Potpourri - Mixed Poetry

A Walk In Solitude

I strolled a path in solitude
As snow and frosty winds renewed.
The night was giving way to light
When I beheld a startling sight:
There was a figure up ahead
Whose twisted shape invited dread.

Its form was cloaked in falling snow,
Which by that time began to slow,
But not enough to clear the view,
So I then called a name I knew.
Perhaps the figure knew me too,
Yet only fear within me grew.

So who was here with me today?
And who had crossed my path this day?
I paused right there to look around
And search for steps upon the ground.
The snow remained devoid of prints;
I roved my eyes for other hints.

With squinting eyes, I braved a gaze
And uttered words infused with praise.
I slowly walked toward the sprite
As sunlight chased away the night.
I was relieved to clearly see
That what I'd feared was just a tree.

I wrote this narrative poem as a metaphor for the frequently misguided interpretations of one's feelings, highlighting the tendency we have to project emotions and fears onto ambiguous figures in our lives. Quite often, these fears are unfounded.

Image by ALV - AI generated
Poetic form: Couplet

© 2025, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Beware The Narcissist

On social media's maiden flight,
A boastful group arose.
They hid their real lives from sight
While seeking 'likes' for their delight.
They flaunted “wealth” and gaudy clothes,
Inviting posts of prose.

This selfish group is unrefined,
Displaying false appeal.
They wear a mask to hide behind,
Insisting that their deeds are kind,
But time will force them to reveal
The way they truly feel.

With unctuous words, they will define
The works they leave behind.
Do not imbibe their rancid wine
Or dwell on all that they opine.
Their copious words are ill-defined,
Designed to sway your mind.

You would do well to not engage
This narcissistic crowd.
Their thorny thoughts of latent rage
Are deftly aimed to subtly wage
A war of words that rises loud,
Like thunder from a cloud.

I've seen how the modern proliferation of social media has exposed the narcissistic traits many individuals possess: an excessive preoccupation with themselves, a display of a deep sense of superiority, and a constant need for admiration and validation. They also tend to lack empathy for others while exhibiting manipulative, arrogant, and entitled behavior. With this poem, I aim to capture some of those traits.

Image by Tamara Gak via Unsplash
Poetic form: Sestet

© 2025, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Reflection

The aged man observes the child,
Whose gaze he meets not far from him.
A cherub's smile adorns his face
Beneath a light that has grown dim.

The child is blind to the looming tests,
Too young to fully understand.
He seems content with life for now,
And play is all that he has planned.

The aged man would like to speak
And share his wisdom with the child—
To be the one who guides his steps
And shields him from the days defiled.

He knows the pits that lie ahead
And all the aches that he will face.
He wants to warn the guileless child
To wisely choose the dreams he’ll chase.

He would reveal which friends to shun
And who among them he should keep.
He'd mention days of boundless love
And tell of times when he would weep.

He yearns to be his guiding hand,
To offer wisdom gained with age.
He'd light the way toward the road
That leads to joy and not to rage.

They share a sad, discerning gaze,
For they can see it is too late.
They know that time has passed them by,
And mirrors can't undo their fate.

Reflecting an uneasy smile,
Their hands extend and fingers graze.
The aged man then turns away
And leaves behind his shattered days.

This narrative poem captures the musings of an old man as he gazes into a shattered mirror while contemplating his life. With it, I touch on the connection between the wisdom that comes with age and the innocence of childhood. It is a longing we sometimes have to go back in time to impart life lessons to our younger selves.

Image by ALV - AI generated
Poetic form: Quatrain

© 2025, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Forgotten

I've read the wizened words inscribed with pens
That wistful poets paint with latent eyes.
Their pains, abandoned dreams, and faithless friends
Are voiced in lines of verse that some despise.
They drown in sorrow dancing in their minds,
For they can see the tears within their words.
They sing exquisite lines of varied kinds,
Much like the songs of captured mourning birds.
Oh, pleasant are their words when I despair,
When soothing solace draws away from me.
Their tears are like a balm applied with care,
Which soothes a captive heart and sets it free.
Their choral words may see a thousand years,
Forgotten then will be the poet's tears.

With this sonnet, I reflect on how poets often transform their personal disappointments, challenges, and suffering into poetry, illustrating how their works can endure long after the poet's pain has faded and been forgotten.

Image by cottonbro studio via Pexels
Poetic form: Sonnet

© 2023, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

The Sun In Me

I find myself on scorching sands,
Where scorpions crawl beside my hands
And where the clouds do not set free
A drop to quench the sun in me.

From high above, the daylight star
Has dried the waters near and far;
My lips are parched, but I can't see
A drop to quench the sun in me.

A camel glares 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.

When dawn arrives, it clears the night,
And I escape toward the light.
When I wake up, I plainly see
A glass to quench the sun in me.

This poem is a whimsical take on waking up thirsty and also an expression of appreciation for the wonderful gift of water.

Image by Pexels via Pixabay
Poetic form: Kyrielle

© 2022, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Valiant Men

The sailors brave the angry storm
As waves the ocean brings.
It seems they've seen 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.

This poem was inspired by stories I've read about the courage and bravery displayed by sailors who have faced a storm in the open sea.

Image is in the Public Domain
Poetic form: Quintain

© 2022, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

The Price of Foolish Pride

The sand expands across the earth;
His eyes can't see the end.
He craves the tears the clouds supply
To save what death from him will pry
And from this grave ascend.

He still remembers what he said
While bragging to the town.
He'd claimed his strength would let him fly
Above the sands that were so dry
That even death would frown.

He crawls and hopes that he survives
And lives another day.
Lamenting all that he had vowed
In arrogance to please a crowd,
He bows his head to pray.

But faith is not a strength he knows,
And so his words are bare.
Devoid of hope, he stares ahead
And grasps that soon he will be dead,
Despite his woeful prayer.

He then accepts a destiny
That no one can defy.
So now he waits for death to care
And save him from a hungry pair
Of vultures circling high.

Pride can have a positive meaning, such as when parents take pleasure in their child's accomplishments or when maintaining a loving and lasting marriage despite difficulties. But excessive pride can lead to arrogance, which can also result in poor decision-making. This thought was the inspiration for the poem.

Image by Pezibear via Pixabay
Poetic form: Quintain

© 2022, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Narcissist

While sitting in a bistro chair
And staring at a window's glare,
You shift your head and flick your hair
At 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.

With this poem, I briefly explore a few of the characteristics displayed by a narcissistic individual.

Image by brad-lloyd via Unsplash
Poetic form: Couplet

© 2022, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

A Forgotten Joy

He drives in grief to grandma's home,
The place he always loved to 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
As he absorbs the heavy blow.

They talk about the times they shared
And how they felt so unprepared.
But now that she has breathed her last,
They look for comfort in the past.

Recalling all his wondrous years,
He steps away from all his peers.
His eyes are drawn to photo frames
That now preserve undying names.

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

He lifts the lid, then reaches in
And finds the boy that he had been.
And now, like then, he hugs the toy
His grandma made to bring him joy.

This poem, written in couplet form, is fictional and not based on personal experience. With it I aim to convey the emotional pain associated with losing a loved one, as well as the comforting role that memories play during times of grief.

Image by PublicDomainPictures via Pixabay
Poetic form: Couplet - Narrative

© 2022, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Again

The bench is near where children play
And where she sits to dream and muse.
She knows her life will shortly fade—
A doleful thought she can't refuse.

Her wrinkled skin declares her age,
And her eyes, alive years ago
When young and lustrous in their shine,
Now seem like dying embers' glow.

Her hair is dull, a tangled 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 waning mind.
Oh, how she longs for youth once more—
The days when life was fun and 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,
The clouds announce an evening rain.
She faintly smiles, then shuts her eyes
And dreams of being a child again.

There have been times when I've noticed an older woman or man quietly sitting on a park bench watching people pass by, and I've wondered what it is they are thinking. With this poem, I attempt to capture one of those moments. It focuses on the musings of an elderly woman who reminisces about her youth while watching children at play. Doing this evokes feelings of longing in her for the vitality and joy of her earlier years, as well as an awareness of the reality of growing old.

Image by ALV - AI generated
Poetic form: Quatrain - Narrative

© 2021, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

The Name We Leave

When we first breathe and start to peer,
What we will be is still unclear.
A book of pages still unturned
Is what we are when we appear.

Whether assigned, purloined, or earned,
And when a standing time has burned,
The name revealed on every page
Will be critiqued, adored, or spurned.

We hope that when we leave the stage,
By early death or withered age,
The reputation left behind
Is one of kindness, not of rage.

Kindness is a trait I admire in others. Individuals who exhibit this trait typically show selflessness and care, qualities that most people find appealing. With this short poem, I reflect on the journey of life and the legacy one leaves behind.

Image by DariuszSankowski via Pixabay
Poetic form: Rubaiyat

© 2021, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

These Things

When we obsess on daily needs,
We fail to note the gifts of life.
They fade like seedlings swamped by weeds
As we ride out our daily strife.

But when we calm our restless sea
And see the gifts that we've ignored,
Our minds will rest from what would be,
And we'll enjoy what is restored.

Now note the trees along a lake,
A single cloud that paints the skies.
Then see how evening stirs awake—
An early dawn when darkness flies.

Enjoy the scent of early spring—
The longer days that summer shares,
The brilliant colors fall can bring,
And all the gowns that winter wears;

The rising moon that brings us smiles,
The stars applauding twilight plays,
The sounds of evening heard for miles,
The songs of birds at dawning 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 morning walks;

A brightly colored butterfly,
A hummingbird in flawless flight,
A dragonfly that hovers high,
A purple finch of pure 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.

With this poem, I hope to remind the reader to pause, ponder, and find joy in nature's breathtaking beauty. We often overlook it because of the hectic pace of our daily lives and the personal struggles we face. Our Earth is truly a wonderful home, a precious gift from Jehovah.

Image by ALV - AI generated
Poetic form: Quatrain

© 2019, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Fleeting Peace

The soldiers hear the roar of rattling guns,
Yet they cannot avoid the raging war.
The war has given Death a throng of sons;
He brings them to the grave and shuts the door.
The soldiers are prepared to carry on,
But they are met with shelling all around.
Then Death begins to stroll from night to dawn
So he may gather trophies from the ground.
Societies decry this bloody scene
And seek to end the wars they all abhor
But while they try to stop the war machine,
Voracious Death returns for even more.
From dawn to dusk, the sun observes the pain
Of earnest men who reach for peace in vain.

The inevitability of death is seen in the wars that have scourged mankind. With this sonnet, I reflect on the struggles of soldiers and the futility of peace efforts in the face of the relentless violence that accompanies wars and the emotional toll it takes on individuals and society.

Image by Activedia via Pixabay
Poetic form: Sonnet

© 2019, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

A Healing In The Woods

I pause, forlorn with thoughts from long ago,
When I was young and lost along the road.
They plague my troubled mind and bring me low,
Replaying times of grief and debts I've owed.
A final act is played when evening falls;
The memories I've passed begin to fade.
I hear a voice announcing urgent calls
To leave behind the debts already paid.
Above, I hear the songs of joyous birds,
Like those I'd given up so long ago.
Their lovely ballads are like soothing words
That mend and heal while setting hearts aglow.
These woods applaud my walk of beaming cheer,
For I, at last, have shed my days of fear.

Image by ALV - AI generated
Poetic form: Sonnet

© 2019, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Haiku

a flying lapis
aria riding the wind
blue jay on a branch

ocean waves on rocks
thunderous cacophony
nobody hears them

autumn on the boughs
crimson leaves are being shed
dead in winter's gust

flowers and clovers
busy are the worker bees
combs drip with honey

water drops on ponds
early rains announcing spring
frogs croaking out loud

moisture rises high
gathering of many clouds
water wets the land

breezy part of day
melodious songs of birds
hammocks are swaying

floating balls of light
reached to catch the firefly
caught the rising sun

autumn dyes the leaves
colors fade at end of fall
return of winter

the male raven waits
death has spread a roadkill feast
he hungers no more

blooming orchids blush
hummingbirds pollinating
sweet is the reward

Haiku is a traditional form of Japanese poetry. The best definition I've seen for it is that it is "a minimalist form of unrhymed poetry consisting of seventeen syllables." While many poets write haiku with fewer than seventeen syllables, traditionally it consists of three lines, with the first and last lines limited to five syllables and the middle to seven syllables. Some groups adhere to a stricter form of haiku writing, avoiding titles and capitalization.

Image by Pixabay
Poetic form: Haiku

© 2019, Angel L. Villanueva. All rights reserved.

Bleu Cheese Blues

Oh, rancid cheese, why do you tempt me so?
You call at me with bluish lines of mold.
Your piquant bite makes my saliva flow,
And my aversion soon begins to fold.

The scent and moldy texture you present
Invite me to include you when I dine.
I am enticed to let myself relent
To Bleu d'Auvergne and savor it with wine.

There is the Stilton, one that Britons prize,
And Gorgonzola spreads Italian pride.
I know a taste of these may seem unwise,
But why critique a cheese I have not tried?

Despite the color of its moldy rind,
I crave to try your Roquefort’s pungent sting.
Its earthy scent has made me change my mind;
A bite of it will prompt my tongue to sing.

Long Is A Poet's Night

Return, my muse, my words 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 verses I can 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 cannot 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.

There are times when writers encounter creative roadblocks, unable to come up with the words needed to share an idea or express their emotions. I wrote this poem after experiencing one of those periods.

Pawn

O haughty king, you step on stately ground;
Your peerless army sneers while standing by.
Your rooks advance to where my pawns are found,
And both your knights attack where bishops die.
The battle rages on as lines advance;
I hear the snorts of horses close to me.
The end seems near, despite my stalwart stance,
When suddenly, in fear, you start to flee.
My forces reach your fortress yet again;
The battle is intense beside your queen.
Surrounded, you surrender to my men,
For they achieved a blow you had not seen.
Your haughty laugh has ended at his hand;
A lowly pawn defeats you where you stand.

I had been an avid chess player in my younger years, but I've since given up playing the game. Recalling some of those early days inspired me to write this poem.

Florence

From far away, her journey starts;
Her strident shrieks to heaven climb.
The ocean feeds her rising rage,
And no one can predict her time.

Across the vast expanse she goes,
Her windswept hair of clouds her crown.
Along her path are cries of woe
As islands soak her tears and drown.

She reaches land in darkened skies,
And all the trees convulse with fear.
Undressed and scarred when she arrives,
They start to groan, for death is near.

I wrote this poem after seeing much news footage of the devastation caused by Hurricane Florence, which struck the coast of North Carolina in 2018. Although it had weakened to a category 1 hurricane by the time it made landfall, it still resulted in catastrophic flooding and wind damage across a wide area of the North Carolina coast.

Blue Marble

I marvel at your dances with the sun;
Your spin is swift yet balanced in the void.
The stars arise and then unite as one
To cheer the peerless dance that they've enjoyed.
Your siblings envy your cerulean gown;
Its bluish blush is seen beyond the sky.
Majestic is the shawl, as soft as down,
That drapes the firmament where men can fly.
The orange flush of falling dusk reveals
A sampling of the hues that dye your gown.
There's amber, gold, and scarlet, which appeals
To all who see the splendor of your crown.
O charming lady, dance until the dawn,
Then dance again as all the stars look on.

Coffee And Cream

When night departs and yields to dawn,
The nesting birds begin to sing,
And I, sleepy-eyed, then yawn
And stroll toward the perfect thing.

It is a marriage I perform,
A blend of two delicious things:
One dash of sweet in liquid form
And one that's sought by serfs and kings.

The mixing blends the dancing pair;
It makes the liquids merge and gleam.
A rich bouquet then fills the air,
Hypnotic like the sweetest dream.

The blissful scent renews my joy
When I pick up the cup of steam.
My eyes then close as I enjoy
A taste of coffee mixed with cream.

Depression

I am the one who haunts your dreams
And drowns your tears with drenching sweat.
I see the pain and silent screams
Of bygone years you can't forget.

I am the ache behind your mask—
What others fail to see in you.
I am the grief beneath the masque—
The smiles you wear to hide your blue.

I am the scar that sears your heart,
The haunting voice you hear at night.
I cloak the life you wish to start,
Allowing only scenes of blight.

I am the darkness in your soul,
The only one who hears your cries.
I'm not your friend; I have one goal—
To keep the dimness in your eyes.

Depression, personified in this poem, is a plague on the mind. It haunts the sufferer with emotional pain, grief, and despair. At the same time, the individual struggles to conceal his or her true feelings behind a facade. That is the essence I wanted to capture with this poem.

Shades of Gray

In darkness, I have walked alone,
Where there's no ear to hear me groan.
I search for hope on weakened legs—
A friend who'll lift my arms of stone.

My eyes are drawn to shades of gray,
Not crimson lips with which to play.
Beyond the rain and somber clouds,
I see no blue, just walls of clay.

I fret about the years gone by,
And then my heart begins to cry.
This lightless cell has kept me blind;
Its hold on me I will defy.

Although I'm weak, I rise to fight
Against the angst that comes at night.
I long to see the smile of dawn
As she awakens, adorned in white.

Dejection can make a person feel isolated and alone in the dense darkness that envelops him. I have experienced this myself. In this poem, I consider the themes of despair and feelings of abandonment, focusing on an individual who has not given up and continues to fight against his depression, which feels like a prison cell. He yearns for the reassuring company of a close friend and the invigorating brightness of a new day.

The Hummingbird

I opened my eyes,
And there she was,
The hummingbird.
Strange, how fragile she seems,
Yet so powerful in flight.
I gaze, amazed, as she hovers
While searching for a flower.
Selectively,
Carefully,
She searches.
Her flight is graceful,
Effortless in appearance,
A poem composed by God
To please our eyes,
Enhance our joy,
And enrich our lives.
What a beautiful bird!
I smile and close my eyes;
No creature compares to her,
The hummingbird.