Poems

Without Hope (written in the point of view of Frida Kahlo)

Death is looming above my head

As tears cloud my eyes.

The sun burns its print upon my cheek.

Around me sit green fields, taunting me.

I'd love to be refreshed by a cool breeze,

But I'm trapped in my illness.

Even if I was freed,

My body is far too weak.

They torture me, saying I'll be better.

But I know its not true,

I'm stuck.

Death is looming above my head

As tears cloud my eyes.

The smell of rotting meat taints my breath.

Around me sit white sheets,

But all I see is gray.

I'd love to run among the fields I call home,

But I'm locked in my dispair.

What is Poetry?

Poetry is

A song, written.

A letter, sent.

A story, told.

Poetry is

A movie, watched.

A painting, made.

A dance, chereographed.

Poetry is a life, lived.

Joy

What Happens to Joy Deferred?

Does it wither, like a weed?

Or does it sit, like an unplanted seed?

Does it melt, like a sweet?

Or does it stink, like rotting meat?

Does it poke, and pester?

Or does it become a sore, and fester?

Does it sink, like a stone?

Or does it sit like an old photo, left alone?