KinkajusRevenge's poems

A few poems for my poetry class. Tell me what you think please.

Ninety Minutes

As leaves turn from green to red,
such is the turning of my eyes.

Paint a picture on the ceiling.
and then lie awake for hours
trying to figure out
what it means.

A solemn face hides emotion,
while a smile tells all

Who was it, what I saw,
and won't pass again,
staring through my windows?

Seen or heard, or smelled or tasted,

gone.

Live on every frame,
and by the end,
perhaps,
perhaps...

an image.

The Dragon

I awaken.

The house is eerily quiet,
empty,
dimmed.

I watch from the window.
Children running
all around, coming out of bushes, houses, trees.

I am a child too.

The evening sky b
l
e
while gray clouds e
nurse d
its wounds s


Attracted from loneliness,
I take my place among the lemmings.

Where are we going?
We trample those who fall: Everyone for
themselves.

Where are the wise ones?

I find a smaller boy and help him down a ledge:
The mud from his shoes on my hands.

Quick!
Across the river!

The round rocks deform my bare feet.

I turn to the left and understand.

I see the dragon blowing flames above the skyscrapers.
The gears in my chest turn more quickly
as his crimson eyes connect with mine.

I stand in awe as his gaze tells me

I am next.

Then I watch him raise his head
and bay with fire at the smoke above.

I run.

Ninety Minutes

As leaves turn from green to red,
such is the turning of my eyes.

Paint a picture on the ceiling.
and then lie awake for hours
trying to figure out
what it means.

A solemn face hides emotion,
while a smile tells all

Who was it, what I saw,
and won't pass again,
staring through my windows?

Seen or heard, or smelled or tasted,

gone.

Live on every frame,
and by the end,
perhaps,
perhaps...

an image.
Nuclear war
Descend
the
stair
professionally,

Tedious intent.

Twin boys
lift and


drop
Toast and tea.

Universed desecration; termites

Remember retreating,

Seven

seas


sleep.




I love you intelligence;


worthwhile.

Inevitable

Let's talk about death.

It is important to mention sometime, don't you think? An instant, quick as lightning, no more time to decide. Are you ready? No. Some say you never can be. Enjoy it while it lasts? Or reap what you sow? We all have ideas: theories. Funny thing about theories, you can't prove them. What will become of you? Will you cease to exist? Will you face judgement? Will you haunt man for the tortures through which he put you? What will be left of you? Monuments? Memorials? Memories?

Memories; For when a moment passes, all there is are memories. And what about after a thousand years have been counted? Will your story be passed down from generation to generation? Will you be written in the books of history? Or will you fade away, and be forgotten; never to be mentioned again? And if you are written in books, and people do read about you, what then? Can words and pictures bring you back to life? Can they describe your character? Or will you scream from over their shoulder, “No! You idiots! You've got it all wrong!”?

How long do you have to prepare? Perhaps a few days? Or perhaps a few decades? Will it be quick and painless? Or redundant and insufferable? Will you bring it about yourself? Or will time? Or an accident? Or an “accident”? What will it feel like? Peaceful? Strange? Frightening? Are you ready? Can you ever be? What will become of you? What will be left of you? Monuments? Memorials? Memories?




Nothing

The Old Catholic Church

My family and I arrive for the first time at the old catholic church. Being protestant, we were criticized behind our backs. While my parents made conversation, I climbed the outside of the wooden porch. The other boys were impressed with my skill. While we were climbing up, we happened upon a small hanger filled with chairs, which were hanging from the ceiling like a roller coaster. A smaller boy sat in one, and the chairs started to push themselves back further in, row by row. I tried to get the boy to come down, but he was stubborn and his row was pushed back. We all followed him inside. As I pulled him off the chair, the hanger door closed itself, trapping us inside. Panic soon filled the air, and everyone shouted and pounded on walls. I reached into my pocket to call for help, but found only an empty candy wrapper. We broke through a window, which was like that on an airplane, and the smaller boy poked out his head. We asked him what he saw. He described the land barren and wasted. Our mothers and fathers lie dead and charred. Something had passed through.

Time has an end.. do we?

Life is a gift; existence is torture.
I have feared. I have contemplated.
I have tried to comprehend, but alas,
I am left with merely a concept -which terrorizes.
For after time, comes eternity, and facing this endless,
timeless void... the very thought itself drives
to an insanity.

It's hard to exist.

How long? How long!?
Can you fathom?
Can anyone begin to understand?
When will it end? It doesn't!
Long after the last second of time is counted,
I will still walk upon the sands of
Never-ending existence,
searching for rest; a place to stop,
and sleep,
and end.

And finally...
just...
...end...

Metamorphism

Lend me your ears,
For mine stopped working
And yours so selectively
Tune out what I say
For my words deceive my mind
And my heart breaks
When it hears the truth, for I
Have failed it.

Lend me a hand
Lend me a mirror
Just that: a mirror.
No, forget what you see;
You are somebody else.
And I... I....
Am whom?
And what do I have?

A whole hole?
A pang for pain?
Am I a mad man or a madman?
Help... I'm turning into me.