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Best Poems Written by Evan Griffin

Below are the all-time best Evan Griffin poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Sunset Love

The sunset blazes in vibrant colours,
Lighting the sky with crimson and orange. 
As the evening draws closer, the colours deepen,
Becoming more beautiful as the sunset dies.
Such the same should be love,
Vibrant in our youth,
Washing over the world in splendor.
Deepening in our age,
Becoming more beautiful as we die.

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Yesteryear

I look at the photos of yesteryear,
Gazing at the faces of people,
I once knew.
With our rifles and our gear,
Crowded together were we,
Under the winter sky.
Those haggard faces all so drear,
Still stare out at me in voices I once knew,
Calling my name.
I look still at the photos of yesteryear,
Time has passed, the voices are gone,
And the photo will one day fade.

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Summer Night

Silently the clouds cross the sky,
The wind whispers through the leaves of trees,
The moon has not yet risen,
And the last rays of light have faded away.
A few stars shed their feeble light,
Portending what is to come,
The flowers of day close to sleep,
And the flowers of night awake.
The jasmine is still heavy in the air,
The grass weak from the day’s sun,
Yields softly underneath,
And the nightingale sings.
The pomegranate tree drooping to the ground,
Hangs heavy with fruit laden,
Beckoning to Persephone,
To herald the coming of fall.
The June-bugs arise from their sleep,
Crawling from out the grass,
To fly clumsily into the night,
And complete their journey ere the moon rises.
The moon, ever eager to tarry,
Graces not the sky till late,
The resplendent stars, freed of competition,
Blaze in their chill fury.
The breeze speaks of the scents of the earth,
Of green and growing things,
That have bequeathed such tidings,
From time immemorial.
The night speaks of power and purity,
Of knowledge of its dark embrace,
Yet the comforting folds of night surround,
And give the world melancholy peace.

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I Am a Pitbull

I am a pitbull.
Why am I here?
They call this a shelter,
But it is hell in here.
I came from a loving home,
And children who played with me.
Never once did I growl,
When they pulled my ears and hurt me.
They call this a shelter,
Dogs bark night and day.
We live in our own filth,
Hoping to be taken away.
My family saw a story,
About pitbulls who hurt someone.
But, I am a sweet dog,
Who never hurt anyone.
In this madhouse shelter,
There are mean dogs who bark and bite.
I wonder what people did to them,
To make them want to fight.
My family was nice,
My children all cried.
But, I was brought here,
Even though I tried.
I see people walk by,
I wag my tail all alone.
I have sweet eyes,
But no one will take me home.
I am a pitbull.
I cannot cry.
I was taken to the shelter.
Why must I die?

Details | Evan Griffin Poem

The Tree

High amongst the mountain peaks,
Stands a gnarled old tree.
Clinging desperately to the rocky cliff,
It is the only one to see.
How many years long past,
Has the tree tried to live,
On that rocky outcropping,
The mountain would grudgingly give.
Into the ancient cracks of the mountainside,
The tree’s roots desperately cling,
Barely covered in the little soil,
That the airs could barely bring.
For countless ages has it borne,
The wraths of wind, ice, and snow.
Reduced to a contorted pose,
The tree continues to grow.
Half dead in the summer it is,
From the eternal lack of rain.
Still, when the snows do melt,
It tries to grow again.
How many years more will it be,
Before the tree is finally slain,
And standing there forevermore,
Its withered shell shall remain.

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November

The wind snaps through the trees,
Swift, chill, and hoar,
Telling of the winter it sees,
That comes to lair once more.
Brown leaves stubbornly cling,
To the blackened ends of stems,
Rattling and rustling, do they sing,
Of winter’s final omens.
The geese fly south with a lonesome cry,
Forming an arrow to warmer climes,
Flying they stretch across the sky,
To flee from difficult future times.
The small ponds, chill they grow,
Forming rimes of frost,
Green things do they cease to know,
As warmth is quickly lost.
The earth becomes brown and torn,
Matted with dying weeds,
Once green fields are now forlorn,
And the streams are filled with rattling reeds.
The sky is filled with clouds so grey,
Casting a perpetual gloom,
The chill of winter is on its way,
Weaving frosts as a loom.

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Gods of War

Another day, another life,
Another victim to eternal strife.
To the altar of hate and vice,
Lay them down in sacrifice.
Ideals, dreams, wishes, hopes,
We teach our children of life’s ropes.
So one day they won’t think twice,
As we lay them down in sacrifice.
Take their dreams, take their lives,
Reduce them to their primal drives.
So one day, in fields of rice,
They’ll kill each other in sacrifice.

The gods of war call,
As warriors rage and fall.
The banners fly high and tall,
As names are etched on a wall.

Bravely they storm up a hill,
Warriors made from society’s mill,
Here they find the truth of life,
In a nation’s hell-spawned strife.
Bullets whiz and mortars scream,
In a song from the devil’s dream,
As they climb, so they fall,
In sacrifice to their nation’s call.
Trenches gutted with fire and hate,
Up they go, to men’s fate,
As men die, falling down the hill,
Trenches below slowly fill.

The gods of war call,
As warriors rage and fall.
The banners fly high and tall,
As names are etched on a wall.

The hill is taken one more time,
But, in the slaughter, there is no crime.
For we taught our children, once so nice,
To lay themselves down in sacrifice.
The bugle plays taps above the wail,
Of people in grief, now so pale.
Politicians again roll the dice,
To see who is called for sacrifice.

The gods of war call,
As warriors rage and fall.
The banners fly high and tall,
As names are etched on a wall.

Details | Evan Griffin Poem

My Dog

The dog runs through the grass,
Chasing,
Pursuing,
Hoping to catch what was thrown.
In triumph, it catches the object,
Chomping down victoriously.
Suddenly, its brows furrow,
And spits out its spoils.
Questioningly, it looks at you,
Wondering why you threw a lemon.

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Nomad

They say, home is where the heart is.
But, what of those who carry their heart,
Never to leave it behind?
Nomads forever are they.

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Morning

The morn is new, yet it feels old,
Seeing the dew glistening in the cold.
Comfort and warmth are things of the past,
For, despite desires, the night will not last.
A groggy shuffle, a bleary eye,
Whoever took the last cup of coffee now must die.