Lines Composed in Spanish Class

I started by writing my name on the page
And followed to wonder why;
So often I find my verse trapped in a cage
And I can do naught but sigh.
In compn’y of birds and of pine scented hills
My soul feels as one with all
The open blue skies and the silence that kills
Remind me that I am small.
A pencil in pocket and thoughts in my head
Beseech me to give them life
But my wooden pencil weighs much more than lead
And my soul feels naught but strife.
So, I flee to the mountain and on it I sit
For there is no need for my name to be writ.

Iambic Flu

I have been writing poetry all day
And now I’m thinking in iambic verse
I think it’s time that on my bed I’ll lay
Before this bullshit can get any worse.
Five beats per line is what the teacher taught
But The Anthologist told me it’s six
I’ve tried for hours but it comes to naught!
I think I’d rather sail across the Styx.
I want to read some fiction but I fail
‘cus rarely does prose have five beats per line
If I could find some sort of Holy Grail!
And drink from it! and then know how to rhyme.
From it I’d drink, great sonnets I would write!
A worthless dream, for I am no brave knight.

Wintery Sonnet Written during History Class

White snowflakes spin around my head
And frozen winds nip at my ears
But I heard not the things they said
And snow falls on my face like tears.
A river blanketed in fluff
Disguising the cold stream below
The sun’s warm rays won’t be enough
For soon again the snow will blow.
The land before me looks the same
But not the way it did in spring
For trails that once I knew by name
Are strange to me, and my toes sting.
A passage out! A path to home!
I might escape and no more roam!

Sometimes I hear a demon in my head
Who jeers and sneers and laughs while tricks he plays
My mind is tortured with a sense of dread
‘til once again upon my face I gaze.
I sit up late and burn the midnight oil
Which casts its pale light on the page I read
but still I am tormented by this toil,
And crave that someday from him I’ll be freed.
A thousand stars look down upon the earth
So distant and so numberless they stare
They make me ponder what it all is worth
And why the sunset heralds not a prayer.
Yet sometimes I would make myself believe
The stars o’erhead do nothing but deceive.

'The fluff beneath my feet has turned to frozen crust'

The fluff beneath my feet
Has turned to frozen crust
And sunlight melts the snow
That once was such a treat;
Its glory’s come and gone
And flakes have turned to chunks
Of grey and tainted snow
In the light of dawn.
The spring will soon be here
Or will it? I can’t tell
For a cold chill fills the air,
Methinks a storm draws near.
The Sphinx was hid by sand;
Now with grandeur does it stand.
‘Tis no different with the snow
To water it shall go.

When through exposure to days dark and grim

My hidden thoughts are paused by some cold chill

I try remem’bring brave men such as him

Who marched ‘cross Persia with an iron will.

Although with looks and gazes more than fair

She calls me forth to action, but still I

Am haunted by the myst’ry of the lair

In which her darkest secret hide and lie.

Oh! Curse my soul which knows not what to do

When her enchanting eyes upon me dance

My mind cannot forget her rosy rue;

so back and forth to itself my mind rants.

If I could be like him from Macedon

And be a king! Not one among her pawns.

Sonnet to China

With wonders standing still from those times when

Great sages knew much more than we know now,

A time when stars and innards governed men,

So are the marvels of the land of Mao.

Pagoda standing like a sap’ent soul

And staring down the visitors who come

from ‘cross the planet, great and vast and whole;

to hawkers selling Mao they will succumb.

The wisdom of Confucius preaches still

To billions under Communist regime,

and multitudes upon the Square do spill

Where once was heard an agonizing scream.

In Jasmine gardens where the silk worms crawl,

men sit in peace, protected by the Wall.