poetry - n. 1: writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rythmn 2 a: a quality that stirs the imagination b: a quality of spontaneity and grace

Name: dthaase

Monday, June 25, 2007

A Kingdom Within

In the reckless mind of man,
Housed in anger sits –
A deceitful King of Cowardice,
Whose kingdom knows no bliss.

Raising scepter and with serpent tongue,
He claims another life –
As the kitchen’s carving knife
Is sharpened for a feast of strife.

A betrothal to Queen Fearfulness;
Impatience as their heir –
Gathers lords and ladies in the Hall of Despair;
Once inside the royal court they hear the King declare:

“Lord Vanity’s given counsel
That our boredom be put away
So an edict on this day:
Come celebrate and play.

Why should we toil in the fields?
Or guard our harbors and our walls?
We have no need to fear a brawl…”
And there his words were cut short with a sudden squall –

The King he hides, the Queen she frets,
The Prince’s impulse flies –
The castle of the heart is breached with enemy surprise –
And as at waking, light pours in upon the King’s demise.

Friday, June 22, 2007


Suffocating darkness.
A gasping for a breath of light –
On the battlefield of the soul –
Where flesh curses discipline,
And spirit unsheathes truth;
Until surrender, like the dawn of day,
Offers a seeing.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007


Do not write for the critics:
False prophets declaring doom,
Exiting the cave they mine –
Faces darkened with coal,
Caring only about diamonds,
They miss the fuel.

Write for the children:
Alchemist with even the poorest phrase.
All that they touch glitters –
And can be spent!
Imagination as wild fires –
Burning away the toil of pen.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Ode To The Cicada

The June trees are lit by the electric sound of the seventeen-year cicada:
Entombed all those years –
I too might make a deafening and shrill return –
To announce the crack of my encasement:
While you till the garden weeds or walk to get the mail,
I would grow wings and fly at your head like a skittering bat –
My eyes—a fire-red or burning orange fueled by summer sun.
From afar, I would hold your attention with my charged company –
An army sent to your inner ear –
A sowing machine of sharp needled sound –
Quilted noise your only cover!

And yet –
My wings like velum paper vaunt the sound of solemnity –
For after June’s chorus comes the dirge of July,
And seventeen years of silence.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

An Account

The sun’s currency charges the forest floor,
Through the canopy of limbs and leaves,
Golden coins of light spread upon the path –
A treasure hunt of brightened browns and greens.

A spotted fawn, as this spotted day,
              Seen and startles –
              Then bounds away.