w-kyle-jones
American
Hello There! / / A student just told me about this site, and told me emphatically that I should check it out knowing that I write poetry myself. As the prior sentence would suggest, I am a teacher--specifically a high school English teacher. / / I've been writing poetry since I was about thirteen years old, and I've self-published an early collection of my teenage and young adult poetry a few years ago entitled, The Art of Forgetting. My hope is to one day be a truly published writer and poet, but in the meantime this might be a cool forum to test some of my poetic verse out on the world. / / Cheers!
Far from the high home
into the low shallow sea's coast,
light sand impressions pace the shore,
treading memories of old.
New loves and heart songs
ebb just as the curl crest sprays white foam.
Small hands mold sand into kingdoms,
towering from dawn till dusk,
but falls as all great republics do
with changing tides.
Toes dig deep into wet grain
and new waves bury them deeper.
Eyes fall to the west as the sun
sets the siring sea on fire.
It seems suddenly forgetfulness seeps in.
Where is the high home again?
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
An expression.
Something I can put my mind on like
a thumb print for the world to see.
It’s a way of speaking without
having to worry about making sense,
or worrying if people understand me.
It’s completely limitless and under my--
control.
I can abuse it, address it, analyze it,
bend it, break it, bushwhack it,
create it, contort it, cultivate it,
destroy it, design it, disembowel it,
explore it, fabricate it, hijack it, hurl it,
love it, man-handle it, mold it, mutilate it,
scatter it, stretch it, strip it, synthesize it,
translate it, torture it, undress it,
and it will always ask me to come back.
It will always call to me asking for more,
telling me to express myself.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC