Tag Archives: floating

Window Pain

My mind is adrift upon a raft I’ve sewn from cheap thread and old leather, one that buoys atop the bilge-water I forever fear that I will sink into. Maybe everything looks the wrong color when the window you’re looking through is dirtied so heavily. Without further ado…

Window Pain

Like streaks of paint

sliding down the inside face

of one little window pane,

my thoughts take on

the consistency of these oils

that stick to canvas

but not to glass.

Smeared as they are,

these ideas that live and breathe,

growing and changing

into beautiful things

and horrible things

through which the world can be seen.

Peering out,

through the reds,

through the greens,

and the cyans,

one might have trouble seeing

those things that shade

in hues galore.

Perhaps one day

I’ll see the world

clearly

and unobstructed,

no longer undone

by the lines upon

this window pane.

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

Good afternoon, everyone! I have been so incredibly busy that I have hardly had the time to write though it is with a glad heart that I would present to you a new piece written by, and you may have guessed it, yours truly. While I hope that you enjoy it, I do hope that you don’t relate too strongly to the images it paints in your head. That would break my little old heart. Without further ado…

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

The plight of the firstborn son,

that one,

the only one,

his hazel eyes.

Reflections,

refractions,

green and gold and amber…

Nothing quite like him,

you know?

I look into his eyes,

my eyes,

seeing someone I never recognize;

someone I never fully realize.

His eyes, they change in the light.

If only it were,

that you could tell

what he’s supposed to be.

What is he supposed to be?

All alone

inside his head

through stained glass

I peek and peer.

What is this man?

A boy who sits upon a pew?

A man who lies when you already knew?

No pattern,

I don’t recognize…

There’s nothing all around.

Happy Webiversary!

Good afternoon, everybody! Today officially marks the full one-year anniversary of my first post on poemsbysam.com. I don’t have anything in particular planned for today, but I have a short and sweet poem that I wrote a while ago I think you might like. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Lost Planet

Shining there upon a far flung beach,

two suns and three moons

that illuminate

twinkling gemstones under an emerald sky,

reflections of those things that lie above.

She looks up at those stars,

those heavenly bodies,

and waits for one to return.

The only one.

Perhaps they’d sit under green skies

upon that red-tinged grass

and look out at the spear-whales

flying overhead

and great striders

crossing those shallow,

green seas.

Maybe they’ll have croissants.

Low Tide

Lordy, Lordy, have I been busy. Very tired, very busy. More to do today and more to do tomorrow. I have a piece that I hope will bring you the peace you need to continue marching on. Without further ado…

Low Tide

Sunlight sprays and sparkles

as if it crests the wave

you see down there upon that beach.

The seas come down,

the tides recede,

and leaves are heard in trees behind.

The wind,

it blows,

and finds your every crease

and crevice.

Like the sun,

it illuminates

those hidden things

beneath your beautiful wings.

Harder days

have come and gone,

but end the day,

it’s you who’s won.

In times will be,

oh, the things you will see.

Certainly,

In times that will be.

New Year.

Welcome to a new year, friends and all. I’ve not written in quite some time, nearly three weeks to my remembrance. I’ve got something for you that I hope makes up for the absence and rings that funny little new years bell. No more tears, no more fears. I’ll be 23 this year. Everybody hates you when you’re 23. Please enjoy the piece today. Without further ado…

Transience of a Midnight Passerby

One day I wish to wake

from this ever-present, all-encompassing sliver of a dream.

I rest here, without laurels

on remnants of those things left behind

by former residents of the periphery.

It is not that there is nothing here.

It is only that this place is transitory,

it is a placeholder,

a way-station for all those who might find their way.

I lie here,

untethered from the place that comes before and the place that comes in consequence,

on an old bed of straw and linens

expertly and serenely tied to an aging cedar frame.

I’d hoped to find a little more peace here.

Perhaps I’d hoped to divine some meaning from the splinters I’d get sleeping in this worn and tired bed-frame.

Those little wooden splinters tell the story of a thousand years lived in a world so loved that every single lover has died right there by its side

no matter how ancient she might become.

It is only that I lack the knowledge and wisdom required for further reading, lest I might learn how this old cedar frame came to be.

That,

I don’t think,

would be permitted.

Soon I’ll move on,

washing away my time here along with the stains in my bedding and my clothes.

This is nowhere,

certainly not somewhere,

and a place that no one can truly stay,

for only it is no one that lives here

and He I have not been able to find.

Before those wooden halls and vaulted ceilings call me home,

I’ll find one thing so worthy of a King.