Plaiddragon's Plots
Penny's Poems
2002
Here are the favorites of my poems I've written over the past few years, what used to be split up into several pages on the old Strand. There are poems about nature, love, silliness, et cetera. The poems are listed most recent first, and go quite a few years back. Each page is a year. Enjoy!
Notes:
- In October 2001, I started a poetry journal that I post my poetry to, so only my very favorite poems written since then have made it in here.
- Also, I moderate at the International House of Poets, so you can find me and my poetry there. My sn is: Alienbooknose Peneli
Rosewater Kisses 6/26/02
Long Lonely Night 4/25/02
naked 4/25/02
Beginnings 4/11/02
Life is Like... 3/18/02
Catharsis 2/24/02
Girl Without A Face 2/20/02
A writer 2/10/02
To My Grandmother 1/28/01
Next Page (2001)...
1999...
1997...
Rosewater Kisses 6/26/02Expanded from the senryu in the beginning.
"loneliness
the lingering feel of love and
rosewater kisses"
rosewater kisses
bring him into full bloom
as a bud opens to the sun
she welcomes him
ruddy skin caresses
ivory warms to the touch
clothes fall with petals
a soft rain of love
scents the room
butterfly kisses
part the clouds to sky-blue eyes
dawn touches
rose-petal cheeks
he sips the nectar of her lips
drowsiness fades
flowers reopen
and greet the sun
rosewater kisses
trail his departing feet
bringing back images
of rosebud openings
while drops rain from sky eyes
upon cold ivory curves
as rosewater kisses
await his return
Long Lonely Night Inspired by a set of haiku by the same name.
a long lonely night
she worries, old tears
not dried, but frozen
at midnight as the bells call
to her memory-ghosts
to come out and play
old favorite tunes, running
through her mind, passing
warning signs of impending
mental breakdown, tumbling
to the sea of tears, roaring
in an ancient voice, telling
of the unbearable pain of this
long lonely night.
naked 4/25/02 true love
one by one all her illusions
stripped away by his honesty
until she lies naked before him
exposed in all her sin and glory
and to her unending surprise
he does not turn her away
but holds her close to his heart
and affirms every single day
that he loves not her external finery
but all that's exposed through his care
the scars and fractures that are exposed
when he lays her soul bare
Beginnings 4/11/02 New version of a poem that used to be up, called "A Declaration of Love."
"I want to show you something."
So I follow you, wondering.
All of my expecations are surpassed
when you offer me your heart of spun-glass,
hesitant, unsure of its reception
you glance at me for confirmation.
So I smile at you reasuringly
handling your heart with utmost delicacy.
I put it gently into my velvet keeping
my own heart, all the while, leaping.
Excited, flustered, I open my mouth to speak
but the words just won't come, my voice is weak.
Soon, however, my own heart flutters anew
as you say my own words, "I love you."
Life is Like a Rainy Monday Morning in Gettysburg 3/18/02 Inspired by a random comment from my Brit Lit prof.
"Life is like a Rainy Monday Morning in Gettysburg"
throwing out another metaphor with practiced ease
he goes back to pouring literary champagne
into the glasses of our ears.
I am distracted by the thought:
How?
He meant it in a discouraging way,
trying to evoke images of dreary dull repetition
endless diet of skim milk and diet pepsi
while running forward on a treadmill.
I don't think that's the right
answer.
After all, rain in a drought is a good thing,
the light sky-kisses of mist are pleasant
walking to my favorite class
in the perfectly awake cool air,
I am not angry at the day, but
relaxed.
Things can only get better on a Monday morning,
Gettysburg happens to be one of my favorite places
reuniting with friends after a spring break
in sight of new dogwood blossoms,
I am content with that sort of
life.
Catharsis: 2/24/01 Water and emotion metaphors have been strong on my mind lately, producing this:
Thundering rage cracks in the sky
Clouded eyes open up and dump water
teardrops, raindrops, flooding the ocean
of the heart, drowning the land of the mind.
The blue ocean rages, tidal waves of
anger, sadness, sorrow breaking the
mental dams erected by meddling civilization
flooding the island of Reason.
Tsunami, wall of sheer emotion,
leaves the sea and crashes on the
built up reasons, the shallow houses with
their Wild West facades trembling in her wrath.
When it has destroyed all barriers,
when the storm has sucked the skies dry,
the sea of emotion calms, and the waves slide back
back to homeostasis, back to grey sky calm.
Swallowed by the all-consuming sea,
no wreckage clutters the isle of the mind.
But Nature's works remain, dancing in carefree joy,
allowed once more to roam wild.
Girl Without A Face 2/20/02 This is true to my experience... Not that I ever wear makeup, anyway.
Sarah
forgot to put on her face
this morning.
The girls in the hallways
whisper and laugh
at the girl without a face.
Not so deficient they,
who spent hours and hours
making up for mother Nature's oversight.
Nature never makes
the eyelashes full enough,
the blushing cheek red enough
the skin pale enough
or the lips perfectly shaped
for these girls.
Sarah
walks by the boys in the hall
feeling alone.
The boys whisper and point, too
but they're just wondering
"Who is that prety girl?
The one with a natural face?"
They've never seen such
gorgeous eyes or such perfectly natural skin
in such a soft and lovely face.
A writer 2/10/02 Music and writing and art are the same thing, really...
A writer
sits at the keys
silently composing
perfectly tuned words
jotting careless notes
on flat keys
ivory and ebony
plastic and paint,
or maybe,
parchment and ink
sketches of the
mind's-ear poetry
carefully recording
the inner visions
in language so pure
the ears can see
imagination's painted
symphony.
To My Grandmother: 1/28/02 My grandmother died last summer, and I wrote a lot of formless poetry at the time trying to express my feelings. I turned that into this poem after leaving it sit for a while.
In your eyes
the world
was a place of beauty,
Found in many things,
in birds
in horses, lakes,
trees and butterflies.
But especially,
in me.
By your lead,
I learned
to love the beauty you saw,
echoed in all you did,
for me.
You show beauty so true,
in your paintings, sketches,
your words
and life.
In my grief,
I try,
to show the world
what it has lost
in you
with my pen, my paint,
my flute and my voice.
But I
cannot.
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