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Best Poems Written by Kristen Rohder

Below are the all-time best Kristen Rohder poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Patience

Patience is a puddle in your eyes.
Each day you look upon me within foreign realms of happiness; 
 insomuch you adeptly caress satin wings sprouting from my back 
allowing lips of yours to feed the desire which separates our souls,
poorly decorated in circumstance.

Never have I imagined losing a man within my line of sight
so intently that I spy nothing but his reflection in the light
while his image take hostage of my own and in common reflection,
whether it be in the eye of another or a passing mirror,
his face is the one I see.

Enraged by passion untouched, unmoved and leashed,  
preconceived imprisonment of a foul kind—absolute freedom by day, thoughts born and abused
as night loiters beyond the soiled horizon, shooting the moon high in the sky
I am caught in an awkward, velvet captive.
Crouched in such a way, reminiscent of fetal days,
neglecting the space provided to stand and move;
it is my choice to decrease comfort and starve-alive with you. 

I bathe in your eyes and soak in the warmth of your spirit;
it is your patience which drives me,
how willing you are to restrain from an ill-fated fantasy
that would sacrifice a lifetime of mutual serenity which is found
in the sea of everything we share.

Details | Kristen Rohder Poem

Infinitely Wilting and Alive, I Know Him

I know him infinitely, in the forest where he grows.
Where speckled greenery is abundant and joyful, paranoid and secretive. 
I know him infinitely.

Quietly observing his growth 
I am patient as dew waiting to die.
His only wilting habit erases my sense of time
and there in some expanding Heaven I’ll deceive myself,
no white cloud holds me for I am weighted by his world
in which I consumed some time ago.

Trees that grow wild and tall may conceal his existence
but his will is strong and his roots drink only Holy Water;
in prayer I sense his sins which covet his soul.
He is no sin to me, just a beautiful thing I care to nurture.

Perhaps the hand of God planted this seed we found together
and in some universe this love is something of a treasure.
No metal ever so precious, no gold ever so spectacular
could compare to our fate embroidered infinity. 

To know him is to apprehend the forest in which he is indifferent to.
He never heeds his immediate surroundings for he knows his home is Heaven,
and in each cloud he creates a step closer to discovering 
an answer to the question neither of us claim yet are mutually mulling.

Silent are the days and nights but I know his eyes;
I know him infinitely wilting and alive in full bloom.

Details | Kristen Rohder Poem

Hazel Eyes

Breathless air hung curdled in sparse trees
eavesdropping playfully
mystically concocting a fragrance
so fair so eligible 
to fly without wings
playfully tickling the nerves
of those who lack romantic stimulation. 

His hazel eyes did slide a bold, smooth ride about her waist and beyond
horizons that lifted and broke their puddled silence.

Each word a rock in which he spoke
heavy and boulderous, beautiful and gray.

Anticipation fondles her curious tongue lubricating quickly,
the nerves which quake and surrender to suffocation.
Such confinement renders speech to whither as the glassical dome
holds hearts hostage, cuffing their eyes and hands,
refusing to appease the morning dew which begins to sound:
dripping, dropping.

Descending into the hazel night, 
one last face they see they feel: the moon, he’s dying; 
he’s smiling.

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I Call Him Joy

His hands were made of Joy and when he touched her face
light bursts, breaching her skin, burning holes through paper skies.

Years laid like bricks in his eyes–sturdy stacks of life surviving in copper fields.
Her porcelain figure drowns deep within his gaze;
she swam across his memory and drank his fantasies. 

Her bare hands rejuvenate constellations which slouch as weeping willows in the sky.
She reaps the soil, harvesting his faith, 
Stores grains of happiness in her skin, 
Sews his hand to hers 
fixating what is.

Within walls of words do they find bones and things to hide.
Slivers of life from prehistoric time, lives that cannot be remodeled, relaunched---
wrinkles worn as warnings, confounding assorted dreams.

Majestically jesting all the while finding each other’s glance difficult to swallow.
Have you ever felt eyes upon your face, neck and shoulders?
Seeing you. Wanting you.

If only the moon would embrace the day;
if only trees would just grow to feel the skin of earth break below it’s belt, bleeding. 
Living. Dying.
Yes–if only.

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Beautiful Woman

Beautiful woman he sees, not me.

Glitter-filled bubbles populate the misty-colored air;
faucets singing rushing over naked wrinkled bodies
rejuvenating, cleansing valleys where time crochets
each shadow and flower
each bird
each bee. 

Lifting my chin so shamefully
the parent sun correcting mistakes—burning my eyes
bleaching them red leaving them barren. 

Desert eyes are weak; each grain of sand commands a tear.
A water works;
	an opportunity to relieve my body of fear.

Million dollar beads of sweat rise from the dead
and appear, moonlighting—dancing—flirting.
	
Tracing the trails, the stories of my fate, 
he warms the sadden dew resting now,  sleeping now.
	Wiping away the sloppy, unsuccessful words he struggles to find the light in my day.

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Rockaway

White lips curl furiously as warm hands reach for the mouth that speaks so loud.
         Swallow—swallow. 
Gracious god falling from the sky; there dies my warmth, there dies my youth.

Silently rushing, chasing—gulping. Lips curling kissing the soft, demure land.

From this window I’m perched to picnic and think.

White lips—kissing—such fizzle frazzled as salt spread thinly, plainly across her bare
back...she needs a hand to smooth her lines of fault. 

Oh the age she hides!
...the years she’s gone without a crank to lift her bare boned backless face.

Sinking, sinking---SANK. 

Green illumination garnished the canvas sky. 
A flash, a bulb, another shard of life to wake.

I fog---I fold and yet they curl! they snarl.

Details | Kristen Rohder Poem

Brittle Finger Tree

Brittle finger tree slouching alone, ignored on by the breeze.
		
Days float under your toes,
no hands of friends to hold.
		Poor, brittle finger tree you pray to the Son and sleep in the rain.
			No heart to listen,
no pocket watch to keep—no time to know
how old you’d be if today a cake appeared with candles aglow.

Brittle finger tree wrestling alone.
Recklessly diving into the ground 
unmeaning to disturb baby birds whom house themselves 
in your little, bitter world.
	
	Brittle little finger tree, someday, you must grow. 
As people pass they find themselves apart of your earth.
		You’ll feel the circle of life—you’ll imagine
pretty little girls and boys carving their love into your skin—no blood--- no blood will flow.

	Brittle little finger tree, your last breath has flown.
		Taken from your finger tips, left dying on sallow grounds.
	
	No one can always stand straight. Lean, my brittle little love, alone.

Details | Kristen Rohder Poem

Flowers

The flowers that you gave me sleep inside my head.
And when I can’t sleep I disturb each petal from it’s slumber 
and piece back the memory by tainted moonlight. 

The faded symbols I find between my grief stricken sheets 
astound me even now even after the curtain closed 
and the last light fell from your face and shattered on the ground. 

Secretly spotting you,
pretending you were the imaginary friend 
who finally appeared and now everyone could see;
I traced the beautifully broken edges of your smile
and accepted the flowers which I kissed with my nose. 

Striking a starched pose, 
partially holding (legally enjoying) public displays of mutual affection.
You befriended my life and radically grew into my world. 
You were the picket fence I didn’t have to mend; the man I didn’t have to carry.

A hint of death plagues the brittle body of my rose, no water running through it’s veins.
Yet, this decay never smelled so sweet—faint and haunting—resembling days of August and
September, long before the first petal thought of falling.