#nationalpoetryday
i did not fall in love
with poetry
because of textbooks.
an a plus student,
excellent in german,
lit and history,
could not bear the idea
of studying a poet’s
second-hand misunderstandings.
it was a summer
filled with cigarette smoke
and borrowed crushes —
my godmother’s nephew
with his band tees
and cheekbones
that lit the spark
against my will.
fifteen going on tragic,
the air thick with heat,
through the windows
he blasted music,
'ordinary disappointments',
screaming vulgarities,
the really bad kind
that me at thirteen
shouldn’t have known about.
during those months
those lyrics
lived in the back of my mind,
especially when the sun fell,
leaving only
the deep indigo of the night.
after summer ended
and he went back home,
i still carried a piece of him
as if he were my own shadow,
and the gateway drug
of obscene lyrics
and songs about józsef attila
intoxicated me.
i still believe
those blistering weeks
forged my taste
for poetry.
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 1:36 PM UTC
Meet me in
the morrow
lands as light
entwines and
weaves,
we’ll watch the
bronze sceptre
of the trees.
Take my hand
through autumn;
waltz amongst
the falling
leaves,
dance with me
a while up-
-on the breeze.
Count with me
the steps as
we, dance our
whole lives through …
“One - two - three
Two - two - three
Three - two - three”
… and I’ll fall,
in love with
you.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 3:34 PM UTC
...the last of three for national poetry day when writing one's become a chore.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXL)
Tis nash'nal po'try day, and I've from thence
Ne words for aught. To be suffices. Pale
Hours watch rain trip on puddles to avail,
As I wish to be out there listning, whence
Do not take notes; thet silver eye suspense
Just trims its nails through, sans a voice, is frail.
And when those navy racks glowr in betrayl,
I note orange bushes, yet hopes are pretense.
We have our dinner now as gloaming'd stir.
Wash dishes after, while the dark night to
Effect is black, so very black. Who tour
Upon these roads are like the fireflies through
Warm August twilight. Oh! What is't as twere?
Why's writing such a chore? Will being just do?
10Oct18c
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
Bit of a scruffy scoundrel sometimes isn't it
around ones face like a lions mane it will sit,
Varied lengths shapes and colours
the growers are all like brothers.
It's not just ****** hair
some dont just stop and stare,
others want to touch the beard
maybe reading this you think that's weird.
Taking pride of place upon ones face
designer stubble there's not a trace,
like giving your pet a comb and groom
to some a shave would spell doom.
Though this may sound perverse
to touch it would be no curse,
pogonophiliacs want to give it a stroke
to others they sound like crazy folk.
Cooks we may not all be it's true
we love our women like our beards too,
adding in a little oil and sometimes butter
served to make their hearts flutter.
( C ) Grant Dickson 04/10/2018
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
I hate returning to that,
Dark corner in my heart.
There is so much so say,
And I don't know where to start.
All the issues I have,
Is beginning with me.
Issues I never wanted,
The worlds to see.
I've done a great job,
Hiding them perfectly.
The more I write,
The truth comes out forcefully.
I swear i never wanted to be the girl who.
Cripples myself in jealousy,
Always watching them before me.
I know its wrong,
But i cant help envy quietly.
I cant be happy for your blessing,
Because I'm comparing myself and it gets depressing.
That's only the top layer of my truth,
I let hate grab me of my youth.
The deeper secret is I had hate in my heart,
Everything around me was falling apart.
I put the blame on everything else except me.
But the real reason is me.
A lesson I had to learn,
Is people's love and respect is something i had to earn.
How was I could I expect people to be on my level,
When I was walking so close to the devil.
The desperate need for attention,
Was causing the constant rejection.
I had to realize I'll always be misunderstood,
I will always be judged and that's something that needed to be understood.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Twitter says it's National Poetry Day
But no words come to me today
My inspiration will come back on another day
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
I've read all of my notifications
answered all my quiet messages
affixing, affectations
Quipped and prosed, some replies
yicked and yacked, and had
laughter, cry's, and sighs
Bounced, from hither to yon
words flitted, where to there
yet here, and never gone
Responded too, new and old creations
words and lines from heart, and soul
filling all, my poetic, expectations
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
Her lips
Taste
Like
S t a r s
And
When I
Kiss them
I'm
B u r n e d
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:00 AM UTC
Etched in his mind,
The internal war,
Haemorrhaging blood,
Hidden once more,
Slowly he’s dying,
His body too weak,
Paralysed lips,
Unable to speak,
Traumatic life,
Slipping away,
His heavy soul,
Aching today.
He witnessed it all,
The burden unseen,
Screaming their names,
Tortured in dream,
His cries settle,
His memory fades,
Wiping the tears,
For former comrades.
(Repeat)
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:53 AM UTC
Oftentimes I find myself
staring at the sky,
drifting away
on clouds
and daydreaming of
your cerulean eyes.
I get lost in the memories,
and find myself in a daze.
Reality often seems futile
when I'm adrift
in this lustful haze.
My heart is
broken and bruised;
I know you want me too,
but how will I ever find you
while we're lost
in this maze.
And how am I supposed to stop missing you
when the cerulean sky
is consistently reminding me
of your cerulean eyes
and the bittersweet memories
that we held on
beautiful, nostalgic days.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that lingers on my mind
that haunts the drunken moon
that lovers whisper in the shadows
Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that rescues us from sorrows & ourselves
that the Sea sings in it's lullabies
& that the oppressor fears
Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that lingers after death has tolled
it's dark, dark bell
Richer than the gift of any king-
behold!
Sweet Poetry!
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC