some poems by miranda (titles of poems always at the bottom)

A curtain unfurls

Off a gateway between worlds.

One is black, one is white.

The difference between wrong and right.

One means swimming,

One means flight.

Which world do you choose?

Can you bear to lose 

All you hold dear

All you treasure here?

And you decide

To stay behind.

The curtain's closed,

You're out of time.

A CHOICE

What was written on the walls

Of bathroom stalls

Soon becomes testament.

People follow blindly,

False promises dangled in front of them.

Like a shadow in the darkness,

With nothing but a person's words to say it's there.

And what are words?

Lies hissed through pointed teeth?

Orders from a king who's never left his castle?

A traveler who's never seen earth or sky or sun

Yet are falling off his back because of them.

A mirage in the distance with promises of water.

Keep walking towards it,

Just a little farther.

ANCIENT LAW

This is part one

And it starts with a gun.

And a soldier and child

On opposite sides

Of a war that cannot be won.

A child throws a stone 

And will never come home

For the soldier releases his gun.

And at the end of it all,

The child did fall.

And from guilt the soldier fell too.

But that is part one

And it can't be undone.

But now it's part two

And it starts with you.

CAUGHT BETWEEN SIDES

Just beyond the seventh sea.

Grasping for something an inch out of reach.

Searching for boxes but don't have the keys.

This world that is flat, this world that is round.

This world that is green, this world that is brown.

Everyone searching,

Grasping,

Hoping.

Looking for something that cannot be seen.

PERFECTION

Emerging from the stories like a blazing spark of fire,

Comes a knight in shining armor with nothing but desire.

Desire to fight, to win,

To claim his maiden prize.

He wears a mask of justice

But greed is in his eyes.

Another beast slain, another princess won.

Another crown, another throne,

Another kingdom to be run.

He walks with pride

And power in his stride.

But though he wears his golden crown,

The higher he soars, the farther he'll come crashing down.

THE HERO

What whisper cool your story began

When the garden dreams of light.

And see them glow to understand

The music in the misty night.

The truth she leaves behind in song

Floats up in blue balloons.

For when rain walks over sea

The night begins the moon.

DREAMS

Denis' Awesome Poems!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Denis' First Poetry Collection!!!!!!!!!!!

Dedicated to Hannah for setting up this Blog!!!!

Flight
Gliding smoothly through the endless sky.
Soaring often, gliding more.
Always high, never low. Sublime flow
Bird-like grace
large is small and small is smaller.
Forever High, flying in the sky...

Out across the endless sea of buildings I gaze.
I see one thing that to me, does amaze.
A lone seagull,
perched on yonder flag-post.
Not moving, only speaking.
a loud, raucous caw.
It stays there, why?
that's up to the bird to share...

A bridge,
a powerful, still, platform of conveyance.
Stretching across great spans,
to help people get to far away lands...

Warm disk of golden light.
Sunburn, searing pain.
Tropical weather, fun in the sun.
Light, banishing the dark.
Our savior from the shaded sky,
the Sun...

Wind,
gusting, blustering, whirling 'round.
Throwing the leaves away from the ground.
Wind,
gusting, blustering, whirling 'round...

Sparking shrubs and burning bushes,
sputtering words of corruption, of greed, of tyranny.
Never, in donkey's years have we heard the words love, democracy, a better place to live.
For so long has the peaceable pack-animal been dwarfed by the hulking, grey behemoth with blood on it's tusks.
The blood of innocents, the blood of everyone...

How can nature's creation find solitude and rest in a world that never finds peace.
Birds, nesting in steel trees.
Raccoons, scavenging in what we refuse to keep.
It's obvious, we have not adapted enough to live the content life of Nature's true Kings and Queens...

I sit, still as the plants around me.
My stony perch, my solitude.
I watch, the plants around me quiver,
the workers, the bees.
I think, deep, relaxing thoughts,
my nature, my love.
I live, chaotically, crazily,
So nice, slowing down...

Chickens, scratching,
Sheep, ambling,
Bees, pollinating,
Birds, singing,
Everyone, living...

The plants live, still, growing, glowing.
I live, moving, growing, but not glowing...

I live, I die.
You live, you die.
They live, They die.
We all live, We all die...

Welcome To Paper Ego!

Hello, Poets!

As I walk to the subway every morning on my way to work, I watch the transformation of the trees overhead; the new colors flaming one by one like an idea moving from tree to tree down the street; the slow shrugging off of leaves; the crunch and whistle of dead things crowding the sidewalk; the woodsmoke smell slowly overwhelming the smell of exhaust and garbage. It is my favorite, favorite time of year; all promise, quiet exhilaration, and a bit of sadness, too.
As Nature makes itself new, this poem by Lloyd Schwartz has been on my mind. Let it be our inaugural inspiration! Please add your poems!
Love,
Hannah


Leaves by Lloyd Schwartz
1
Every October it becomes important, no, necessary
to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded
by leaves turning; it's not just the symbolism,
to confront in the death of the year your death,
one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony
isn't lost on you that nature is most seductive
when it's about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its
incipient exit, an ending that at least so far
the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain)
have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe
is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception
because of course nature is always renewing itself—
the trees don't die, they just pretend,
go out in style, and return in style: a new style.




2
Is it deliberate how far they make you go
especially if you live in the city to get far
enough away from home to see not just trees
but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high
speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were
in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves:
so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks
like rain, or snow, but it's probably just clouds
(too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder,
given the poverty of your memory, which road had the
most color last year, but it doesn't matter since
you're probably too late anyway, or too early—
whichever road you take will be the wrong one
and you've probably come all this way for nothing.





3
You'll be driving along depressed when suddenly
a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through
and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably
won't last. But for a moment the whole world
comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives—
red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,
gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations
of burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire.
It won't last, you don't want it to last. You
can't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop.
It's what you've come for. It's what you'll
come back for. It won't stay with you, but you'll
remember that it felt like nothing else you've felt
or something you've felt that also didn't last.