Tag Archive | poetry

Two Dead Boys Poem

Two dead boys – One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

There is a certain morbid quality to this piece, but the genius of it is epic. When my son first read it to me years ago I was so taken by it, it was one of those rare moments where I actually wished I had been the one who penned it. Every now and again it just worms its way into my mind. I am uncertain who originally penned it . . .

Ice Cream & Good Days

image

 

Chocolate droplets
stream in melting
rivulets down
his little arm
already the color
of earth from a
long day of play

He tries to catch
the quickly melting
ice cream from
the slightly crumbled
cone on which it sits

Not a care has he
not with his
chocolate treasure
in hand

I watch him
in wonder
remembering
a time
long since passed
when an ice cream
cone could make the
difference between
a good day and a bad

He runs off to play
with sticky
little hands

It was a good day

Crystal R. Cook

 

Poetic Perfection?

A dance of words
on printed page
leather bindings
worn from age
enchanted door
beneath a cover
a world in wait
to be discovered
black letters
penned on white
dramatic art
enlightened sight
page upon page
silently heard
melodious echoes 
a dance of words

Is there such thing as a perfect poem? What reads like perfection to one may not to another, poetry is a subjective art. There are a few things which can endear your words to a greater audience of readers, however; it is not simply the words themselves, but the way in which you choose to craft them.

A poem needn’t be epic in length, think of the power the words of haiku hold. Poetry is something which comes from within, composition and form are secondary to the words which will bring meaning and life to the page.

Poetry comes in many forms, perfect to one – nonsense to another. What matters is the author’s voice tickling the reader’s ear through the whispered words of the page. You don’t need to use big words or flowery verse . . .

The laureate lamented
for her words were skewed,
her altiloquence mistaken
as being quite rude.
Her style clinquant,
her affectation too much,
too many mistakes,
like catchfools and such.
Circumlocution
and too many clichés
made all of her readers
turn quickly away.
What she thought
to be eloquent
was really quite fustian;
due to forced rhyme
she lacked any . . . lyricism?
Pedantry ad nauseam,
not even done right,
left the young writer
feeling contrite.
She vowed to improve,
she promised to change
and pay more attention
how her words were arranged.
Convinced of her talent
she started again,
but was soon held up
by heteronyms.
She stopped and she sighed,
then she started to cry,
for her poetic juices
had completely run dry . . .

Simply awful with that bit of forced rhyme and the ridiculous use of unnecessarily big words. I must admit though, it was quite fun to write.

Writing poetry can be healing, thought-provoking and at times, profound. The perfect poem is the one that touches your soul when you write it, welcoming the reader to become one with your words.

A poet pens his muse to the page
seeking not perfection
but release . . .

Poetry does not have to rhyme. If you cannot rhyme well, do not rhyme at all. Forced rhymes destroy what may otherwise be a fine piece of work. Rhymed poetry needs to have a rhythm; it needs to flow seamlessly as it is read. It needs to make sense.

If writing a rhymed piece, ideally each stanza should have the same amount of lines; the rhyme scheme needs to be consistent. There are several ways to craft a rhymed poem, once you’ve chosen your style, remain true to it throughout the piece, the jarring effect of switched up rhyme schemes can throw a reader off.

Every line in a poem does not need to be capitalized; many writers tend to do this, for the reader though, it is often hard to distinguish where one thought ends and another begins. A poem can have commas, periods, and question marks. These details can certainly serve to enhance your work; don’t be afraid to use them.

Poetic beauty is personal passion as it is with any art. There are those who love and admire the work of Picasso and others who are perplexed and not attracted to it in the slightest, yet both recognize the value of the art itself.

Words never rest,
an endless dance
of thoughts
and epiphanies,
which must
be forgotten
or given
life eternal
upon a page.

Words
ease fear
create terror
heal, hurt
make
insanity
the norm.

They never
cease
they never
fade,
never fail
never stop
dancing.

Crystal R. Cook

Shards of Delusion

image

Howling winds
echo secrets
to the
restless
silence that
never slumbers

Lost hopes
and
stolen dreams
frantic for
release
find
no escape

Broken promises
blanket the
landscape
littered with
shattered trust

At the end of
nothingness
lay a
valley
deep

Barren
wasteland
overflowing
with
nothing

Void of
sound
and of
silence

Crowded with
emptiness
it hasn’t
room to
hold

Sight is
false belief
deception
of truth

Smiles hide
torrents
of tears

Laughter
muffles
anguished cries
while
pretty prances
‘round
so ugly
might go
unnoticed

The looking
glass shows
fragments
of false
reality

Nothing
more than
broken shards
we are
afraid
to touch
for fear
they might
pierce
our
fragile
souls

Crystal R. Cook

My Favorite Things

image

Beauty and music, sunshine and light,
the wings of a dove, softly rustling in flight.

The smell of the morning after summers rain,
crackling campfires, and bubbling champagne.

Voices of children, singing songs of praise,
the evening mist, and long autumn days.

The changing of seasons, a moment of prayer,
goosebumps and laughter, my favorite chair.

Being lost in a moment, the voice of a friend,
being held in a hug I hope never ends.

The way my cheeks feel coming in from the cold,
the softness of hands as they begin to grow old.

Sincerity and honesty, faith, hope and love,
knowing that God is somewhere above.

The presence of angels, a wonderful dream,
having a bowl of my favorite ice cream.

Snuggles and cuddles and soft babies feet,
that fleeting moment my house is tidy and neat.

Sweet memories to cherish, tears of sadness and joy,
pictures in albums, my childhood toy.

Sharing a secret, shouting out loud,
laying back in the sun, guessing shapes in the clouds.

Rain on the rooftop, silence so still,
meadows and forests, lacy frost on the sill.

The power of prayer, uninterrupted sleep,
making a promise I know I will keep.

Sitting and thinking of my favorite things,
like cupcakes and flowers and angel’s wings.

The innocent sweetness of love’s first kiss,
and simply sharing my thoughts with a friend like this.

(c) Crystal R. Cook