Poems by Us - Page 31

cookie · #**301** 06-03-2008, 12:36 PM

And the Evil Grows

Dark clouds gather fast
In the midnight sky,
While lost parents sleep
And their children cry.

Hear all nature mourn,
Only the earth knows
They’re so tired now,
And the evil grows.

The wicked wind drives,
Evil reaps the cost.
The struggle’s over now,
And all hope is lost.

cathy

linasmom · #**302** 06-03-2008, 10:03 PM

I've never written a poem specifically about PTSD but almost all of my poems are about specific instances that lead to my PTSD. Here is one that was published in a literary journal called 42 Opus.

Aeronautics

open your window and let in the atmosphere,
oh let it breakthrough ~ Modest Mouse

Here, tourists sift sand between toes, not knowing
salt makes straw of hair. I explore the ocean for one

of Christa McAuliffe's strands. Her machine cut through air
with the confidence of steel. When it separated,

my second grade teacher dismissed us for the day.
I didn’t know precision could unhinge itself. My grandmother cried

that afternoon, not because cancer blew up in her mouth,
but because I had witnessed how things fall apart.

Previously published in 42 Opus, June 2006

cookie · #**303** 09-03-2008, 03:05 AM

this is technically not a poem. just my thoughts after spending more time than i should waiting in line at walmart,lol.

Words

At one time, people wore their words with honor. Truth and virtue shone like diamonds, adorning their character. Hard work, humility, and kind words wove their way through a person’s life, allowing the Spirit of God and His love for mankind to shine out, making an “ordinary” life invaluable to all it came in contact with.

Now it seems that people—not all, but many—wear words of deceit and profanity that hang around their lives like a string of cheap beads—leading only to strife and discord, disillusionment, and death. Such is the legacy we are leaving our children.
cathy

sunnydaze · #**304** 11-03-2008, 05:51 AM

I didn't write this but will share it

Don't judge
Don't judge people you hardly know. You don't know what their day has been like. You don't know what their life has been like.
Don't judge
Don't judge someone who seems as if they are overreacting. You don't know if they lost someone they dearly loved. Or if their parents are getting a divorce, or fighting over nothing.
Don't judge
Don't judge someone who's different. Their probably one of the nicest people you'll know or the funniest or the smartest. Take the time to get to know people.
Walk with them, run with them or share their triumps and their sorrows.
Maybe, they don't dance through life as you thought.
Don't judge
sunnydaze

Cindy · #**305** 13-03-2008, 09:51 AM

Writing poems releases so much for me. Some dark, some bright. How can I move a folder of poems to here without cutting and pasting every single one?

upstream · #**306** 13-03-2008, 01:36 PM

that sounds like an Anthony question...

anthony · #**307** 14-03-2008, 10:34 AM

You can't, as the system doesn't work that way nor does it do mass imports. You could put them all in a document, ie. word or pdf, then attach the document to a post, or you would have to paste each through a raw processor such as notepad and then into the forum one at a time.

upstream · #**308** 14-03-2008, 11:54 AM

Anthony, what about attaching them as a zip file? Is that possible?

cookie · #**309** 15-03-2008, 02:28 PM

Just An Old Abandoned House

Down a long-forgotten road
Still stands a house, worn and old.
Plaster hangs from the ceiling
And the paint is long-past peeling.

A certain sadness fills the air,
There’s no more hope anywhere.
Darkened halls full of shadows
Still hide those no one can know.

Storms and wind now shake the walls,
It won’t be long ‘til it falls.
Better still to see it go,
Than it should continue so.

cathy

TLight · #**310** 16-03-2008, 08:00 AM

Cookie, loved what you said about people from waiting in the line at WalMart. What a different place this would be if our culture still idolized honor.

I'm going to be brave and add a few poems I've been working on:

Imagine
They all do it, each and every season.
The trees surrender leaves
The birds their feathers molt
The frogs slip from their skin
And who am I to tease these kin?
On letting go
Without any sin.

Yet, I hold onto needles
the bleeding seems so needless
And where's the sense?
When death comes at dawn
Isn't the richness to not hang on?

Mourning for Wallace Stevens
Imagine the interior paramour
You showed me as a child
A place of safty, where all is light as before
When I stopped my being, soiled as the wild
Never again, to be the child.

Now I am here
The interior is tattered, in need of repair
The paramour remains dusty
But its being cleansed wih some fresh air
The child is growing, not filled yet with much
The pantry is still somewhat bare
But falling away,
Is the interior of despair.