This is a poem I wrote a long time ago, like when I was a teenager and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I like bits of it.
My pen writes with my blood
A dagger cutting the page
Poetry is like a flower bud
But my pen only writes my rage
My thoughts are thick like mud
Like the schemes of an evil mage
So I sit and chew my cud
And let blank paper age
Unused ideas getting moldy
Like wet and rotten hay
I curse the muses boldly
They’re absent anyway
Silent sprites haven’t told me
What I need to say
Eyes reflect darkness coldly
I keep my screams at bay
Against the desk, my pen, it taps
My foot, it does the same
New thoughts now within me lapse
Elude me in their game
Imagination in me naps
My writing hand is lame
I put on my pens their caps
My anger is now tame
I’ve had this poem written for years, and thought I’d posted it online, but I can’t find it anywhere, so here it is for you, dear readers, and Google searchers.
by Matt Hoskins
Stars fall, far flung from highest heaven’s light;
Fated flight for all those below to see,
If above the rut’s edge they raise their sight,
And seek, incessantly, perchance to dream.
Stars fall, trailing feathers of phoenix fire;
Pathfinder’s trail for those who want to be
Offered upon the Promethean pyre,
Burn the emotion and suppress the scream.
Stars fall to fertile but still fallow fields,
Seeding the soil with starlight and heat,
Pregnant with promises of future yields,
Nourished, and nurtured; care given replete.
Stars fall, as angels do, with wingless grace
And falling, trace their fire upon us all
In brief moment passing, they fill the space
That is left hollow when we ourselves fall.
Stars fall with hope they will one day return
To brighten the dark skies and guide the lost
Wandering like Kwai Chang Caine, and burn
Down the bridges they have already crossed.
Stars fall, infrequently. Follow and find
Them as fast as you can. Hold on to them
Through the pain. The passion, return in kind.
The heat and pressure of it form the gem.
Stars fall when they hear the earth to them call
Inspiration to those under sky’s blue cowl
Counterpoint to knowledge they can’t know all
And comforting to know that
At Barnes and Noble today, I picked up two books from Sparknotes: Poetry warm-up activities and Writing warm-up activities. They each have 180 activities intended for students (one for each day of school). I thought they would be good to use to get me writing.
So, here’s the first one for Poetry.
What Is A Poem?
What’s your definition of a poem?…
A poem is
The image of the sunset
Burned into your eye
The smell of the ocean
The shape of the sky
It is the hope for the future
The memory of the past
The magic of a first
The sorrow of a last
The grammar of laughter
The spelling of sighs
The texts of breasts
And the language of thighs.
It is Anger released
From a cast iron cage
With the flick of a pen
Recaptured on page
Love and life and loss and light
Flowers and showers, cinders and spite
All things make the words their home
A poem is a poem is a poem is a poem.
Posted in Writings