"oher" poems
I Ponder the words
Oher writers have wrote,
To speak volumes in syllables
Understand feelings in notes
I wonder can I compare
To the madness of Poe
Share the wonder of Silverstein,
Shelley's monstrous despair,
Or the screams of Van Gogh?
Can I write myself Treetops
Frost's trails traveled by
Could I create my own Iliad
Command with Tennyson
Or on Stoker's bat wings rise,
I am no one too many
Someone too few,
Though my voice is unheard
Painful my artform,
Enduring shall try
Paint pattern and scribe
My spark in the darkness
The dream I'll pursue.
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC
there is a gold lighter on the kitchen counter.
it doesn't mean anything
but it still burns with the heat of the last time it
was alive.
i pocket it. i will try it later, when i am alone,
and watch it's smoke curl in to the crevices of the endless sky.
outside there is a dais and my family are spread across it like a luxurious french tapestry.
it is fraying, though.
or maybe it always was.
i am colder than i was here, last year.
every spring we gather to remind each oher
that we should see each oher more, shouldn't we?
i am planted in this polite, vacuous soil of words.
a bulb submerged, fat and waiting in the earth.
i am waiting to grow. to turn my face up, and away.
last year there were more of us, i'm sure;
but i can't recall the names
faces
of those that aren't here.
we are measuring our decline like an hourglass-
with each new year we are one less, one less.
May 4, 2024
May 4, 2024 at 5:39 PM UTC