A Little Bit of Poetry

So . . .

I write poetry. Sometimes.

Writing poetry is interesting–I never want to do it. Recently, I’ve been doing it for school. I’ve been doing it because I have to.

I never exactly want to sit myself down and write a poem. There are at least a dozen other things I’d rather do first. But when I make myself pick up a pen and write, something interesting happens.

I really like it.

And I don’t want to stop.

The beginning is the hardest, my friends. Get through the beginning, and it’ll start coming easily. Or if not easily, less difficultly.

(Fun fact: difficultly is a word. An actual word.)

Once I actually start writing poetry, I suddenly become immersed in the poem, in the meter, the flow, the rhyme. Suddenly, I’m eager to continue, to find the next word, to write the next line. Suddenly, I’m a seeker, a finder, a creator. . .

A poet.

Suddenly, I’m a poet–not because I studied poetry or analyzed it or talked about it a lot. I’m a poet because I wrote poetry.

Every once in a while, it’s nice to be a poet. You can wear your beret and sip your tea and sit down with your legs crossed in self-satisfied artsy-ness.

Because you wrote three poems.

And, therefore, you’re a poet.

Here are my three poems. Are they good? I don’t know. You decide.

No Fear

I walk with darkness-muffled feet.
There is no fear in starlight.
The cold can’t freeze my breath yet.
The quiet isn’t hostile.

There is no fear in starlight.
To tremble would be foolish.
The quiet isn’t hostile.
I know the road to home.

To tremble would be foolish.
The clouds can’t hide the moon for long.
I know the road to home.
It isn’t far by now.

The clouds can’t hide the moon for long.
The cold can’t freeze my breath yet.
I walk with darkness-muffled feet.
It isn’t far by now.

I know, I know, the meter isn’t consistent. My sincerest apologies. This was a study in form more than anything else. It’s a pantoum–see, with all the repeating lines? Pantoum.


Like clockwork sets the waning moon,
And at its time the blazing sun.

They fade and burn with rebel zeal
But cannot leave their given course.

The wind sends leaves like whirlwinds spinning,
And seas disrupt the shifting sands.

Each writhe against the given order
But cannot break eternal bounds.

The world runs wild with tame precision,
And nature whirls with measured steps.

Your works, O God, in chaos boiling,
Your works all have their time and place.

There’s your meter for you. And, finally . . .


They say the sadness that I feel is colored deep with blue.
They say that blue is loneliness and melancholy–strife.
But they can’t see the color of the years I spent with you;
Blue has colored deep some of the best days of my life.

Blue is when the sun is bright and the world is warm and soft:
The color of the clearest sky, the water in the bay.
Blue is the quilt we shared when we shared stories in the loft;
The color of the denim dress I wore that August day.

The periwinkle shade of dusk; those ragged, beat-up jeans
You wore to momma’s picnic when the clouds were full of rain;
The color of the raindrops when we scrambled for our things.
But we weren’t sad at all that day–we went inside and sang.

They say the color of sadness is the color of the sky,
But sadness can’t be colored–not with blue or black or grey.
It’s lonelier than that because it’s riddled with goodbye . . .
Sadness is the feeling when your color’s gone away.

There’s meter and rhyme for all you purists out there.

So there you have it: three poems, written by me.

Proof that I’m a poet.

One thought on “A Little Bit of Poetry

  1. I”m a bit of a purist, but I’m learning to appreciate other kids of poetry. I gotta say, though, “No Fear” and “Blue” are my favorites! I love poetry so much! There is something you can express in poetry which cannot be expressed in regular literature.


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