Patched-up Monster

Still really like this one!

Craftie Beaver

Run my fingers along these stitches
My slick, sick skin in pale, pink patches
Red scars, dark dreams and seams
Snagged-up tissue in small light catches

If I’m a patched-up monster
Then what does that make you?
You are my creator
Working in sin and sinew

I acknowledge my birth and life
But I wish you wouldn’t have bothered
Especially when you hate
That which you have fathered

I pity us, this reckless wreck
Wreaking wrong, prescribing pain
Spent my life to break your neck
On the hope of a rope in ending insane

You meant to make me perfect
But don’t know what you’re doing
You played around with delicate parts
Left this bloody monster in ruin

I survive, pieced from scraps
Forgotten flesh upon the floor
You die of loneliness
But I live to rise once more

View original post

Advertisements

Just to be inside your fairytale

Walk this country’s width
Brave the tempest’s midst
Recover treasure from storied myth
Swim an ocean’s depth
Suffer a monster’s breath
Conquer even almost-death

Just to be at your side.
I love you.

Far Beyond

Friggin’ love this far out poem! Happy birthday Pencil Princess. Way to go on ur free verse.

Pencil Princess

One last poem from my creative writing class. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the prospect of writing poetry, since it’s the type of storytelling I’m least experienced with.

How does one compress their creativity,
   Convey stories of sunsets and starscapes and suffering,
      In succinct stanzas?

To adequately address the axiomatic truths,
   Uncover the answers to the anagrams presented by society,
      I’d need a thousand pages;

Profound poets across history, however,
   Could engage the imagination with exquisite eloquence
      In as few as six words.

Poems that breathe life into their readers;
   Verses that playfully dance through your mind
   Hours, days, and even years after being read;
   These things have always existed far beyond
      My realm of capability.

I’m not very active on WordPress. Find me on DeviantArt:
https://www.deviantart.com/prinnamon

View original post

Seeker

Death as a child. Love it. Follow Pencil Princess! She’s got mad writing skills already at 15.

Pencil Princess

Another poem written for a creative writing course, “Seeker” is about death, a topic I have little direct experience with. I tried to offer a unique perspective on the subject.

Death is a child.
Death’s not alive.
Death never died;
Doesn’t know why

You’re all so upset,
You’re all so afraid.
Death wonders how come
You won’t come and play.

It’s hide and seek.
It’s a matter of time.
Ready or not,
You’re easy to find.

I’m not very active on WordPress. Find me on DeviantArt:
https://www.deviantart.com/prinnamon

View original post

First Fall

Love this poem! My daughter. You can follow at Pencil Princess! She’ll be 15 tomorrow and she’s already got writing chops. 🙂 Proud of my girl.

Pencil Princess

One of two poems written for a creative writing course, “First Fall” is about my earliest memory from childhood: sitting upside down on the sofa, then falling and hitting my head on the carpeted floor. Hope you enjoy!

Upside down,
Ceiling’s my ground.
From my lips,
Joyful sounds.

Head leaning back,
Toes in the air
On the couch
Without a care.

The carpet above
(Or is it below?)
Will cushion my fall,
So down I go.

Betrayed by carpet’s
Pillowy promise.
Of all my memories,
I’ll keep this the longest.

I’m not very active on WordPress. Find me on DeviantArt:
https://www.deviantart.com/prinnamon

View original post

Your Face Here

Your face goes here.
Doing what you fear.
Healing an injured ear.
Wiping every tear.
Making the most of years.
Keeping faith near.
Sweeping the path clear.
Changing this whole sphere.
Shouting for the back to hear.
Ready for God to appear.

Your face goes here.

martha jesus


Galatians 2:20 NIV

20 I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me…

Government is not Religion or: Gross Misconduct

Jesus did not come as Caesar. What makes you think you change the world through politics?


Jesus wasn’t president. He didn’t get anywhere near the White House. He came through poor people who were refugees. He built things out of wood, a manual laborer. Oh, and he saved the world.
Donald Trump would have hired him and never paid the man.


The practice of Christianity is not a concern for what other people do. It is a concern for how you treat others. Jesus did not come to judge the world. He came to save it.


The purpose of law is love. (The Bible)


Try to rule others,
You fail. Love other people?
You will never lose.


It does not matter
If they wash away the spatter
There’s blood on their hands
And we watch from the stands
As Congress is getting fatter

Dark Cave Haikus

Hatred without cause
Is not protected under
The Constitution


There is no such thing
As passive hate. Apathy
Has no cause to act.


Love cannot exist
Where light does not reach in us
Rescued from the cave


Hope can be rescued
From deep inside this dark well
Love is the strong rope


Where a life is found
Brave beats furious to save
Scraps of decency


Rains may flood and drown
But humans will still reach through
The dark clouds for sun


Swim through this mountain
Dive deep for love, buoy life
Brave this river, Boy


Wipe my tears and cuts.
Dry my hands and feet. Set firm
Life upon this rock.


I wait in the dark
For splashes from brave heroes
I will not despair


Can I be found deep?
I will wait for news and sleep.
Hope is what I keep.


Deep earth womb of rock
Traumatic birth of thirteen
Life will rise through pain

Take Me Home

I still like this one. I wrote it for my dad.

Craftie Beaver

I swing my legs from the swaying dock
Forgotten every one of my dwindling flock

I lay in fields of golden, wet, honey wheat
Drink down dew from low, golden clouds I meet

I run in those hidden dark, green trees
Places I learned to be what I please

Ravines littered with softly-fallen sins
Redeemed by desire, baptized by might-have-beens

Hay dangles through cracks and creaky joists
I break pains and panes with the ghosts of your voice

Pains of the past
Panes of glass

I fly kites with the ribs of those rotting, white windows
Catch hope with faith and sinewy minnows

Display truth and let it cool on open-sashed sills
Smoke the winnows and billows of dogged wills

Clear to the rafters of this old barn
And to the ragged fence posts on Used-to-be Farm
I love you.

View original post