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Suzy Smithe Jun 2012
The furry and calm of a blizzard
Forces all forces
To halt, to sit, to warm.
Nothing can best a blizzard,
At the game of delaying the storm.
Suzy Smithe Jun 2012
That dandelion puff called memory
Floats through consciousness' treasury,
A needle in the haystack when sought,
Stigmatic and lingering when not.
Remembers most foolish dreams,
Forgets life's numerous themes.
Fragile and crumbling with time,
Yet unyielding without reason or rhyme.

Men has tamed every beast,
But not his own memory, though least.
Suzy Smithe Jun 2012
A picture is NOT worth a thousand words,
Without a thousand word explanation.
Because how can you
SEE the circumstances,
HEAR the conversation,
TOUCH the emotion,
SMELL the time,
TASTE the air,
From a piece of colored paper?
Without a memory of the moment,
When the light was captured,
It's hardly worth the capturing.
Suzy Smithe Jun 2012
Life completed, is a majestic tapestry.
Each year, a beautiful landscape,
Each month, a sprawling forest,
Each week, a determined tree,
Each day, a strong branch,
Each hour, an exquisite leaf,
Each minute, a fragile stem,
Each second, a single bud,
My beginnings, the pattern,
My actions, the thread,
My words, the color,
Things uncontrolled, the frame...
But please, tell me who
Is holding the needle?
Suzy Smithe Jun 2012
For his sickly mind,
There is no cure
Anywhere in the near future,
Because even the suggested life sentence,
Is just a paper left unsigned.

But are we to suffer?
A head case,
With answers to everything,
Isn't really concerned,
With all things lesser.

His notions take precedence,
Over sense and logic,
A million terrible fantasies,
That never come true,
Show the absence of any guidance.

To us, they're obvious lies,
To him, the unavoidable truth
Delusions, clearly,
But in his mind, he's a mistreated messenger,
Prepared to shout out his self-induced goodbyes.

HIS rights have been violated?
What about ours?
Clothes, words, spark plugs, and potatoes,
Those are the weapons of his choice.
It wouldn't make sense even if his reasons WERE valid.

A lifetime of travail,
Does it amount to this?
Yes, we're soon to be freed of his shadow,
But freed of our hearts? No,
Over those, we will never prevail.
A true poem about someone close to me...
Suzy Smithe Jun 2012
What do I make of this life?
Every person his own?

When does truth come in?
Do we have to lose a lot to win?
Is there only a middle place?
No absolute sureness?

Don't be so adamant,
There's more than one predicament,
Yours might not be the absolute opinion,
Nor the final solution.

The validity is there,
But what's the line, to be "fair",
Between a how and a why,
A disputed fact and an obvious lie,

They all wish to say,
Surely the sunset is permanent,
That a flower is there for eternity,
Like they're blind.

Because that isn't reality.
Suzy Smithe Jun 2012
Dusk is just an illusion,
A dream of peace and confusion,
There's only day and night,
And yet, there's other hues,
Than simply black and white.

Sometimes, gray is the sum of what we see,
But that's not all we're allowed to be,
Sunsets are the abstract paintings of this instant,
Full of love and hate and calm,
But people are fully, truly, tints of iridescent.

Yet all you can see are fields of black,
But anything will if you stay that far back,
Choose to look past every looming flaw,
Maybe there's even white deep inside,
And even icy snow can thaw.

Our frayed, tired feelings return,
We're so quick to internally burn,
Hope is not a heart's careless mistake,
Because a thousand fragments of the broken sky,
Will someday come together as a new daybreak.

— The End —