The Selfishness of My Poetry

Image result for pete's dragon

Yesterday, I posted a short poem about a dragon who cares more for the sweet aromas of colorful flowers, almond blossoms to be specific, rather than the interests of most dragons: blood, plunder, and pillage. It’s a simple poem. It cares not for politics. It aims not to change the world. It doesn’t even hope to be considered a great poem. The poem’s sole intent is to make me happy. I wanted to know a dragon that enjoyed the perfume of flowers so I asked a poem to create one. I explore poems and poetry simply because I desire to explore fantastic worlds, world, I couldn’t otherwise be a part of. Yup, I’m a selfish guy. Can you forgive me?

By the way, I did revise my dragon poem just a bit. I think it’s finished now. Take a look. I believe the revision is significant and speaks loudly about these silly little poems of mine. Focus on the poem’s final two lines.

Why do you write? Why do you read? What worlds do you wish or need to explore?

Thanks for reading. Thanks for everything.

I Know a Dragon

He cares not for blood
nor the cacophonies
of plunders and pillages,

but would rather
sniff the pollen
off a cluster

of almond blossoms
clinging
against an April breeze

as a kaleidoscope
of butterflies clings
to a twisted branch…

and I am not
afraid.

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I Know a Dragon

Image result for pete's dragon

I Know a Dragon

He cares not for blood
nor the cacophonies
of plunders and pillages,

but would rather
sniff the pollen
off a cluster

of almond blossoms
clinging
against an April breeze

as a kaleidoscope
of butterflies clutched
on a twisted branch.

At Each New Year

Tonight, it happens…

Happy New Year to all!!!

Image result for glowing fairies

At Each New Year

There, where the forest
is deepest,
fairies lace their wings
with moonlight,
festoon a luminous weave
about the glade,

darting, zigging
among the winter branches
that reach as bare as bone.
Trolls cease their schlomp
and ugly,
mice ease their quick

and scatter,
even dragons cool
their torrid hearts
and awe…
luster’s symphony
is set aglow.

 

The Eyes that Reach

Despite the rain, despite the chill, (both I really enjoy quite a lot), today is an exciting day in the Summers’ household for today we welcome a new family member. I’ll explain later. For now, I’ll leave you with this

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The Eyes that Reach

“But, grandmother, what big eyes you have,” she said.
“The better to see you with, my dear.”

The eyes that reach
from the shadows
choking the air
hung between the pine limbs,
those eyes, they catch the moon,
burn yellow-red,
doorways to hearts
the beat as wild as drums
before the heat of war –

they may never wish you harm,
content to find harbor
in night’s sanctuary,
but sometimes, perhaps,
harm is all they mean.

It’s Thursday

Merry Christmas, all. I apologize that I failed to encourage said merriment in time. It seems I succumbed to the burdens of a college literature professor’s. I had far too many papers to grade. Once I did finish, I took a deep breath and rested, celebrating with family and friends.

Therefore, again I shout, Merry Christmas.

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It’s Thursday

But if it were Sunday,
I’d possess the time
to sweeten, with honey,
a second cup of tea,
to feel that heat and steam
warm the air,
the very same that hovers

about the wooden spoons
arranged as flower stems
in a ceramic pot near the window
where the morning beams
as light into this still space
from a world where wizards
drag their hands through

the sun’s breath,
as children their fingers through
a bowl of cake batter,
before their better selves
stand tall, rising sylvan staffs
into the shadows
against the distemper of dragons

or the ingratitude of goblins,
but it’s only Thursday.