Prompt: write a poem with a simple title, short lines, and at least one made-up word.
All glory,
laud and
honor to
thee,
cold
hands
grasping
palms,
psalms
ringing and
we change
the key,
unlock
new shapes
for our
mouths to
form praises,
our monarch
is formless.
Why do
we fear
being
overunderstood,
when
They knew
us before
we had
been knitted
in the
womb?
(C) JS 2023
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 27
It’s taken far too long for me to follow,
it’s taken much too long to let you lead –
one foot was out the door before I found you,
hoping I might not, so I could leave.
It took so many years just to believe you,
to think that there was more to life than this –
waking just to breathe and then to sleep,
each moment spent awake a Judas kiss,
a betrayal to the fiber of my being,
that longed for endless sleep, a quiet mind,
yet in and out my chest heaved, never ceasing,
in retrospect, a gift from the divine.
So please forgive my long held trepidation,
my reluctance just to take your hand,
I’m here now, and I’ll stay here till it’s over;
and though I’ve accepted, I still don’t understand –
you hold me when I cannot help but hurt you.
You believe – each failure you embrace.
I never could have earned such deep forgiveness,
and that is what defines such perfect grace.
How blessed I am to be here, to have found you,
to have faith in the now, and what awaits.
JS 2020
Inside this box, I hold the world around me,
and let it sink into my solemn skin,
to feel the fire of strangers who have found me,
and warmth of caring friends who hold like kin.
Its sides are made from memories of loss,
for sorrow’s best for keeping pain at bay;
its lid is splinters from bridges burned and crossed,
engraved with words too shy for heart to say.
The latch is locked without a code or key,
and force would not work well for hands to pry
the memories from wooden sides and seams,
but tales of dreams escaping from inside,
say whispered promises of days of trust,
and release from pain and sorrow in coming years,
untie knots with strength man cannot muster –
the strength faith wields, that swears freedom from fears.
JS (c)
A man rides swiftly through night into day,
towards a mountain too high for man to climb,
a human hoping heroes look away
when odds impossible in their ears chime,
ignoring slightest taunting or torment,
and looking only towards their goal, so blind
to any measures surely to prevent
their victory or even their sure breath,
the villains with malicious ill intent,
who would rather have a hand in death
forever to look down at stainèd hands,
ne’re to see their souls as white or blessed,
after heroes’ blood carves lakes of lands,
sand so crimson tears can’t clean the silt,
eyeless soldiers beg for leaders’ plans
in hope their deaths will free them from their guilt,
their lay their lives on lines like wetted clothes,
ne’er to witness hope or homes rebuilt.
But this man sees a mountain and he goes
straight for the treacherous landscape’s jagged peak,
for in scripture once he read and knows
that to move it all he needs
is faith the size of smallest seed.
JS (c)
Early Morning Ink 