tumblr poetry

 English 202 //09

This past week, on my Tumblr blog, I made a post asking people to anonymously send me a subject and then I’d write them a poem about it. I got five request. I haven’t gotten around to writing the fifth one yet, but I though I’ll post the other four here. 
These poems were merely for practice, I feel as if sometimes I fall into a rut when I don’t try anything new for awhile, this was just a way for me to try something knew. It’s alway good to stretch out of your bounrdes a little bit and try a new endevor. Here’s what I came up with.


A poem about housesitting

Hard wood floors.
A dog sleeping,
an occational snore.
Pictures hanging 
by the blue back door.
It felt like home
not your own.
for somewhere to go,
for some place
to call your own.

A poem about my favorite color

The morning light,
faint streaks
of gold, blue, and pink.
The deep, dark murkiness
that is beneath 
the sea.
The hues that the leaves are
in the summer, fall,
and spring,
The changes in nature,
those, my dear,
are my favorite to see.

A poem about puns

I’m horrible at puns
you should know this by now.
So here you go:


make what you want of it.
You’re that kind of type.

A poem about hello kitty
There once was a kitty
who was truly very pretty.
She wore a red bow
that she liked to show
around the giant busy city.

If you’d like me to write you a poem about any subject, you can head over to my Tumblr blog and ask me an anonymous question or you could just reply here down in the comments. 

Other Than Just Running

English 202 // 08

  I woke up, 8:29. The sun illuminating my room, through the sheers. I gave the pages and the ink my morning; wrote poetry, drank coffee. I listened to french jazz music and made cinnamon rolls. I got ready and curled my hair. I was ready by dix heures et demie du matin (ten thirty in the morning). I left soon after that…
  I walked into a small bookshop, and bought a book. A poetry book. A book of poetry by Mary Oliver, to be exact. Then I took myself and my newly boughten book to the teahouse around the corner. It smelled of tea leaves, and the window seat was open and free. The window seat is my favorite seat in the whole cafe. I ordered black vanilla mint, it was $2.50, and then sat down in the golden stream of light, warm and inviting. I read poetry, occasionally looking up and out at the passerby’s and the lone tree swaying in the wind. At 1:45 I got up and made my way to class. We talked about poetry and rhythm and rhyme. It was good. I rarely get days like these, and I’m trying to fix that. 
 I made my way home on the country roads. The wide, blue sky stretched out, flaunting it’s vastness. The sun near the horizon, because it’s close to winter now and the sun sets early. I think I’m getting old, because time seems to pass to quickly. There was a slow driver in front of me. I passed him on the right, though I probably shouldn’t have, I need to learn how to go a little slower. 
 Once I got home, I called my mom and put some water in the kettle to make green tea. (I like tea, don’t you see?) I put peppermint in it, because peppermint makes everything good. It’s dark outside, 6:45. I’m just now realizing how fast, yet slow, life goes. Moving two speed, simultaneously. 

I rarely get days like these. I rarely stop to take a peak at what life offers other than just running…

some poetry

English 202 // 07

// Listen //

I often create poems
when I least expect it.
In the car,
on the swing,
under the lamp post,
while working.

So many times
I have no paper,
no pen
no pad
no touch of vapor.

They’re there in my head
to and fro
out in a whisper
there they go.

Those poems
so raw and so clean,
float off in the air
never to be seen



I’m learning. 

Learning to care less  

about the  

seemingly important. 

And learning to care more 

about the 

seemingly less. 


The wind billows through the tree
ripping off the leave,
shaking it’s seams.

The leaves, they fall
leaving the tree,
making their way down to the ground
waiting to be seen.

Yet humans stomp them
beneath their feet 
only to find that their beauty 
is unseen.

They’re life
So quick and so sheen. 
If only they could live
to tell there story.

m e s s

English 202 // 06

I’m such a mess.
Life is such a mess.
Everything is such a mess.

You’d think I’d be used to this by now…
but I’m not.
I mean, after all,
it’s my name.
I can’t get away from it.

I’m just learning to live it,
with grace,
and love.
With a fullness beyond anything
I can think of.

Everything will be ok,
with time.
If thousands have made it before me.
I can make it,

Even when everything seems
to be uncertain.

– Mess –