I decided to put newer poetry on here because the stuff before was really old, like even before high school. Also, I am going to put some fun ones on here too.

A Forgetful Tragedy

When something important is left outside on the porch of one’s memory,

The rough stitches of life come slowly undone.

How dreadful it is to unwillingly succumb to one forgetful tragedy!


It is like when a soul wakes up, refreshed after a full night’s glory,

Stretching all the limbs and delightfully yawning to peer at the risen sun

Then to realize the piece of information that was left outside on the porch of your memory.


Panic is inhaled and finds its way into the bloodstream,

And the heart pounds like a wild African drum.

How dreadful it is to unwillingly succumb to one forgetful tragedy!


In the span of a minute, there is a new burden to carry.

In the span of a second, the mind runs two marathons

When something important is left outside on the porch of one’s memory.


You leap out of bed, with feelings of a day’s course no longer merry

Now with only the need to run

Far, far away – O, how dreadful the forgetful tragedy!


Now the rest of the daylight seems to be standing barely

On the tip of a needle. Will night come?

The terror when something important is left outside on the porch of one’s memory,

What an unwillingly invited, forgetful tragedy!



Summer evenings in years before with all of the doors in the house wide open,

The sprinkler makes its rounds around the yard with a rhythm unbroken:

Ch-ch-ch chanting a summer’s song.


The fragrance of wet grass drifts through the air

It settles in my clothes, and in my hair.

Sweat slides down my back causing my shirt to stick.


The summer bird plays on the tip of the street light

It chirps and then leaps off without hesitancy in flight

With winding abandon it flies, knowing it will be back the next day unchanged.


Now, I sit here, present day

With the doors wide open

And all of us sweating away.

The cherished sprinkler tolls in my mind,

The smell of wet grass grows sour,

And the sweat has soiled my clothing. I find

The bird’s chirping ticks like a clock.

I try to cherish, but I can only count

the remaining days on the calendar. They mock.

I am that summer bird

That left home with abandon

Those months ago with hesitancy being but a word.

I finally returned from my year of flight,

Expecting to come back and feel home. I’ve come

Back to my mother’s deep laughter at its height,

And father’s warm, sticky embraces only to find

After I left the nest,

I only have departure on my mind.


Psalm of the Harvest

Toil, toil,  n’ turn

To prepare the ground.

Laboring in the hot sun

watering the ground with the sweat of my brow.

Spending noon, evening and night

With one thing on my mind:

Maybe harvest will be good this year?

I work until my hands ache,

Collapse and wait and wait

Hoping the harvest will be good this year.

As I wait,

And many moons have shown,

Summer passes and autumn wakes;

Yet, all I have are the tilled rows

Watered with the sweat of my brow with many sighs.

Will the soil be suitable with the harvest nigh?

My toil, good enough this year?

The ground is cracked dry with my sickle,

I grow weary of the cycle:

Toil, Till, Turn and Tire.

I look to what is only barren, doubt,

Why won’t the harvest come?

Not one sprout breaks up the drought.

My heart resounds as a drum,

I throw the rake askew,

And I break my hoe in two.

These wearisome years of worrisome work have wielded but wretchedness and wile.

Now I lay in the dirt that I revile and its scorn settles on my skin.

I’m weary,

O, so weary.


I lift my eyes up to the expanse above eager for change,

For my eyes traced only dirt these years my land lain in waste.

I cried out to the Maker of the skies for rain in range,

And as I looked a cloud gave sweet torrents of rain to taste.

All the soil first washed from my wretched skin,

And rain watered the ruins.

Already sprouts were growing in a jagged, beautiful line.

Who is this laborer? echoes my mind.

My hands are still, my heart is weak,

Whose hands are these?

O, Great Gardener! No longer will I toil in vain

With aim that my own hands will bring me gain.

I need not have neat rows and sweat with the turn of the plow.

In this harvest, till my heart O, Lord,

Renew my soul!

(Latest edit: July 19, 2014; click here to see original)

Link to posted poem “Darling Daughter, For You I Bled”
Link to posted poem “You’re Gonna Have to Deserve Me”


Swinging, it is before you

A knotted escape

It ticks before your hollowed eye

like a grandfather clock that tocks

Yet, there is no legacy in its motion

for it carries neither life nor lineage

You peer through to the other side,

past the suffocating grips of time is its echoing promise

Through the loop,

to end pain with pain

– a snap that will suffice…will



A New Day

I can feel the dew at my feet

every drop whispers sweetly to me

I can see the sun rise,

and the song of the bird ,revive,

and the lies of yesterday’s demise.

The birds fly in perfect formation across the sky,

no dissension or cries in their reply.

Tones of vigor and vitality paint the horizon,

carefree, yet knowing this sight will leave as the day spies in.

Only if every hour was this promising

then maybe the world be silenced in awing.

And all heartbreaks and mistakes will melt away,

with just one look of this light I say.

I wish everyday was really a new day.




One thought on “Poetry

  1. Pingback: Miraculous Monday prt 2 « Cherishedheart's Weblog

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