I found most of this in folders from past English classes. Some is pretty bizarre, and some is pretty bad (this goes as far back as sixth grade). I’m only putting one or two on at a time. I cannot believe how horrendous some of these are that I’m finding in my stacks of old poems. Wow. My apologies for the painful poetry. I promise to put some decent ones on soon.
The last of the zebras stands,
tall and proud in the long, dry grass.
mane fluttering in the stiff wind,
not noticing –
or heeding the warning of –
those dark clouds on the horizon.
The sky grows dark,
and still he waits.
His herd has left him
sensing the danger of the rain,
but he knows that the true danger
is not in the storm, but
in the treacherous trees
that lay where the herd has gone.
They will steal a zebra,
wrap him in their branches,
and he will be gone.
No hope is left for those taken
by these treacherous, terrifying trees,
for even the young are stolen.
He, the last of the zebras,
tried to warn the others,
but they did not listen.
So now they are gone,
and still he stands,
waiting as the clouds roll overhead.
Thunder crashes, and he turns
his head to the sky, watching,
watching and waiting,
alone now, in
the great thunderstorm.
“Hey, Billy! Carol, how are you?”
My father walks among the ropes,
some coiled neatly on the ground,
others a tangled mess,
still others hanging from the ceiling.
My father really knows the ropes;
he can tell you everyone’s name,
favorite color, and diameter.
Susie is his favorite, his baby.
“Susie, my dear,” he says,
“How are you doing? I’ve missed you so,”
and it doesn’t matter to him that
the ropes never reply because
he hears them when nobody else can.
My father impresses me, and
I know he’ll never be lonely, for
my father truly knows the ropes.
A small, simple wooden house
Sits upon the ground
Beside a tree.
Between the delicate pink flowers
Flutters a sparrow, coming
To eat from the house
And be sheltered by the handmade
The sun beats brightly upon
That delicate birdhouse,
Still charming in its simplicity.
Birds fly in and out,
Chattering all the while,
Then flutter in to sleep
A golden leaf tumbles to the ground,
Landing atop the house,
As if to decorate the roof.
Faeries tiptoe, coming
Ever closer to speak with
The birds who shelter there,
Hidden from the world.
The last robin calls out,
Singing his final note
For all the forest to hear
Before he leaves with his flock.
Snow fills the house,
And it lies there, patiently
Waiting for spring and
The birds to come again.
You came up and introduced yourself,
Spoke your name ––
and asked mine.
You laughed when I said I had none;
“Everyone has a name,” you said,
but not me.
Call me darling, dearest, love;
girl, child, little one;
Call me friend or foe;
wind or rain or stars or sky.
Call me Desert Sun or arctic snow,
reader! laugher! lover!
Call me She-Who-Writes-Deep-And-Emotional-Poetry
that girl over in the corner.
Call me what you like,
but it won’t be half of who I am.
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