Poetry Potpourri

The Sun In Me

I'm trapped and lost in desert lands,
Where scorpions roam the scorching sands,
And clouds hold back from setting free
A drop to quench the sun in me.

The furnace from the daylight star
Has dried the waters from afar,
And now my lips implore to see
A drop to quench the sun in me.

A camel stares as I inch by
On blistered knees that beg to die,
While heaven sends toward the sea
A drop to quench the sun in me.

But then I wake and move my hand
To reach a cup atop a stand,
And drink the water soon to be
The drop to quench the sun in me.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Valiant Men

The sailors brave the angry storm
As waves the ocean brings.
It seems to them one hundred years
Of fighting death despite their fears,
Like ancient warring kings.

The frigid water stings their hands
And chills their sodden skin.
But they confront the ghastly howls
And fight with death as thunder growls,
To reach their land and kin.

The valiant men unite as one
And bravely surge ahead.
No wave, or grave, their will can break
Nor dim the morning light to wake;
They fight for life instead.

But there, behind a swelling wave,
A larger one, they see.
And so they pray their ship holds out
As they again attempt to rout
A sanguinary sea.

Image by 177419 from Pixabay

The Price of Foolish Pride

The sands expand before his eyes
And stretch across the earth.
He craves the tears that heaven sends
To save what Hades never lends,
To him a million worth.

Alas, so bravely he could boast,
When he began his walk,
His strength would surge to let him fly
O'er sands the sun had scorched so dry
Not even Death would stalk.

He crawls and hopes the sun will spare
His blistered flesh this day.
Lamenting what his pride had vowed
In arrogance to please a crowd,
He bows his head to pray.

But soon he recognizes late
His foolishness to cry.
And now he waits for Death to dare
To walk the sands and beat a pair
Of vultures circling high.

Image by Pezibear from Pixabay

Hades = the grave

Narcissist

  While sitting in a bistro chair
And staring out a window's glare,
  You shift your head and flick your hair
To roving eyes that gawk and stare.
  You deign to glance beyond your book
To smile at those who pass and look.
  But there is one for whom you care,
The girl whose eyes you also share.
  With only her, you spare your view,
A mirrored stamp of one like you.

Image by brad-lloyd from Unsplash

Forgotten Joy

He drives in grief to grandma's home,
A place a child could safely roam.
For decades now he has been gone,
But death has claimed her life at dawn.

When he arrives, a crowd has thronged,
To grieve for her who had belonged.
And then he joins the tears that flow,
For death has dealt a heavy blow.

They reminisce of times they shared,
Bemoaning they were unprepared.
But now that she has breathed her last,
They look for comfort in the past.

In thought, he walks into her room,
Where he had played in days of bloom.
And there, beside his grandma's bed,
Was still his box of faded red.

He lifts the lid and reaches in,
And finds the boy that he had been.
The one who played with this one toy
His grandma made to bring him joy.

Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Poetic Voice

He hears the voice which crowns her words,
A soothing song of glee.
Like arias of rhythmic birds,
It balms his heart of shattered thirds,
Unshackling pain to set it free,
As if she heard his plea.

Image by Jace & Afsoon from Unsplash

The Storm Has Passed

One early dawn, I walked a path
A storm had draped with snow.
Though winter lessened in her wrath,
The frost that trailed her aftermath
Had slapped my face with sleet in tow,
Her icy grip to show.

I heard a voice amid the gale
As winter slowed her dance.
It echoed through the falling hail,
Which sounded like a mournful wail;
It freed me from a frigid trance
And earned a wary glance.

It said to me, “forget the past,
The pages that have turned.
The ink has faded, time has passed,
And holding on will only cast
Continued pain you have not earned,
But keep what you have learned.”

I weighed the words, then looked around,
To share my thankful glee.
But nary one my eyes had found,
So set my eyes upon the ground,
No footprints 'round that I could see,
But ones left there by me.

Image by Darran Shen from Unsplash

The Will To Live

He stands atop a mound of fallen men,
The ticks of time advancing on its prey,
And holds his ground, awaiting death again.

His wretched body craves to end it then,
But he refuses tolls of time to pay;
He stands atop a mound of fallen men.

They fell to time, for it decided when.
But this one man won't bend to time's decay
And holds his ground, awaiting death again.

As death, frustrated, stalks this one of ten,
The grave attempts the feeble man to sway;
He stands atop a mound of fallen men.

Determined, faced with mort, he shouts amen!
He writes poetic songs while come what may
And holds his ground, awaiting death again.

Now time and death unite to dig his den,
The grave prepared for him, his corpse to lay.
He stands atop a mound of fallen men
And holds his ground, awaiting death again.

Image by anncapictures from Pixabay

Again

The bench is near where children play;
It's there she sits to dream and muse.
She knows that life from her will fade,
A closing call she can't refuse.

Her wrinkled skin declares her age.
Her eyes, unclouded years ago —
When youthful vigor gave them life —
Now seem like embers lacking glow.

Her hair is dull and whitish-gray
And lifeless in the twilight breeze.
She smiles, recalling years ago —
When she could walk with graceful ease.

The countless memories she's stored
Begin to flood her aging mind;
Oh, how she longs for youth once more,
The days when life to her was kind.

The children's songs and gleeful shrieks
Arrest her ears and misty eyes.
She sees in them the days she lived,
The years she wants to eulogize.

As she observes the children play,
Dark clouds announce an evening rain;
She shuts her eyes a final time —
And prays to be a child again.

Image by geralt from Pixabay

The Name We Leave

When born and thrust onto our sphere,
We do not make a name that year.
A book of pages, blank, unturned,
Is what we are when we first peer.

In time, we wield what we have learned,
For good or bad, purloined or earned.
A name is inked onto each page,
Critiqued by whom we've loved or spurned.

We hope before we leave the stage —
By early death or golden age —
The reputation left behind
Is one of kindness, not of rage.

Image by DariuszSankowski from Pixabay

These Things

We keep the mirror to ourselves,
And life around us nearly fades.
We place these things on hidden shelves
When daily cares the mind invades.

But when we buy the time to see
The joy that we for granted take,
Appreciative, we tend to be,
For wondrous things that we forsake.

The lofty trees along a lake;
A single cloud in bluish skies;
The sun when evening comes awake;
The break of dawn as darkness flies.

The scent of flowers roused by spring;
The lengthened days that summer shares;
The hues and colors fall will bring;
The gowns of down that winter wears.

The moon in stages till it smiles;
The stars applauding twilight plays;
The sounds of evening heard for miles;
The songs of birds at morning rays.

The sand that plays with flirting seas;
The spray of crashing waves on rocks;
The soothing touch of ocean breeze;
The joy derived from lengthy walks.

A brightly colored butterfly;
A hummingbird in flawless flight;
A dragonfly that hovers high;
A purple finch that eyes delight.

A hermit thrush of lilting songs;
The precious air that lifts its wings;
The rain that falls where it belongs;
The wondrous home that holds these things.

Image by v2osk from Unsplash

Fleeting Peace

The men can hear the sounds of rattling guns;
A few believe that peace will end the war.
A war where Death has gathered many sons,
Then brings along the grave to harvest more.

The soldiers search for strength to battle on;
They forge ahead, but soon each one is downed.
And Death begins to walk at early dawn
To gather scarlet trophies from the ground.

This dreadful scene is part of all the wars
Where nations ravage nations they abhor.
A few will strive for peace to shut the doors
Before voracious Death returns for more.

From dawn to dusk, the sun observes the pain
Of honest men who reach for peace in vain.

Image by Activedia from Pixabay

Write Your Dreams

Of what are you afraid this night,
A chambered room of doubt and fright?
Of thoughts you've lost in darkened halls;
A pen whose ink has taken flight?

Perhaps your muse has gone to sleep
In search of dreams that it may reap;
To bring to mind what you have pined,
So words your pen can gently weep.

It dreams of coves where seas advance,
And waves arise then crash and dance,
Of fields of blooms, a setting sun,
Of stars that light the dark expanse.

It walks where flowers dress in style
As sun rays bathe them near the Nile,
Then takes to flight with birds in song
While soaring high above each isle.

It stands as happy couples walk
As they share kisses while they talk.
And notes when children start to play
A hopscotch game they draw with chalk.

In deepened silence, close your eyes
And see yourself above the skies,
Then view the dreams you want to write
When you invite your muse to rise.

Image by cromaconceptovisual from Pixabay

Muse = Inspiration

A Healing In The Woods

I pause, somewhat perplexed by what I feel,
An ache that has withdrawn to secret halls.
A chamber where my thoughts cannot reveal
The mental state I hide behind these walls.

A final act has played as curtains fall
And thoughts from long ago begin to fade.
It seems that age has changed me overall;
The pain of yesterday to rest I've laid.

Above I hear the songs of morning birds,
Distracting me from thoughts of long ago.
Their lovely ballads are like soothing words,
The type that heals while setting hearts aglow.

These woods applaud my walk of beaming cheer,
For I, at last, have shed the days of fear.

Image by luke-stackpoole from Unsplash

Know Her Name

Beware, for guileful words she softly sings
And roaming eyes of men she always seeks.
Her scented body pulls with velvet strings
While walking lustfully with shapely peaks.

Untold are ones deceived in eras past,
And still today, men fall on knees for her.
Ignoring all the woes she has amassed,
They sip her poisoned brew infused with myrrh.

But know her name, the impact of her fame,
And guard the entrance sought with subtle guile.
Reject the brew she stirs to light a flame;
It sears the heart with shame and bitter bile.

Temptation is her name, a dark allure,
So guard your heart against what is impure.

Image by KELLEPICS from Pixabay

Bleu Cheese Blues

Oh, moldy cheese, why do you tempt me so?
Why call at me with rancid bluish lines?
Your piquant bite makes my saliva flow;
Your texture my aversion undermines.

The scent and raiment of your skin belie
The choicest food my mouth can hope to dine.
I am enticed to force my lips to try
Your Bleu d’Auvergne along with reddish wine.

The bluish veins of Stilton Britons prize,
While Gorgonzola shows Italian pride.
Delighting in these blues may seem unwise,
Until a piece defies the lips to slide.

Despite the color of its moldy skin,
I crave to try your Roquefort’s pungent sting.
Its wafting scent will tempt my mouth to sin,
To close my eyes as taste buds start to sing.

Image by PDPhotos from Pixabay

Long Is A Poet's Night

Return, my muse, my voice give back,
For night has yet to settle down.
As sundown dims to shades of black,
My thoughts in fading ink now drown.

My fleeting words are barely there,
Unnoticed, lines that crave the light.
So please, my friend, see my despair,
And grant me words that I may write.

This darkness hides the world outside;
It veils my eyes so I can't see.
Rich colors daylight had supplied,
But now my words will not pour free.

Beside the window, dressed in black,
I sit, and frown, for night has won.
My coffee cools, my pen holds back,
My muse has left me, like the sun.

Image courtesy of paintingvalley.com CC BY-NC 4.0 License

Muse = Inspiration

Pawn

O haughty king, atop this stately ground,
Your army waits to hear your battle cry.
The rooks and queen with might my pawns astound
As knights dare tread where bishops fight and die.

The battle rages on; your lines advance.
I hear the snorts of horses close to me.
The end seems nigh, despite my bravest stance,
While you behind your queen begin to flee.

But there where you take rest, my pawn has reached
And thrusts his silver lance aside your queen.
You howl and see your rampart has been breached;
A pawn achieved a blow you had not seen.

Your prideful laugh has ended at his hand;
A lowly pawn defeats you where you stand.

Image by Pixabay

Florence

From far away, she slowly walks;
Her angry shrieks to heaven climb.
She rides the ocean as she stalks
And traps the day in lightless time.

Across the vast expanse she goes;
Her windswept hair of clouds, her crown.
Beyond her breath are cries of woes;
Her angry tears, the islands drown.

She reaches land in darkened skies,
And all the trees shake heads in fear.
Undressed and scarred as waters rise,
They start to moan, for death is near.

Image by Pixabay

Blue Marble

Blue marble, dancing with the beaming sun,

Your spin is swift yet balanced in the void.

The moon and stars light up when you are done

And laud throughout the night what they've enjoyed.

Your siblings envy your cerulean gown,

For none of them your beauty can deny.

Majestic is the shawl of fluffy down

That garbs your form amid the bluish sky.

The orange blush of falling dusk reveals

A symphony of hues that dye your gown.

Like amber, gold, and scarlet that appeals,

To all who view the splendor of your crown.

Sleep well, my charming lady, till the dawn,

And dance again, as all the stars look on.

Image by Pixabay

The River Bend

I hiked a winding trail one summer's eve,
To soothe my soul and set my mind at ease.
But when in thought, my mind began to tease,
Reviving long-forgotten days — to grieve.
The trail then ended at the river bend,
And I, absorbed, observed the water's flow.
It cleared debris to send it far below,
Reminding me that time the pain can end.

In silence, I reposed to watch and learn,
As fragments washed away in muted calm.
I then began to see as well discern,
The need to welcome time's restoring balm.
A smile adorned my saddened face in turn,
And I then softly sang a cheerful psalm.

Image by Quangpraha from Pixabay

Darkened Soul

I am what nightly haunts your dreams,
The nights of tears and drenching sweat.
I'm lurking while you cry in streams,
From what your heart cannot forget.

I am the ache behind the mask,
What others fail to see in you.
The grief behind your heavy casque,
While smiles you paint to hide your blue.

I am the scar that mars your heart,
That drowns the hope for which you reach.
The voice you hear when dreams you chart,
When nightmares strive your sleep to breach.

I am depression, darkened soul,
Your one companion while you cry.
I'm not your friend, but have one goal,
To dim your light, till your goodbye.

Image by Andrik Langfield from Unsplash

Shades of Gray

My mind in darkness walks alone,
Without a friend to hear me groan;
No words to spur my weakened legs,
No hands to lift my arms of stone.

My eyes are drawn to shades of gray,
Not colors, tints, but walls of clay;
Not rainbow hues beyond the rain;
Not crimson lips with which to play.

My heart is weak but wants to fight,
To end despair and leave this night.
To see tomorrow's dawn arrive,
Then kiss a day of colors bright.

Image by Pixabay

A Voice In The Night

When night had set to silent silver-gray,
He stood beside his bed to blankly stare,
For he had heard a voice, a ghastly bray,
Which kept his soul awake in great despair.

He knows not where the voice is in the room,
But feels the stinging words across his face.
His burning ears can hear the words of doom;
They cause his heart to run a frightful race.

The voice derides his mind with caustic flak;
His eyes attempt to find the strident groan.
He comes upon the mirror staring back
And hears the words from lips that are his own.

Image by Pixabay

Puerto Rican Child

The island, Puerto Rico, was my home,
In the early years when I was just a boy.
And now, in graying years, I can recall
The days and things that filled my heart with joy.

Our wooden house was built on sturdy stilts
To face the rising floods the storms would bring.
In dirty, brownish waters, I would swim,
Not yet aware of nature's brutal sting.

At night, coquís would sweetly sing to me
As dreams replayed a child's fantasy.
The rooster sang his songs at early dawn;
Today, I still can feel their cadency.

The day would see me scrambling full of joy,
The sounds of prancing feet that ran about.
The games I played were simple in design,
And yet with hearty laughter, I would shout.

The stiffened wind would sail my flying kite
As chicks and ducks observed my widened smile.
It seemed they feared that I would fly away
And join the kite to play above the Isle.

And after play, when hunger spoke to me,
The fruiting trees delightful treats would give.
My mother's calls were soothing, gleeful songs;
The songs I still at times in dreams relive.

Photo by Benjamin Lizardo from Unsplash

Potpourri

On this page, I post poems covering various topics, including nature, world events, and life in general. They have been inspired either by something I read, an image I saw, or written from a personal perspective.

Several poems touch on depression, an affliction I briefly experienced years ago.

To read a poem, click on its thumbnail image.

Images used under Creative Commons CC0 license, permission from the copyright owner, or are part of the public domain.