Best Andrea Dietrich Poems

Below are the all-time best Andrea Dietrich poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Cinder Girl

An ember sparked will softly glow,
and fed by fuel, will grow and grow.
I once was cinder, sparked by you,
first timid. . . till the flames then grew.

And so our start was touch of dawn,
with amber hue, for I was drawn
to eyes so welcoming and warm
I never guessed you’d do me harm.

Like morning glory, love in June
the rapture of mid-afternoon,
romance of which the ancients wrote,
our passion had no antidote.

And with the dusk, though scarlet tinged,
our love began to come unhinged,
for clouds arrived, which filled your eyes,
extinguishing bright twilight skies.

With cold of night came shadows’ pall,
and I could not tear down your wall.
By midnight’s hour, the fire was dead.
Mere ashes smoldered in its stead.

You left, and should you reappear,
I’ve vowed to shun you.  Now I fear
the very thing for which I yearn -
one touch. . . and then again - to burn.


An oldie For The Creative Collective Anthology Series Poetry Contest
of Geraldine Taylor

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

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A Tale of Fire and Ice

Part I: Ice He shines like silver midnight moon - cool marble statue, this tycoon. And though he makes the ladies swoon, of ice he’s hewn.; of ice he’s hewn. He’s poker-faced and can deceive competitors and can achieve most anything, but can’t conceive of Genevieve, of Genevieve. Like Neptune, distant from the sun - relationships he chose to shun. He thought the search for love was done. He has no one; he has no one. Now love’s allure has come his way. What will he do? What will he say? Will he grab hold, beg love to stay, or let it stray? Or let it stray? Part II: Fire This dragoness disguised in lace - passion’s flower with angel’s face, precisely picks the time and place each dream to chase, each dream to chase. Like ink the color red, she stains the hearts of those whose love she drains, and then she leaves when naught remains No lust she feigns; no lust she feigns. And now there’s one who would suffice. For him alone, she’d sacrifice her everything, so he of ice she must entice, she must entice. So Genevieve now strikes the flame. Will man of ice his love proclaim? Beneath her fire and his cold frame, they’re both the same. They’re both the same. for Broken Wing's Form G or GIVE me an NA - Poetry Contest N/A in Your best rhyming poem Contest judged Feb 2, 2017

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012

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How Poetry Began

That thing that we call poetry -
when asked where it began,
I’d say it started beautifully
before the dawn of man!

It glistened on the oceans
before man came to be.
It blossomed on the grassy cliffs
that met the first great sea.

It glittered in the moon and stars
and beamed on earth below
in meadows where bright flowers danced
and on the pristine snow.

It sparkled on the lakes and streams,
and when man came along,
he took sweet words that flowed to him
and turned them into song.

This was how it always was
before we knew of time.
The poet who begot us all
made it to be sublime.

Poetry has now evolved,
and as with many things,
there are many kinds.  . .  but I
still like it when it sings!

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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FALL IN LOVE

F eeling enraptured, Autumn dances in the wind, then undresses.
A s bright robes fall to the ground, her passion paints the twilight skies.
L ike a nymph, she beckons, tossing her fiery auburn tresses.
L ongingly she sighs - September’s bliss lingering in her eyes.

I ndian summer days come; then they go.
N ights though chill, embrace her in indigo.

L ater, in November, her sweetness wanes.
O ctober cannot stay forever loving her.
V acantly she gazes through freezing rains.
E ndearments whispered - cease - when Fall loses ardor.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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September

"September, beautiful month of my birth, is nigh, but I cannot feel glad." September, drifting in with glow of moon, you stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves. In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon. Your breath grows cool. You’ll blow and loosen leaves. The hills and woodlands will reflect new hues. You stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves. In Autumn’s chill, the colors are a ruse. For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze. The hills and woodlands then reflect new hues. Though warmth may linger through your final days, old Sun is waning, yet he still seems strong! For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze. September, you’re a melancholy song. Though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk! Old sun is waning, yet he still seems strong. October looms. . . Your ending will be brusque. September, drifting in with glow of moon, though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk. In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon. Written a long time ago. Date posted here at Soup: 8/29/11 For Joseph May's Terzanelle Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011

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The Wintered Soul Among Wisteria

One need not read her horoscope to know this woman's fate, and though wisteria cascades sweet blooms of lavender like snow outside her door, it's still Siberia pervading the dimensions of her mind, for not one fickle thought or patch of moss can thrive where bleakest shadows are enshrined. No bittersweet, no dew drops. . . only loss surrounds her heart. She tries to reminisce, but like a barren continent grown cold, she can't perceive one particle of bliss. She's clasping grief and cannot be consoled! Wisteria's perfume is in the breeze, but in her soul remains a winter's freeze. For Janice Canerdy's Sonnet Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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Star-Crossed - For Love of Day, For Love of Night

(this is a form called Swap Quatrain, where first line's phrases swap in the last line of each stanza) In shadows’ veils, at end of night, sweet Moon removes her modest light and softly, yet again, exhales - at end of night, in shadows’ veils. As she departs, her love’s released to climb the stairway to the east. They cannot meet to share their hearts. Her love’s released as she departs. She watches him while hid from view, the way he kisses morning’s dew, and sees gold rays spill from his rim. While hid from view, she watches him. Sad Moon, alone for centuries, with awe has watched Sun leave, cerise. while she, afar. . . how cold she’s grown! For centuries, sad moon alone. She takes his place so he may rest. And though forlorn, she’s always dressed in lace, for Luna has great grace. So he may rest, she takes his place. For love of night, for love of day, she can’t implore him that he sway from course. To be apart’s their plight. For love of day, for love of night. For Thvia Shetley's Cosmos Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

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In Strangler's Wood - tanka version

At a dead man’s throat lies the rain drenched woolen scarf that stifled his screams. Cold Winds howl through decayed trees - witnesses in the shadows.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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Suicide Prevention

It Matters Not It hovers here, a moon opaque, obscuring mountain trails I take. No other living things appear. A moon opaque. . . It hovers here. I follow on along a ledge; below a swirling river’s edge. In front of me, the canyon’s yawn. Along a ledge, I follow on. I see no hue when fog congeals. Oh, doom of one who no more feels! The moon has fled, as so have you. When fog congeals, I see no hue. Now all is dim; it matters not. My dear one’s heart I have not got. No use in living without him. It matters not. Now all is dim. At peace I’ll be if I should fall to murky water from this wall. Oh, yawning canyon, swallow me. If I should fall, at peace I’ll be. I imagine that for a few, suicide feels like the way to peace from suffering, and when the desire for peace is that strong, I do not really think it can be prevented. Written in Swap Quatrain Form with iambic tetrameter. In this form, created by Lorraine M. Kanter, each stanza in the poem must be a quatrain (four lines) where the first line is reversed in the fourth line. Rhyming pattern: aabb, ccdd and so on

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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This Night

I’m driftwood, and I’m floating out to sea as sun descends upon my home - the grove of trees whose fragrance still remains with me. And likewise, heaven’s work of art, a mauve surrounding me, now permeates my soul. Warm water, in the twilight growing cold, is rocking me. Beneath dark blue, a shoal moves swiftly; overhead there will unfold the myriad of stars in semblance of a giant carousel in dimming sky. Those stars that glitter for the grove I love will glitter too for me, where here I lie alone, enraptured. . . and I think I might drift evermore, enveloped by this night. Written by Andrea Dietrich and entered in the Put Your Best Rhyme Forward!!!!!Contest of Just That Archaic Poet

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2009

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