Tag Archives: future

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.

On The Face of The Clock

Good morning, one and all! I hope everyone is doing well on this chilly, or if you’re in the southern hemisphere, very hot, February day. There is much to look forward to and that is the spirit of the little guy I wrote about today. I hope you’ll enjoy. Without further ado…

On The Face of The Clock

Ticking tock,

sounds of the clock,

and one plucky little metronome

who doesn’t want to wait at home.

Snow on sand

as he passes by

and with his little eye,

perhaps he’ll spy

that little old lie.

The world, it says

that he can’t do

those things he dreams 

and wants to do.

He’ll go outside,

he’ll have adventures

and all new ventures

with no more censures.

Up the mountain,

round the bend,

through the pass

until the last.

He’ll be free,

and he’ll be fair.

Oh, 

won’t he be

his own little outcast.

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.

Spiders Dare Not Spin Their Webs

It’s a rainy day today. I hope everyone is staying warm and dry. One hell of a season, this winter. One minute cold, next minute less cold but also wet. When will I be able to wear one outfit the whole day without changing? No one may know. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Spiders Dare Not Spin Their Webs

Teardrops fall

on an aged turntable,

one that creaks and winces

at every drop.

Once upon a time,

its exquisite design

and joyous notes

filled halls with envious glances

and raucous applause.

Gilded then,

much like the age,

in silver and gold

now tarnished and old.

Like porcelain and glass,

now precious vinyl degrades

as its uses and users too fade.

I remain by its side,

this sweet and beautiful turntable,

until the drips form stalactites

and I myself subside.