Poems I've Read

Poems I've Read.

"The Road Not Taken"- Robert Frost (Modern Age)

"Sunflowers"- Mary Oliver


"It's Dangerous To Read Newspapers"- Margaret Atwood


"A Death Song"- Paul Laurence Dunbar (Age of Realism)

"Richard Cory"- Edwin Arlington Robinson (Age of Realism)

The Bait Not Taken

The Bait Not Taken

Two fish appeared in a sparkling pond,

And sorry I could not catch both

I had to choose, which one I'd want

Which one would yield and feed the most

After all I lived, on mostly just toast;

One was beautiful, one was large

But before I could choose, I took too long

The rare of the two, had swam away,

It was now forever, and ever gone

To maybe be caught, one other day.

So I cast my line, into the water,

Hoping I'd get, a teeter or a totter

But what I got was nothing,

Nothing at all

And so I began, my downward fall.

I wish I had chosen, the beautiful fish,

For never again, would I hear it's talk

I would never see, it's meat on a dish,

For the other fish, was merely a rock.

Inspired by: "The Road Not Taken" by: Robert Frost

A War Song

A War Song

Tru da feelds and tru da woods,
Long and long and long dey stud.
Waitin' for us as long as dey will,
Waitin' to get dat brutal next kill.
Swettin' der best, as much as dey can,
It's hot and it's hot and it's hot in dis land.
Finally dey see, what's become of me,
But it's too layt, to ruhn to da sea.
So onward dey charge, dey charge in to be,
Da next and da next and da next one like me.
So wat do you tink,
Wud you no what to do?
Go befor' it's too layt,
And run too da sea.
Don't en' up, like por ol' me.

Inspired by: "A Death Song" by: Paul Laurence Dunbar

Emma Thompson

Emma Thompson

Whenever Emma Thompson Came to school,

We students in the hallways looked at her,

She was right and good, never broke a rule,

Always listening to the orderlies, she never caused a stir.

And she was always studying day after day,

Worrying about her future but not her today,

She was quiet and pure and she kept to herself,

But that didn't stop the children from shoving her into a locker shelf.

And the children told her, don't say a word,

But even she knew, she wouldn't be heard,

And at night, while she cried herself to sleep,

Her mother scolded, "That's no place to weep!".

So on we lived, and no one cared,

Not even the teachers, who all stood still,

As little Emma Thompson, stone-faced and scared,

Swallowed an entire bottle, of Vicodin pills.

Inspired By: "Richard Cory" by: Edwin Arlington Robinson 

Shadows

Shadows

Jack awoke in the middle of a dark alley, lying in a pool of blood. The last thing he remembered was being hit over the head with a blunt object. He turned over as he fell to try and get a look at his assailant, but all he saw was a troubling darkness; and then, nothing. As he struggled to move when he finally came to, the air smelled of death and sorrow. Jack got to his feet and surveyed his surroundings; there was a dark unmoving shape at the farthest corner of the alley. Now he remembered what had happened to him before he was hit. He had just gotten off duty at the station and was on the way to the parking garage to get his car, when he heard what sounded like a struggle coming from the alley to his left. Gingerly, not knowing who or what he would find, he quietly crept into the vast darkness of the alley. Then he saw the man. He was in a long dark trench coat, holding a surgical scalpel in his left hand and dragging something large on the ground with his right. Jack stumbled back and stifled a soft whimper at this grave and horrific sight, careful to not alert this mystery man. He reached for his gun and inched further into the alley. Up ahead the man abruptly came to a halt. Before Jack could even begin to think, the man appeared to have disappeared into thin air; but the body remained. Suddenly he heard breathing behind him, a harsh wheezing that made him stop dead in his tracks. The blow to his head was instant and debilitating. He crumpled at the excruciating pain. When he tried to get even the slightest glimpse of his attacker, all he saw was shadows.

Back in the present, he was moving further into the alley to get a closer inspection of what appeared to be a body. The person was lying face down, but appeared to be a man in his mid to late forties, about 5’ 10’’. Jack reached down and slowly turned the man over; what he saw was far from good. He had been right, it was a man; but he wasn’t breathing, and it didn’t take an extensive autopsy to see why. He had eight, consecutive stab wounds on his chest, done so that they were in the shape of an “X”. But that wasn’t all. His expression was cut into a smile; and his eyes were gone. Jack jumped backward at the sight, staggering down the alley and almost losing his balance. The man couldn’t have been dead long, maybe an hour or so at most, he was cold, but there were none of the obvious signs of decomposition. Weighing his options, Jack scooped his gun off the ground from where he fell; holstered it, and called the station. Chief Colby answered with his usual gruff undertone. “Sioux Falls Police Station, this is Chief Colby.” “Chief, it’s Jack. I’ve got something you’re gonna want to see.” It didn’t take Colby very long to arrive at the scene, and with him were two other officers, Richardson and Estevez. Jack met them at the entrance of the alley and led them to the scene. “This is insane.” remarked Colby. He was trying to keep it together, but Jack could see through his act; he was mortified. “What kind of sick fuck would do something like this?” Richardson snapped. Estevez remained dead silent, his eyes wider than an owl. They called EMS to take the body away, and stayed until after the scene was cleaned and dusted for evidence. When Jack finally arrived home that night, he was more than troubled. He had never seen anything that gruesome in his life, let alone his entire career of law enforcement. He knew whoever had done that wouldn’t stop at one person. No one does something that symbolic unless they plan on making a name for themselves. This wasn’t just an everyday homicide; they had a serial killer on their hands.

About twenty years ago, a struggling writer was living in the Happy Day Apartments and Townhomes in downtown Sioux Falls; his name was John Craig. He knew he had something special, all his life he could feel it. He was destined to write a bestseller, to be known by millions and sign books for eager fans. All John wanted in his life was for this dream to become reality. He had talent, but one overbearing problem; he was legally blind. He was laughed at by everyone he shared his dream with; even his own parents wanted nothing to do with him. He had written many things, all of which had been turned down by the only place that would even consider his pieces. They kept telling him to keep trying, but every time he was shot down again and again. “The Lucky X Publishing Company” was their name. One day John awoke with an idea in his head. This was the one, he was positive. He wrote it in only three short weeks, working night and day, barely even stopping to eat. It was the story of a killer, a man who murdered his victims with a pitchfork, and then cut their mouth into a smile with a scalpel. The man was a deranged farmer, whose family had all been brutally murdered on their own land. He was the sole survivor, and spent the rest of his life killing anyone who bore resemblance to the man who committed the heinous act. The story was beautiful; it was the best thing John had ever written. But the day before his appointment with the publisher, John committed suicide. Or at least that’s the consensus the investigators came to and told the public. You see, John had a confidant, a man whom he thought his only friend. His room-mate at the apartment, the very man who helped him develop the tale to completion. His name was Michael Rousseau, an immigrant from France who had only recently gained his citizenship. John thought Michael to be a great man who was always supportive of him and his work. He even volunteered to type out all of John’s work for him, since his sight was far from adequate. But this was not the case, Michael had ulterior motives; in reality, he was the one who had put the bullet through John’s skull. He snuck into his room while he was sleeping, slipped on a pair of neoprene gloves, put a .45 caliber pistol to John’s chin, and pulled the trigger. It was a cold and merciless crime, but Michael was a cold and merciless person. He had been deported from France on four counts of fraud, and one count of murder. None of which were ever proven to be true, so instead of serving jail time like he should have, the French government did the only thing they could do. They deported him. Michael was a brilliant con man, and he knew just how to cover his tracks. Three days after John’s murder, he claimed the story as his own and took it to be published. It was an instant bestseller, on a nationwide level. Michael became a very wealthy man, and forgot all about John. All until some very strange things started to happen. He awoke in the middle of the night in sweats, ripping himself from terrible nightmares of John. He was seeing him everywhere, even hearing his voice. Michael was sure he was finally being driven insane by guilt. Then he saw something horrible on the news. A man was found dead in an alley just south of the Happy Day Apartments, with eight stab wounds and a smile carved into his face. He was around the same age as Michael and almost resembled him. The message was clear. John was back, and he was coming for him. It was only a matter of time until he was the next victim. To police and investigators, this just looked like any other copycat killer. But not Michael.

The days that followed were slow and full of paranoia. Each day another victim was found, and it didn’t take investigators long to realize that whoever was doing this got the idea from Michael Rousseau’s bestselling horror novel: Shadows. All the victims were killed in the same way; eight stab wounds to the chest. But one thing didn’t add up. Why were their eyes missing? There was only one man alive who knew the answer to this question; and that was Michael Rousseau himself. It was a sign from John; a sign for Michael. It was telling the police exactly who the killer was. All of the men were around 46 years old, and five foot ten inches tall. Each day the body was found a little bit closer to Michael’s estate; each day Michael was driven a little bit more out of his head.

Then all of a sudden the killings stopped, weeks passed, and Michael’s life returned to its normal schedule of leisure. He was relaxing in his pool one sunny afternoon, when he heard his doorbell ring. He calmly climbed out of the magnificent pool and strode to the door. Assuming it would be one of his adoring fans; he took a quick glance in the mirror to make sure his looks were in order. He opened the door with a smile, but no one was there. One second he was gazing across the street, and the next he was on the ground losing consciousness. He awoke in someplace strange, but oddly and eerily familiar. Then it hit him; it was his old apartment. The one he shared with John Craig. But there was no one else in the room, only him. He walked to the door and tried the knob; it wouldn’t budge. Then suddenly the temperature in the room went freezing cold, and the lights began to flicker. “Hello again, my friend.” said a voice from behind him. He turned around to look, but he already knew what he would find. Standing in front of him was the spirit of John Craig. There was a hole below his chin, and it was dripping blood. Mortified, Michael gasped, “This is impossible, I saw you die!” “Indeed you did Michael. But now it’s your turn.” “You can’t kill me, you aren’t real, you’re all in my head!” “Oh no Michael, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re going to do it yourself, just like I did, don’t you remember?” John motioned to a .45 caliber pistol lying on the floor in the middle of the room; the very same one Michael had used to kill him. “I hope you remember Michael; because I don’t.” Suddenly Michael was unable to control his actions; he reached for the gun and lifted it to his chin. “No, please, please don’t, I’m sorry John!” Michael spat. “So am I.” and just as John said those words, it was all over.

Sea of Sorrow

Sea of Sorrow

Come with me,
Into the sea of sorrow
Their voices weak,
Their faces long
Come with me,
Into the sea of sorrow
The blue vastness,
Consuming all
The frowns of their faces,
The slants of their brows
Telling a story,
All their own
Each one is different,
Each one is unique
Each one equally,
Full of despair
Come with me,
Into the sea sorrow
And if you don’t listen,
One day you might too
Be trapped in a sea of sorrow,
But this one’s for you.

Inspired by- “Sunflowers”, by Mary Oliver.

The Road Not Taken- Robert Frost: Annotated

“The Road Not Taken”- Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,[1]
And sorry I could not travel both[2]
And be one traveler, long I stood[3]
And looked down one as far as I could[4]
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,[5]
And having perhaps the better claim,[6]
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;[7]
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.[8]
Oh, I kept the first for another day![9]
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.[10]

I shall be telling this with a sigh[11]
Somewhere ages and ages hence:[12]
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

---

[1] Why is the word “yellow” used to describe the wood? The author must be referring to fall.
[2] He could only use one path, and he would never know what the other would hold. This is referring to a two choice decision, such as “soup or salad?” which happens often in life.
[3] People go through thousands of potential outcomes when making a decision; though it may seem like a long time in the mind’s eye, in reality it is only an instant.
[4] Here the author is referring to his contemplation of options; the “looking” is actually just the mental process of decision making.
[5] He has reviewed his options, and made his choice.
[6]The author is reassuring himself he made the right decision.
[7] Supporting evidence for decision.
[8] The author could tell that the path had not been walked upon, because none of the leaves were rustled.
[9] He hopes one day he will have a chance to make the other choice.
[10] He knows he will never face the exact same opportunity again.
[11] The author is now full of regret.
[12] Somewhere far away someone made the other choice.

This poem is expressing a person’s thought process whilst making a decision. Whether noteworthy or not, every decision takes quite a bit of thinking; even if we don’t realize it. After making a decision, especially a two-part one such as depicted in this poem, a person may have second-thoughts, or more than likely than that: regrets.