I picked up my pencil
And sat down to write
I had nothing to say, for
I’m not very bright.

But that didn’t stop me
I needed a Pome
I needed to scribble
A life-changing tome.

I sweated a little.
I crossed out a lot.
I hoped it was brilliant.
I sensed it was not.

I read the New Yorker
Their poems are obscure
I may write only drivel
But my meaning is clear.

So now I am finished.
I’ll read it and you
Then go get a pencil-
Be a famed poet too.
           ljm

Poetry is a
    garden of wild
    flowers
I've yet come to
    admire

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

I thought if I could swallow the stars
I’d be as beautiful as the evening sky
I tried one night    with fireflies
They burned my throat
Their legs striking at soft flesh
But my skin did not glow
No moon crawled from my eye sockets
I was left with corpses in my stomach
I soon learned I would only ever be
A cemetery

You were born near the warm ocean,
grew up around there,
With your clear acrylic smile
and sun-kissed blonde hair

I, the winter cold
More north than I can remember,
We met that day you visited,
a brisk chill, that December

We drank and danced,
while the years passed over
Argued and grew apart,
our greatest fears, now sober

My memories of you, once treasured
Now, faded
as sun deprived lands complain,
Forever, jaded

Happy New Year my dear
Wherever you are.


Shell ✨🐚