A story untold cannot be seen when
Untyped, unwritten, untaped:
Where could such a book be bought?
Where could such a play be heard
Or such a film be played?
And yet, as thoughts build up the plot,
As conflicts rise and peak,
A light brush paints emotions, clear,
Upon the author’s cheek.
Eyes cast inward cannot see
The painting on display.
Eyes without can only guess
The book or movie or play.
Tag Archives: Poem
A Story Untold
Payment in Advance
I pay now for another’s choice
But also for my own
I did not speak out or raise my voice –
And that shame is mine alone.
My silence then was cowardice,
My disbelief unwise,
But to keep them now, to turn my back,
Is closing more than eyes.
A New Hope
Brought into the world for all
Our sakes: a gift to the family,
Ready-made, but also another chance, a
New hope, however uncertain, for the future
A Call to Pens
No capitalized letters,
A missing comma or two,
Some missing periods or
(Let’s be real)
A few,
Homophone errors
(Their “there” is “they’re.”),
Run-ons, fragments, and splices
Everywhere –
A call to the red pen:
Let the writer beware.
A Gift
Even one person
Liking your work,
Asking for more, or even
Talking about it
Is such a gift, a surprise,
Of surpassing sweetness that
Never quite fades away
Legal Questions: A Poem
Actually knowing versus
Thinking you know:
Have you seen proof,
Or did someone say so?
Will it hold up in court?
Will it hold up in life?
Can you afford to fight it
Even knowing you’re right?
And if you are right,
Will all lawyers agree?
Does “right” even matter?
What’s legality’s fee?
If Only
What we call those lucky
Individuals who seem
To know who they are, what they want, and
How to get it.
If only they could
Tell us what “it” is.
His Message
Perhaps, it seems ineffective,
Even slow, yet he knew the
Apparent strength of violence was deceptive,
Carrying with it the repercussions of fear:
Easing you backwards while promising progress.
Like a Grumpy Child
Dawn peeks through the clear air
Like a grumpy child from under heated covers.
The pinks and golds give the sky a false warmth,
Concealing the harsh, bitter cold
That strikes at the slightest opening,
Putting all within its reach –
Hands, feet, and nose –
To sleep as though waking
Is the Enemy.
twytte 