Tag Archives: poems

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.

Kingdom of Heaven

Good morning, everyone. I hope you’ve all had a wonderful last couple weeks (especially without my writing cluttering up your feeds). Please enjoy the piece today! Without further ado…

Regicide

Painfully wrought

in chains of iron,

the things they’ve brought

of ash and ire.

I fall asleep

astride the clouds,

falling deep

into the crowds.

There is some meaning

to be gleaned

from things demeaning

and things uncleaned.

Unsafe again

inside my dreams.

There in the fen,

that fetid light gleams.

Perfect, porcelain, helmsman

who thought himself a vase,

pleasing, pristine, a madman

who thought himself in diapause.

One braggart

who swaggered

and told them all his plans.

Deserted now,

his many lands.

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.