There is a quiet in the air I can almost touch,
And time poised at my fingertips,
And the world seems an odd kind of still,
A waiting kind of still.
Hopes of a tree – A poem
We tried asking politely,
Quietly, talking amongst ourselves
Hoping you’d overhear in hushed
Rustles, a subliminal message
In your ear (save us).
Always – A poem
Old lovers, old friends, had beginnings and ends,
But as my grip slips from the recollection, vines wind
Their way up a sleeping spine to twist into my sleeping mind,
Thorns hooked onto the memory, grown into a dream –
Becoming a dance with the familiar amongst the unseen.
Haunted house – A poem
Some nights make a haunted house out of a home,
when the midnight sleep silence leaves the awake on their own.
A phantom hand on my shoulder, a chill in my room,
or the faint scent of an oddly familiar perfume.
My favourite poems!
Hello! I’m going to be participating in escapril again this year, and I decided that to celebrate the almost beginning of that I would share a few of my favourite poems, and poetry videos. I am not going to be analysing the poems or saying why I like them because that would make this post very long, so all I’ll say is that these are all poems I always return to, or poems that have inspired me or had a notable influence on poems of my own…
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A dream caught by a thread – A poem
I awoke without thought,
Just blank in my head
And a dream still hauntingly
Hung by a thread,
Unravelling a deepening
Hole in my chest.
Made of Rain – A poem
I can’t touch the heart of the rain, it can only touch me
As it slips right through my fingers
Where a liquid hand can’t be held.
And the rain may have a beat but it’s too soft and quick
To be human and too rhythmic to be alive.
The rain never stutters or skips a beat
And I can dance in it but it can’t dance with me.
I can speak a soliloquy and pretend the rain is listening
But it can never confess a single secret back to me.
The rain may smell like a breath or a familiar comfort
But the rain is everything that has ever felt lonely.
What makes a poem, a poem?
Apparently you can either love Instapoetry, or hate it, with no in between. Today we discover which group I belong to in this little discussion about the rise of Instagram poetry, what it’s done to poetry as a genre, and whether it classifies as ‘real’ poetry. After all, what makes a poem, a poem?
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Drunk on too much life – A poem
I have days lined up in bottles,
Hours pouring out the tap.
I fill glass after glass with minutes
And drink more time than can elapse.
Costumes of myself – A poem
Maybe tomorrow I will slip back into an old skin
To be momentarily reacquainted with
A memory, for the fun of remembering.
I will cloak myself in a costume of my past self,
Playing dress up in a skin and a mind once mine,
And the wrong-er it feels makes my new self feel right-er.
I will close my eyes and ignore the ill-fitting
Tight squeeze, stretched straps, and snapped seams.
For in a dance of vivid recall I remember: this,
This is what it once felt like to be me.
Lauren Kathleen 