Poems by ask
She came home
as the Sun was setting
over the city's skyscrapers
Put on a tape of her favorite music
from a land long ago and far, far away.
The man's voice whooped and wailed
in a heartfelt, beating tone
singing words she did not know
but she cherished every one.
She mixed herself some lemonade
with just a pinch of sugar
"The lemons speak for themselves,"
she'd always say,
covering up her eyes
so you wouldn't see her cry:
"they give you the bitterness to stand life."
She sat by her window
In her off-white wicker chair
looking through her pains
looking through the panes
of the windows in her sky-high apartment
Clearly through them to the ground
where frowning people walked
Some were unlike her
but most were just the same.
Sitting by her by the window
was a giant green jade plant
just as quiet
but more tranquil
soaking up the evening's Sun.
She fell asleep in her ancient wicker chair
Dreaming of nothing, hoping for nothing,
Waking up the next day to the next setting Sun.
and so a god was born
Yaymand sat in darkness for a while
he had no idea of what to make of the world.
THERE MUST BE SOME GREAT, POWERFUL SOMETHING
he thought out loud
THAT MAKES EVERYTHING THE WAY IT IS.
and so, a supreme being was born
AND SINCE I'M THE BESTEST, SMARTEST, CUTEST THING I KNOW,
he ventured on
THIS GREAT, POWERFUL SOMETHING MUST BE
ONE OF ME!
and so, a god was formed- you see,
man was not made in God's form
God was made in man's.
"before you go off on your own"
Unvisnhite's mother said,
"there's something I must say:
There is no Santa Clause, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth
and there is No God."
In a state of shock,
Unvisnhite's once material friends vanished without a
They were once so real, so real, so real he could touch
Where did they go?
The same place as all his other youthful fantasies.
That great, almighty "God"
Is a figment of Your imagination.
You don't know what to make of stuff that You don't know,
You solve it by making up some stuff that WE don't know,
And vwala! whatever You fancy
[god, goddess, gods]
And it's so real to You
that sometimes You're a Hypocrite in Your god's name.
A killer of killers to show that killing is wrong,
A hater of haters to show that hatred is wrong,
All the while, thinking [knowing] that You're right.
You look to this being for Goodness-
Don't be blinded by the Light
And realize that
humans are the true creators.
So don't think You are better than anyone
because You worship the RIGHT god
because RIGHT and WRONG
and GOOD and BAD
and HEAVEN and HELL
are all figments of our imaginations.
To each his own of ONE,
To each his own of THE OTHER.
Good bless you.
Myself in the Mirror
I look Myself in the mirror one Sunday,
when I actually have time to think
Although I usually look in the full-length mirror
at my face
to see what nearly-virtual scars or zits I can pick at,
I look this time at my whole Self
Just standing there staring at Me
And I step outside Myself for one moment
And try to see Me
As someone else sees
And I think at myself.
Little adolescent girl,
Why do you stand hunched over
as though protecting yourself
from the Evils of the World
That you know will inevitably sink in?
And with your arms crossed
Over your developing breasts
Are you afraid someone might notice you
Notice what a beautiful woman you are
Fear they take advantage of you
Even though you are alone
In the safety of your own room?
And why that long face
That seemingly shuns all rays of Sunlight
>From existence in its presence?
Are you afraid that by smiling
You might be showing someone your vulnerability
And they might hurt you, if you smile,
Like you possibly might have been hurt before?
I sigh and look Myself in the eyes
Into all those Memories I have
tried to blot out of existence
And have successfully done so
For I can see nothing.
How can I answer Myself these questions
Without such Memories?
I close my eyes and sullenly walk away.
You try to find your Inner Beauty
Beneath your Inner Pain,
But you try so hard in Vain, my dear,
You try so hard in Vain.
You've found the well-trod Path in the Woods
But 'tis only a Circular Lane,
And you walk so long in Vain, my dear,
You walk so long in Vain.
You try to make others understand your words
But they think of you as insane,
And 'tis quite a pity for you, my dear,
'Cause you try so hard in Vain.
Your cries are heard, but not thought about
Like that of the Midnight Train,
And you'll cry your heart out 'till it breaks, my dear,
But you'll only be crying in Vain.
You think that your strength is as much as others
But your strength lets you speak out, and if one hurts
you, lets you leave;
No matter how many lost attempts you have made,
never, ever grieve,
For without Vain Attempts or rough spots in one's life,
What could one possibly achieve?
If you were the ground beneath a giant tree,
and if I were a leaf on that giant tree,
and I died
and I fell to the ground,
I would be in Heaven.
Biographical sketch: I am a fifteen year old girl (going on
500, my mom always says) living in Atlanta and trying to find who I
am and to survive with as few scratches from my teenage years as possible.
The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster by Richard Brautigan
Reason: Brautigan, in all his humorous simplicity, makes his
work entertaining for both the reader who takes it at face value and
for the one who discovers its enormous (and completely unexpected) depth.
Recommendations for writers:
The most important thing I think about when writing is who, exactly,
I am writing for. This usually causes me to interpret what I say and
how I say it with more sincerity. I write almost all of my poems for
myself and rarely give thought to others. The only poems I read to others
or display at this site are the ones that I wrote for myself and then
decided others might like.