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Best Poems Written by Daniel Carter

Below are the all-time best Daniel Carter poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Diary of a Salmon

Day 1
Today I passed a shad,
on his way to Prince William Sound.
He protested that I go downstream.
But to the current he is bound.

Day 2
I encountered a fly on the surface.
But it was the ploy of a man.
To eat me was his plan.
My escape did him a disservice.

Day 3
Today I came across a bear.
By accident I entered her lair.
Her approaches, she kept deploying.
And her cubs were winy and annoying.

Day 4
An assault from an eagle came upon me.
From above, the attack I did not see.
A glare threw him off by an inch.
Certainly, I’m lucky to be free

Day 5
Today the river was crowded,
by comrades going to the same place.
Because of them my passage was shrouded.
And I couldn’t get them out of my face.

Day 6
My journey has been long.
Against the current, one must be strong.
The objective of my journey may end in vain.
At least, unlike others, I went against the grain.

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Talitha Cumi

To all who are deep inside your chambers,
asleep in your homes abroad.
Here comes the sound of drums,
decreeing new orders from God.

To all of you clovers and lillies,
wrapped in your frosty cocoons.
Can you hear the distant drummings;
those imminent thunderous tunes?

To all of you bears and badgers,
waking in your winter dens.
The toms and snares beckon you.
Come in the twenties and in the tens.

To all of you fish in the water,
buried in your icy tombs.
The troubadours announce your resurrection.
Join us, as life resumes.

And what is the source of these drums?
It is the springtime’s thundercloud.
The lightning bolts show their faces.
for the first time in the wintry shroud.

We thank you, Vetr, for your respite.
Now we are alive and brand new.
But none remain asleep forever,
and so, to winter we bid you adieu!

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The Rocks Don'T Bore Me

I tell you the rocks don’t bore me.
Unlike other cognizant beings with their endless stories,
Droning on about their mindless vapid glories.
I find myself scrambling to be free, 
All the while wondering what the plotline to these tales could be.

But go the highest mountain or hill,
And find at its summit, a rock or stone.
One that is forlorn and alone.
And if you have time to kill,
Imagine for a second, if you want a new thrill.

Consider the pebble in your hand,
That once floated at the bottom of the sea.
If it could describe the scene, what would it be.
Its stories would not be bland,
speaking of the anthropods in the sand.

And if it had eyes to see,
It would speak of the jaws of the earth, biting with force.
And up the mountain went on its course.
Up, up it was thrust into the skies.
And with the ocean it was forced to break ties.

But put your ear to the stone, and it makes no sound.
This witness on the mighty peak,
has no ears to hear, no eyes to see, no mouth to speak.
In silence it is bound.
The treasures it knows, will never be found.

I tell you the rocks don’t bore me.
Mankind is surely cursed.
In banalities we are submersed.
You have a voice, and I’ve forgotten your anecdotes already.
The rocks have no voice, so I’m left wondering relentlessly.

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Ode To the Seasons

The springtime came without a warning sign;
at my wintertime home where I chose to resign.
The rain fell without regulation.
The thunder instilled in me glorious trepidation.

But in time the rain wasn’t the same.
In nostalgia I remembered the winter’s fame.
Then summer came on the heels of spring.
And now came a new song to sing.

The sun rent the clouds asunder.
The rain dried up and in silence went the thunder.
In jest I played in the summer heat.
Under blue skies I felt complete.

But in time the blue skies weren’t the same
I longed for spring in the midst of the summer’s flame.
Then Autumn came in the summer’s tracks,
and refreshed the burning and smoking flax.

The monolithic green turned to a colorful miscellany.
The photosynthesis machines shut down indefinitely.
But in time the colors weren’t the same.
And I had wished that the summer were still aflame.

Then winter came on the back of fall.
And the trees went bare in the wintry squall.
The bustling crowds went to sleep,
And in loneliness the wind began to weep.

And then I remembered this solstice from before,
For it was subject to the cosmic revolving door.
I realized everything good comes to an end.
And then came spring, my old friend.

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To Pleasures Unseen

Look at the baseball field.
The poet’s words, a sword to wield.
To these pleasures I consistently yield.
But heavenly joys I often neglect.

Where are the heavenly spires?
The bosom that protects against the eternal fires.
Where in worship no one tires.
And the holy one’s face is clearly seen.

What is the reward that is beyond our sight?
How are we to navigate through the night,
With an invisible joy as our guiding light?
How can wicked hearts love one who is perfect?

And this thought perplexes me:
The one weeping in Gethsemane.
For his alienation from the holy trinity.
A fellowship not known by mortal men.

And yet my heart tends to go,
Towards the summer, and to the snow.
My love is for things that I know.
But the holy fellowship I‘ve never seen.

I can boast of the poet’s words.
I can admire the fish and the birds.
I can point to harmonies written in thirds.
But the Holy one’s face I cannot describe.

Man in his mind’s eye.
Can conjure up griffins and fairies that fly.
As well as fraudulent gods in the sky.
But a true deity he cannot draw a picture.

For the company of friends we are grateful.
In our camaraderies we are playful.
But we don’t desire to sit at the trinity’s roundtable.
Of that friendship we are alien.

And if there is a heavenly hymn able to touch my ear.
My eardrum may never again resound, I fear.
The face of the savior unclear,
To a mere golem returning to the mud.

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The Thinker

He is a great thinker,
they would often say.
For his gift they would often utter,
any cost we would be willing to pay.

Opportunities in solitude he would seize.
And he saw things that no one else could see.
He saw musical notes in the winter breeze.
He saw intricacy in the simple bumble bee.

His poetry was innovative.
His arguments were precise
Inside his mind were thoughts evocative.
Living in his daydreams, he considered to be nice.

But this genius wasn’t without flaw.
He had one Achilles heel.
All sorts of lovers and friends he saw,
and to him they had no appeal.

And to his company of friends he put a stop,
and sought his own mind for his thrills.
For when one has stood on the mountaintop,
he can no longer enjoy the low-lying hills.

For the normal man, friends and fortunes are his themes.
His creature comforts he will never exhaust.
But the Thinker cannot live without his daydreams,
for every gift has a cost.

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The Rising of the Phoenix

No monarch stays in power forever.
And a lot of a good thing can be too much.
In the rainy season, the crops began to drown.
And the rivers flooded the beaver dam and rabbit hutch.

Then relief came, that parted the rainclouds.
The cascading deluge ceased.
The flood waters relented and returned to their channels.
The breadth of their rebellion decreased.

For a ray of light shined over all creation.
It came from a desert metropolis.
It was a returning seasonal tyrant,
this beacon of Heliopolis.

The red light singed the leaves from the trees.
It blinded the larks in their song.
But all change never adjusts easily,
and the red sun’s presence wouldn’t be unwelcome for long.

And as the riverbanks ran dry,
and the new scorched earth policy began.
We were overcome with lethargy,
like a frog in a boiling saucepan.

Though we enjoy the reign of the firebird,
he could be an unhealthy crutch.
For if he stays too long we will get burned.
For a lot of a good thing can be too much.

Originally started as a four part series of poems, one for each season: A Dirge for October(Autumn), Slumber(winter), Talitha Cumi(spring), The Rising of the Phoenix(summer). The last two were just completed this year.

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A Body Without Organs

I have no heart,
so in love I will never take part.
I have no feet,
So in sports I don’t compete.
I have no tongue.
From me, no songs will be sung.
I have no teeth
So to my stomach there is nothing to bequeath.
I have no bowel.
So to eat food would be more so foul.
I have no ears.
I cant hear you when you shed your tears.
I have no nose.
I can’t comprehend the lilac or the rose
I have no genitalia.
Therefore, I can’t provide children for ya.
I have no eyes to see.
So I can’t perceive ways to live in society.
I have no brain.
So. therefore I am insane.
And it is because I am crazy,
that I am relegated to writing poetry.


I case you didn't pick up on the hyperbole, I am actually not certified crazy ;)

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The Apartment

The driveway is a tongue,
Leading into the mouth.
My apartment is the mouth,
Waiting to devour me.

In the stomach is my bed,
Next to my lamp and my books.
And in the belly of my apartment,
I am safe and warm.

I enjoy the warmth of my bed.
I listen to the voices of my books.
Before the next morning,
When I am regurgitated back onto the cold streets.

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Song of the Whispering Woods

I spent my youth in that patch of wood,
And they were my warmest years.
And me and the trees understood,
That one day I would go to new frontiers.

It happened when a maiden came to me,
Whom I followed to a distant dell.
And I desired to be free,
From the haven that I knew too well.

She sang songs of adventure,
So I followed her across the earth.
I scaled the cliffs in their stature.
I walked across the Volcano’s hearth.

We walked through America’s purple fields.
We sailed seas under Polaris light.
We withstood the winds that the hurricane wields,
And endured the tornado’s terrible plight.

She took my hand across land and sea.
We dove down into the ocean trenches deep.
We listened to the whale’s harmony,
Amidst the squids and the urchins that creep.

And from the highest mountain we soared,
At the wind’s behest, into the night.
Around us the asteroids roared,
As we ventured on our cosmic flight.

My eyes have seen fields of gold.
I’ve felt the blizzard’s thrust.
I’ve seen many wonders to be told.
I watched the meteors dissipate into dust.

But from the far reaches of the north,
Came an enticing melodic sound.
And I was compelled forth,
To an old familiar ground.

There are no more lands for my feet to tread.
And that romance was swept away like the ocean breeze.
Many say in sadness I should droop my head.
But truthfully I still love the trees.

In case anyone is wondering I've never walked across a volcano. But the Whispering Woods is in fact a real place