Good Poetry I Actually Like

So after that last mess of a post, here’s some actual poetry I put together for a creative writing class and received an A on the final portfolio. Turns out, when you listen to the professor and actually take their critiques into account without acting like a giant baby about “MY FEELINGS” you can create something somewhat decent. Maybe. Sometimes.

The first poem is a haiku based on nature.



The final melting –
newborn grasslands approaching
by a bluebird call.


Candied red water –
magnets for the hummingbird
under sun-warmed sky.


Rainbow sea of leaves –
hidden in the midst, robin
sings in her warm bed.


Shivering, bare trees –
raven’s photographic eyes
capture the bleak cold.

The second poem is a cinquain featuring color repetition.

War Wounds

The soldier sits near the old campfire,
Burning memories.
One friend lost, another drowned,
Four more dead.
The fire burns on.

His wife sits near the old campfire,
Burning diaries:
Remembering the fallen, embracing the
Surviving, and pitying the suicidal.
The fire burns on.

Friends leave shadows against the walls.
They dance to the fire’s calm tune
Against the empty house left
Quiet in the night.
And the fire burns on.

The soldier sits near the old campfire,
Burning bridges.
Lives will continue around him without
Consequences to his own,
Like the fire burns on.

The next poem is a love poem couplet.

As Sunlight

approaches, I awake
before the alarm; usual.

still asleep, you tumble
through dreams of still green plains

and the butterflies, they float
with each and every bound.

I slip from the blankets; warm.
your eyes dance

and I know you’re still running
from the twitch, twitch,

twitch, ’til I turn on the light
you jolt; alert.

I caress your head, you
kiss my hand,

your wet tongue, cold nose
I give you a kiss.

This next poem is a sonnet.

Grandma’s Petunia

Grab pictures of yourself and write a poem
I was told, so I found one that felt right
Little princess, not yet two, red-white dress
Strawberries or butterflies, I can’t tell
She bends, nose planted in the lone flower
Of a potted plant. Here I sit, twenty
Years later; I still remember that scent
A pale sweetness almost overcome by
Cookies in ovens, berries in gardens,
The perfume on the dresser, lined in rows
Of bottles, always on the mirrored tray
And how, at two, the house always scared me,
Its size far greater than mine, but I felt
Safe with my grandparents who cherished it.

The next poem was something we were praising.

la Tour Eiffel

I fell in love
The moment I saw him,
His rusty complexion
Glistened under the sun.

He stood in the midst
Of early morning rush,
But people built
Pathways around him.

His body, a lattice,
Strong bones weaving about
Sending his skyscraping frame
High into the sky.

I wanted to climb him and
Rest atop his tall form,
I need to run my hands
Over his iron hard body.

My mind captured pictures
Developed in cheap Parisian hotels
While I slept as a way to
Remember him forever.

This next poem was a tercet, and I decided to personify a poem.


My poem crushed the world
With its opening line
Intending to start anew

The next stanza rebuilt the world
From grains of virgin sand
Blew life back

By the end it mended the world
Adding tranquility
With a full stop.

This final poem was our villanelle exercise. I’m fairly proud of this one.

Sleep Sensation

Sleep is often best
alone in my bed
with freshly laundered sheets that smell of wind.

Perhaps the dog will join
at the foot of my bed and then
sleep is often best.

Until you kick her out
and I’m in your arms again
in freshly rumpled sheets that smell of lust.

Afterwards you rest
your breath fresh upon my neck that’s when
sleep is often best.

Months of arguments pass
until the caustic end
in freshly torn sheets that smell of ruin.

And when you’re finally gone
I’ll collapse upon my bed.
Sleep is never best
in freshly dampened sheets that taste of tears.

One response to “Good Poetry I Actually Like

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