your eyes the green of a shamrock's leaf,
or your nose the tide that comes and runs?
Is your skin the plains of pearls and perplexities,
your hair the curtain to a rainforest peace?
Could be your ears the caverns where rarities dwell,
and your shoulders belfries that will never ring?
May your chest be a wound that never swells,
and your heart be the silence that learns how to sing
Is your hand a ten-minute first-light,
your fingers the fleeting moment that stays?
Might your arms ensphere the the broken, the evil, the cold,
bring what ends, for sure, to the prelude, alright?
Your legs and feet, perhaps, lucid dreams and strange fools,
with bizarres and bazaars, eccentricities galore,
Playing with colors, creatures, the cosmos, the rules,
that no matter duration, leave invocation for more?
Your mind calculates, creates, contemplates, is there,
But without You, none of these could ever, ever be.
For without the green of a shamrock's leaf,
the vastest of woodlands would seem nothing but bare.
Copyright © Zachary Siechen | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Zachary Siechen Poem
Breeze through the harbor
Nasty though it may be to
get to the Tree Tops.
The fools that spring to life in
These woods are invincible.
Copyright © Zachary Siechen | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Zachary Siechen Poem
There was once an old crow.
An old crow there once was
who never pestered the world
with the sound of his caws.
There was once an old crow,
dreamed of being an owl,
and hated each time
passersby would scowl.
He hated the taste
of bugs, bread and lice,
and longed instead
for wild field mice.
He despised the sun,
especially the way
it painted black on his feathers:
horrid black, everyday.
He didn't understand
why he made such a poor nest,
and whispered to the sky
for a full, glorious crest.
When he studied the stars,
he saw no constellations,
but imagined them there:
his best form of creation.
He had not the beak
for wild field mice;
he had not the iris
to see clearly at night.
But he did have the heart
and the courage to dream
of being an owl
and all that that means.
Copyright © Zachary Siechen | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Zachary Siechen Poem
The fifth bell hasn't rang since I can't remember when.
The sorrowful life
is endless.
It goes and it goes and it goes.
Like oceans of sweat pouring from spheres of golden blue.
Behind those I hide.
They forgot me as easily as building a statue around a black bell.
The fifth bell hasn't rang since I can't remember when.
They forgot me as easily as pulling a veil over eyes.
It's not even opaque.
I bet I forget just as easily.
I bet I can.
As simply as the tide turns and turns and fades into vanishing dribbles and the dry, dry desert sand.
The fifth bell hasn't rang since I can't remember when.
Copyright © Zachary Siechen | Year Posted 2013
|