Pond Poems

Hello, dears!

Before we get started, thank you SO much for helping my first post of sketches tie for the “best writing/poetry post” on Megan’s Best of 2018 awards! It was lovely of you all to nominate me, for that and for the other categories. It made my day!

Anyway, I mention that because… today I have another sketch for you! I wrote it almost a year ago, but waited to post it til I had another set of pictures to go with the words. Now I do, and I’m so excited to share it!

These words are a little bit strange, but honestly, so is my mind sometimes. XD I still like it (especially the ending), and I hope you do too. 🙂 Find a comfy spot, sit down for a spell, and enjoy…

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Some Words {a Collection of Sketches}

Hello, dears!

Today I have something a little different for you. Usually when I post my writing, I post poems, but this time I’m going to show you guys four of my sketches. Not as in light pencil drawings, but as in small scenes from my life written as a cross between a long poem and a short story. I really like writing sketches, but I’ve never posted them before, so I’d love to hear your thoughts! Continue reading

~ goodbye ~

goodbye…

hiding in the hollow tree that somehow still lives on, half-destroyed;

green truck rides through buzzing goldenrod and tangled berry brambles;

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skipping up to Gram’s to get flour because we ran out… again;

sunsets leaking burning lava over the mountain ridges;

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creaming corn days, warm cardboard boxes dripping with the smell of pizza for lunch;

treasure hunts for crystals by the side of the thorn-ringed pond;

-Allison (Tassel doll) 003

building forts and holes and towers in a barn full of fuzzy cotton seeds;

climbing the hill to get fresh eggs, crossing the road to get fresh milk;

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family gathered around a crackling bonfire by the creek overhung with mint;

the farm rolling out from under you at the top of the tallest hill;

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art parties, tables laden with shared supplies and traded ideas;

walking under the majestic, white-boned sycamores under a clear blue sky;

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church potlucks that are feasts, where we know each face at the tables;

the succulent sound of cows tearing off mouthfuls of grass in the pasture;

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selling rusty metal parts and cow bones and broken bottles for pinecones at the island;

playing with friends in the grain bins, jumping off the ladder into the yellow corn;

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capture-the-flag games and ATC trades after church;

finding litters of soft, tumbling barn kittens and watching them grow;

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sledding down Gram’s hill with cousins and sipping hot chocolate afterward;

firefly-catching contests; flashing bits of flying gold captured in hands and jars;

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club meetings: crooked stairs, dusty seats, shouts and laughter pounding the low rafters;

rambling nature walks all over the farm with friends;

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eating picnic suppers on the flat roof outside our bedroom on a calm summer evening;

everyone gathered at the last chicken house, talking and laughing, relieved to be done…

goodbye.

_

new is a crackly word, an uncomfortable word –

 

 

it takes breaking in, like a fresh pair of shoes.

the old is familiar. it may be torn and falling to pieces, but it is love that made it so.

you know, don’t you?

when what we’re used to becomes what used to be,

the touch of change is sharp, its hold is slippery,

but oh, how can I bear to let go?

I know.

so,

goodbye, old farm, goodbye, old friends. goodbye, old life.

I’ll miss you.

I already do.

***Allison***

Poems {Third Edition}

Hello, my friends!

I’ve been collecting some poems in a draft for a while now, and today I thought it’s about time to share them. 😉 I quite enjoy writing poems, and I’m so glad that you guys have enjoyed reading them so far! Hopefully that trend shall continue. 😛

Ahem, shall we begin?

poem 1

moon hammock

the moon through

bare black branches

becomes a lacy hammock,

spun with delicate glowing threads,

and suspended from stars.

cradled inside,

the man in the moon

watches the people below

hurrying and worrying

about their day,

and smiles softly.

for he knows how big a problem is

in a universe

millions and millions of miles wide.

he looks at the stars and knows –

not big at all.

 

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home

we’re back again,

back to our memory foam house

that remembers how we sat

and laid our heads

and walked the floors

and made the beds.

it welcomes us back again,

back into the old nooks and

comfortable crannies.

we slip back into

the familiar grooves,

take our old places

in hearts and homes,

and smile the smile of

back again.

we were trying to carve out

new places for ourselves,

new dips in new pillows,

new ruts in new roads,

new places in new hearts,

but carving is hard work,

you know.

so for now we snap

back into place

like a seven-piece puzzle,

and breathe a sigh of relief.

we’re home again.

 

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wildflower

they called her

brown-eyed Susan.

she was a wildflower,

her beauty fresh and pure

as sun rays and raindrops, with

wind-blown hair

and dewdrop eyes,

poppy petal lips

and a bright daisy smile.

she lit up her meadow

and spread her heart wide.

but wildflowers stay

only for a season

and then they

f a  d   e      a    w     a      y.

 

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first world problems

this page won’t load,

the internet is slow,

and my tv only covers half the wall.

they’re out of organic,

i ate too much,

and i had to make that crust from scratch.

my purse must weigh ten pounds in coins,

they only take cash,

but no one has change for a $100 bill.

i have nothing to do but sleep,

but there’s not enough time in the day,

and i need to get away from all this stress.

maybe i’ll go to africa.

 

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roses

once i wandered through

an old abandoned house

whose bones had broken long ago.

and in the cellar,

hanging in the dark,

i found roses.

they were tied to the ancient rafters

with brittle, yellowed thread,

fragrant with the soft, crumbling scent

of nostalgia.

i touched a faded petal and wondered

how something so old and fragile

could still be beautiful.

and i wished

to grow older

with all the grace of

dying roses.

poem 6

the voiceless

we are the voiceless;

hear our silent cry.

our eyes have never opened,

our ears have never heard,

our lips have never spoken,

but if we could, we would say…

why do the ones who gave us life,

bring us death?

what have we done

that we should die?

_

people say,

the color of your skin

doesn’t matter –

it is who you are inside.

but does your size matter?

if your heart is too small,

perhaps it does not matter

what it holds,

if it will never get a chance

to tell.

_

we are the voiceless;

hear our silent cry:

we are innocent.

you cannot prove us guilty,

but we still die –

helpless.

hopeless.

voiceless.

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*sniff* Why is it so satisfying to write sad poems? :’) What do you think – do you like writing sad or happy poems/stories best? Which do you like reading best? Regardless, I hope you enjoyed these and I’d love to know which poem was your favorite!

Also, before you go, could I ask a favor of you? I have sooo many post ideas and not enough time (and data XD) to post them, so would you help me choose which ones to post first?

 

Thank you so much for your feedback, dear readers. ♥ Have a simply lovely day. 🙂

***Allison***

More Poems

Hey, guys! I hope you had a great Thanksgiving if you live in the U. S. I sure did! Each of our three celebrations was delicious, and it was fun getting together with family. 🙂

Anyway, today I decided to share a few more of my poems, since you guys seemed to enjoy seeing the last ones and I seem to enjoy writing them. 😛 Again, they’re unrhymed poetry because number one, I am NOT very good at putting my thoughts into the boundaries of rhyme, and number two, I like the free, flowing feel of unrhymed poetry. Don’t get me wrong, rhyming poetry is amazing too, I’m just not good at it. XD

Ahem. I shall begin.

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sky soup

the sky is

a bright bowl turned over,

set upon the earth,

filled with clear blue broth

and floating mashed potato clouds,

peppered with black birds.

Both faces tell such a story.

{picture via Pinterest}

old one

skin crinkled and wrinkled

like a brown paper bag,

crumpled and creased

year after year,

until it is smoothed out,

soft and mellow from

the crush of Time’s hand,

lined with the paths

that the smiles and tears

left behind.

 

 

Photo by Gansforever Osman #culturainquieta

{picture via Pinterest}

galaxies

my eyes are galaxies

with a star for every time

they didn’t come back

and I was left again –

one star among millions

and yet alone in space.

but each time they left,

I stood up again

and swallowed my tears,

adding more stars

to my galaxies,

hoping that my eyes

would shine bright enough

next time,

that they would see this light

in the darkness

and come back for me again.

 

raindrops

drumming.

pounding.

whispering.

tapping.

fast free falling.

sticking without glue

to everything they touch,

but only for a time and then

moving on again,

sliding sadly downwards.

weeping

to leave everything behind.

wavering, shivering,

quavering, quivering,

collecting, reflecting,

greens and grays together.

a drop reaches

the edge of the window

and

falls

off.

 

 

talking rocks

what if

there is a rock somewhere

that watched as the world was made;

that saw its perfect beauty break

into a thousand sharp thorns;

that carried the footstep

of the first fallen humans –

and the only perfect one –

on its back;

that felt the first drop of blood shed

and will feel the last;

that was thrown at martyrs

and held by kings

look closer at the next pebble

you kick down the road,

and wonder what stories

are locked inside its silent heart.

abandoned house

blank eyes,

a dusty soul,

a cobwebbed heart.

broken teeth,

a dry mouth,

a creaking voice.

but when the breeze passes by

and lifts the tangled weeds

from the old mat in front,

you can hear the old house

still whispering, “welcome.”

 

orion

what would it be like

to recline among the stars,

held together with twinkling joints,

drinking big dipperfuls of the Milky Way

and conversing with

the man in the moon?

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Ahh, that was fun. 🙂 I hope you enjoyed reading those, dears – I’d love to hear which one was your favorite!

Which do you prefer, writing poems or stories? Poems are easier for me (mostly because they don’t have a plot, heh), but stories are fun too. 🙂

***Allison***

Photo by Gansforever Osman #culturainquieta

Poems

I used to despise most poetry, especially unrhyming poetry. But now… now I actually kind of like it! It lets you look at the world in a different way. And I have to admit, it’s pretty fun to write. 😀 I decided to share a few of my poems today, which I hope you enjoy. I’m not very experienced with poem-writing so any tips or constructive criticism is welcome. 🙂

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This book is “all the small poems and fourteen more,” which I highly recommend, by the way. 🙂

poems

poems slip on tinted glasses

and make you look at everything

upside down and sideways

until you don’t know where you started

and even the plainest, dullest things

are something new and wonderful.

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bonfire

warm, nimble fingers

grabbing for a hold

on slippery branches, paper, sticks

then giving up

and sliding down again,

but leaving black scars

to mark their path.

hungry flames

licking with soft strokes

melting the wood

with warm tongues.

a burning sunset in a ring of stones.

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art

the language of imagination.

art is spoken not

with verbs and nouns

but with brushstrokes

and colors

and lines.

art is spoken not

with the mouth,

but with the fingertips;

not only with the mind,

but with the soul.

some people are fluent from birth

and some must work

to master it,

but like all languages,

anyone can learn.

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pool

there is nothing quite like

a pool, with its

liquid burden of blue

which wraps around you

like an cool blanket

and holds you up

on its strong, soft back.

when you plunge beneath

the surface, you enter another world:

still, silent,

save for the whisper of

your body as it

glides through

the water.

pools are

freckles and brown arms

and pink shoulders

where the sunscreen was too thin;

bubbles swimming to the surface

like fragile jellyfish;

sunbeams dancing together

in intricate patterns,

a web of yellow light

shifting and shimmering

in the cool blue water;

a place where everything

moves in slow motion.

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vacation

a few days of

condensed work

for a few days of

condensed memories.

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piano

a funny language

with an alphabet

of dots and lines.

its sentences are

spoken not with

the tongue, but

with the fingers;

not with the mind,

but with the soul.

playing piano is

reading a beautiful

story out loud with

your fingertips, a

story sung by the

heart of the composer

and captured forever

on a white paper page.

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little things

a dew drop hanging

from a blade of grass,

poised for a dive.

a perfect blossom,

opening it’s shy face

to the world.

a set of brilliant colored pencils,

lined up like colorful soldiers

in their square tin.

a sunset burning up the sky

one flaming cloud at a time.

a basket of vegetables

sun-warmed and fresh picked.

i sometimes think

the best things come in

small packages.

don’t you?

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the sound of summer

the deep bass of bullfrogs,

the cymbal clash of thunder,

the low roar of a lawn mower,

the staccato pop of canning jars sealing,

the juicy crunch of a watermelon slice,

the splash of a rock thrown into water,

the buzzing crescendo of cicadas,

the shrill soprano chirp of crickets,

the sweet melody of birdsong,

all weave together,

into a beautiful symphony:

the sound of summer.

 

That was fun! And yes, I am aware that the “art” and “piano” poems are very similar – almost exactly the same in some parts. But I couldn’t bear to change those parts out and I wanted to share both of them. XD

Which poem was your favorite? Do you like non-rhyming poetry?

***Allison***

P. S. Guys, you should really check out Hayley’s ATC trade! She needs a few more people to sign up before the trade is worthwhile to do, so if you like art, you should definitely look into it! 😀 And in case you’re wondering, I’ll be doing the trade too. 😉

A Farm Kitten’s Life

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Sitting by tractors,

Pouncing on mice,

Playing with feathers,

A farm kitten’s life.

 

Roaming the barns,

Sleeping on hay,

Cuddles with cows,

A farm kitten’s day.

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I hope you liked this random little poem! I made it up using that picture which I took a while ago. Isn’t it adorable? The lil’ kitten looks so tiny by the tractor! (That is not a tractor we use very often, by the way. It’s rather old and rusty, but makes for a great silhouette.)

Be watching for a mystery picture post soon!

***Allison***

My Word Collection, a Poem, and a Pun

Hold on, people, this is going to be a very random post! Ok, so I have this little notebook where I write down ideas that I have, and once upon a time, I “collected” words that ended in “et” but sound like a long “a” at the end – for example, “bouquet.” Really strange. I know. But it was also pretty interesting, and I collected a lot more words than I thought. In fact, I collected 15!

bouquet

croquet

beret

buffet

Monet

ballet

valet

sorbet

chalet

Cheverlet

filet

gourmet

crochet

cabernet

sachet

Do you know of any words I missed?

I challenge you to make up a poem with these words! Here’s the uh…. interesting poem I came up with:

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Monet

went to

Gourmet

Buffet.

He wore a blue

crochet

beret.

He ate

filet

and then

sorbet,

then trotted off to do

ballet.

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Hee hee! That was fun! And now, to finish off the random word-ness, here is a pun I made up for part of our poetry program in school:

jeans vs. genes

I hope you enjoyed this very random word post!

***Allison***