Nov 05
poem 2 comments challenge: I Am
Icarus Blackmore's picture

I am not

I am a lot of things,
I am queer.
I am a writter.
I am one of "today's teens."
I am an introvert.
I am confused.

I am not going through phase,
I am not good at grammar.
I am not unmotivated.
I am not always, shy and quiet.
I am not invalid.

The tree loses its leaves in winter,
It reagins them in the summer,
And they turn a marvoulous green,
Before turning ruby red in the fall,
And falling off the tree once more.

The tree is still a tree,
I am still me.
Even if I don't know what,
exactly that is,
I know some of what's it's not.

I am not who I was in sixth grade,
I don't know what I'll be senoir year.
I am not who I pretended to be then,
I don't know what I really am.
I am sure only of what I'm not.

I was so afraid for so long,
that confusion discounted me,
As idiotic as it may seem,
Oct 27
Icarus Blackmore's picture


In cold, crisp light I looked upon the clouds,
That drifted up high, so far from the ground.
Their color stained with sunlight,
They were quite the sight. 
And as I looked to them I realized,
I yearned to grasp at them, and stay in the morning sky,
But alas I knew that they would slip from my grip.
And without so much as a sound,
Send me tumbling back to the ground.

Oct 27
Icarus Blackmore's picture


The sky turns a darker gray,
As I look on afraid,
Knowing it will soon rain.
And with that comes blame.

I look to my empty hand,
And then where I stand,
In unsheltered land,
That has yet not to be found.

And then I hear the pit, pit, patter,
Of the first drops of rainwater.
The safety of umbrellas a taunt,
I hold out my palm.

And soon the first drops fall.
I watch as others dodge,
Holding umbrellas up tall.
Still I stand with open palm.

And I realize, the people with the umbrellas
Are just as if not more, scared of the rain,
And all it will wash away.
And I am no longer afraid.

Oct 27
Icarus Blackmore's picture


A sparrow perched at the base of an oak,
Its small wings folded along its sides.
Its eyes bright and wide.
It leapt up and ascended to the beloved sky,
Its eyes sharp and small,
It found that the perch at the top of the oak,
Did not make it feel big,
But rather made it see how small it was,
In the face of the mighty oak, 
And its beloved sky.

Oct 04
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My phone buzzes,
I reach for it,
Then I stop.
I don't want to look.

It buzzes again,
The screen goes bright,
I pause bitting my lip,
My hands tremble.

This isn't normal,
I've said it before,
So much so that,
It's gotten repetitive.

I should grab my phone,
Lurch for it,
Eyes lighting up,
Eager to text my friend.

Instead I just stare at it,
Because now,
When it buzzes,
I think news alert.

I think mass shooting,
I think tragedy has struck again.
I think I'm not ready.
I think I'm too ready.

I know the response,
Loud and clear,
We grieve, we pray.

Then the sound fades away,
Leaving silence,
Awful silence, 
Deafening silence.

I can't tell which is worse,
The buzz of a phone,
Or the silence,
Of our refusal to change.

News Alert.
Oct 02
Icarus Blackmore's picture


Sep 21
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Small Town Living

It's funny, I hear people talking 'bout old fashioned towns,
Idillic small towns, where people still smile and wave,
There they still have values they say.
And there, kids know what's what and behave.

I feel like laughing at the idea, 
For a little while at least. 
In the end I just shake my head,
Knowing people are so blind to the beast.

"They still have morals there," you say,
"They treat their neighbors right, and their kids don't fight,"
I just smile and shake my head,
Thinking back too those dark cricket filled nights.

Their kids don't have to fight,
Because there they know how to hate, "right,"
There's no debate they just hate those who're different,
Sweeping everything they perceive as wrong out of sight.

"Nothing bad ever happens round those parts,"
You don't know what it was like listening in,
To the only metropolitan news broadcast there was, 
Sep 21
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Ode to Outcasts

An Ode to Outcasts:

Talking to you,
Sitting at the back table,
It brings me back,
To the time of fables.

We used to love those old tales,
Back when we believed.
We used to trust, completely,
Back when we held tight to dreams.

They told it us that it was okay,
So it was.
There were no questions,
No social games to be won.

Acceptance was the norm,
Or so we thought.
Alas as we grow in size we grow less wise,
And those ideals were blotted out. 

The choppy waters of cliques dragging us down,
We clung to friendships like driftwood.
However, unable to stay afloat in waves of rumors,
We let go of people we'd too long held onto.

All too early we started sinking below those choppy waters,
But from the debris of old,
We'll make a new raft for us, 
And though I can't promise smooth sailing, I can promise I won't let go.
Sep 16
Icarus Blackmore's picture

My Vermont

My Vermont Experience is complicated to say the least. You see, I'm not really from anywhere, at least not in the sense that I've lived in any one reigion my whole life, which has made me a little weary to say that one praticular place makes up my entire childhood experience. Thankfully though, that's not the question the question is what makes up my Vermont Experience.  

For me Vermont has always be tainted with the my memories of Ohio. I can't even walk through the woods, without my mind being drawn back towards the concrete paths of Ohio. The two places are just so opposite, it's a Ying-Yang kind of deal. Still, perhaps because of my wariness of Ohio, I can't help but notice it everywhere, or at least parts of it. 
Aug 27
Icarus Blackmore's picture

End of Summer Poem

Gold stains the green leaves,
The summer sun whispers goodbye,
As the birds sing their farewells,
And shadows creep over the yard

They beckon forth the days of cold.
Their shapes sinister and strange,
They are reminders of short evenings,
And the mountains of school work I am to face.

I long for summer’s empty warmth,
The unkeepable promise of never ending days,
Only accentuated by the starry night,
With those unreachable dreams of an infinite freedom

From the safety of warm blankets I reach,
Towards those glistening stars in the nights of impossible dreams.
But you can never truly see the stars
Until you stand outside on a cold and bitter night.

So I will throw off the warm comforter of summer and it’s promises,
And step out into the cold starlight.