Sep 27
poem challenge: CJP-Fire

There’s a house on fire

There’s a house on fire,
But we won’t call 911.
We’ll let it burn away,
“Soon enough, it will be done!”

Our neighbors are in danger,
But they can fend for themselves.
“Everything is perfectly fine!”
So the White House yells. 

They say it’s not a big deal,
“It’s on the other coast.”
But red light streams through my window,
And that is not a boast.

Fifty years under study,
And now this red-ish tint.
We’ve ignored it for so long,
Why can’t we take a hint?

It’s safe to finally state:
We’re in the midst of a blight.
And I think it’s time that we admit,
That Greta was always right.
May 04

Out of Sync

It seems that time and my motives 
Are completely out of sync
That they don’t like each other
Or that is what I think

For when I’m high on motivation
I’m running out of time
And when all that must be done, is done
I have not the mind to write a rhyme

It seems that these two things
That should run hand in hand
Completely despise each other
Or so I understand

Feb 10


Jan 30

Voices of the wind

They say the wind carries souls,
That’s what they say.
And if I were to believe them,
today would be the day.

The wind brought me voices,
Of people of the past,
And those of people whose lives
Will not much longer last.

People whose bodies,
Have suddenly given out,
And whose souls have given up, 
Finding a better route.

Some of us are nowhere near,
While others hang by a thread.
And others just lie around,
Waiting till they're dead.

After many years of interment,
An old man told me,
“Sometimes the greatest beauties, 
Are the ones we cannot see.”

“Be careful, my love,” 
said a woman, dead at 32. 
“The future is in your hands,
No one can change it but you.”

A young man of 16,
Body worn from a long fight,
Told me that knowledge
Is the only worthy might. 

Killed by breast cancer,
An old feminest, 73,
Dec 12

Why is this happening to us?

Why is this happening to us?

It must just be a misunderstanding,

It won’t be long ‘till we’re thrown under the bus.

It’s a miracle we’re still standing.

I wash my face in tears,

What is there left to try for?

The voice from the intercom ringing in my ears.

It is a time to decide what we shall die for.

There is nothing left to do but wait,

And wonder when this era shall be done.

For, before it is too late,

We must learn that our lives lie in the hands that hold the gun.
Oct 07

One Thing Leads to Another

“One thing leads to another.”

Those were his last words.

But what do they mean?

Are they just a string of meaningless words that go swirling off into the abyss of Worthless?

And once out there, are those words going to blow apart like a star whose every little atom has decided that all the others just aren't good enough?

Or do they mean something?

Are those words just a little, clueless seed waiting to sprout into meaning?

One thing leads to another.

Seed to sprout.

Star to atom.

Something to nothing.

Or is it nothing to something?

Sep 16

The Clearing

The misty image of a lush forest appears below me. I am not solid, just a foggy image in the darkness of a forgetful mind. Yet I can see what once was a blank canvas becomes a light clearing in a dark forest. Perhaps like me, a bright thought in a shadowy corner of the brain. I gaze down from my uplifted point of view. Noticing every leaf’s color and every blade of grass’s shape come to life. Suddenly the whirring of the brain stops, changes direction, and reaches back to the farthest corner of itself. Groping around in the dark, it’s fingers wrap around me and pull me into the light. Abruptly, I find myself slowly floating down towards the painting. I land gently on the small dirt path, that, not long before, had been carefully placed just there. I catch a brief glimpse of woods I am now standing in before I turn to face my, and the paintings, creator. The giant face, not unlike my own, stares down at me, tilts in thought, and frowns.
May 21

We Writers

We writers usually come from a pile of wet wood and a single spark.

We writers usually have to rewrite our history, our rules, our families.

We writers usually must leave behind the family we have created with our own two hands, and go out, alone, to find our own destinies.

We writers then start to climb the ladder of success, searching on each rung for something special.

And as we climb we write our lives out on ripped-out notebook paper.

Once we have found the giver of our destiny they hand us a pile of cardboard and a roll of duct tape, and with these materials we run to the hills and tell the world what we think of it.

We writers then wright ourselves a scrub brush and clean the world of all grit and grime, and while we work we sing:

Dear Earth, we shall make you more beautiful than you already are. We shall rid the world of all evil.

We writers shall rewrite the world.


Feb 10


Down on East Harbor Road there is a small restaurant,

I walk by it every day on my way to and from school.

I never see a soul go in or out yet there is a friendly feeling about it.

It’s the type of place where you look over and say “I’m gonna go in there tomorrow and find out what exactly is inside!”

But when tomorrow comes your thought has ran away with the mist.

And the restaurant on East harbor Road still sits there, an undiscovered planet.

They call it “The Place”.

It’s the type of place where on a day your coming home from school and that day the teacher announced that they really liked your story and even though the kid who read it read it too fast and mispronounced phenomenon and sophisticated you still feel that warm steam in your stomach rising up and filling your chest until your about to explode.
Jan 09

Ms. 70°

They say she’s the nicest,

They call her perfect.

They say she is the only one who

Can make you truly happy.

She’s been around along time,

And yet she still is young.

She will be with us more often in the future,

Ms. 70°.
Her hair is the wind,

Long, soft, and wavy,

A soft summer breeze.

Her limbs are the tree boughs,

Long, spindly and browned,

Reaching up towards the sun.

Her gown is the grass,

Long, green, and fresh,

Flowing over hills.

Her face is the sun,

Shining, bright, and brilliant,

A warm glow.

Ms. 70°.
Personally, I prefer her cousin,

Miss -20°.

She goes skiing over mountains of cold,

And snowshoeing though forests of wind.

She’s a rough’n tough’n girl,

Young and spunky she is.