Poem 4

By: Mr. Y

Greetings:

I wrote a new poem. It’s kind of short, but here it is. I’ll have another poem maybe this week sometime if I get done with it.
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A baby boy was born in the middle of June,
A call went out to bring forth a silver spoon,
A lump of sugar was placed in its head,
And put in his mouth til time would end

The baby grew and soon he was a boy,
The sugar was gone but life was to enjoy,
That silver glint was still stuck in his mouth,
Wherever he went, to the north, to the south

A few more years and soon he was a man,
Everything he would do to make his desires fan,
Into a raging fire that would make him thirst after,
Every pleasure and delight that the world could ever offer

Then one day he awoke and he felt a bitter taste,
A feeling he’d never felt of disgust and of shame,
Out he went again to shed this inner call,
But he did not succeed, he could only cry and fall

The bitter taste was still there, so for the very first time,
He took his hand and gripped that silver shine,
Wrenching it out from his very mouth’s bed,
To find no more silver left, just a core of lead

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Poem 3

By Mr. Y

Greetings. Another poem I just wrote. This is from the point of view of a shop owner. There are breaks where the customer is supposed to be saying something, but I left his words out.

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Welcome sir, to my humble store,
Everything is here, you can’t want more,
What would you like, what can I get,
For you, my friend, if you’ll permit,
These fine, fine shelves are stockpiled high,
Some of them reach up to the sky,
With a warm smile and a helping hand,
Ready at your service here I stand,

What is that sir, what did you say,
My hearing’s dimmed as my hair turns gray,
Please, please, can you repeat,
Come closer, closer, with those two feet,

Do we sell truth, is what you ask,
Yes sir, yes, in this here flask,
You look too young, to ask for this,
But I will sell it, if you must insist,
I must warn you, the price is steep,
Things like this do not come cheap,

No sir, no, a joke this is not,
I am not deceiving about the cost,
Surely, sir, it’s no surprise,
For every thing has its own price,
The price of a car is your stash,
Of silver coins and cold hard cash,
The price of money is to be in debt,
The price of coal are cups of sweat,

The price of a sin is to have it burn,
Your whole life’s work that you have earned
The price of jewels are to have them nabbed,
The price of a heart is to have it stabbed

The price of a quest is to lose your friend,
In a terrible storm or a rapids’ bend,
The price of love is to crush your dreams,
The price of mercy is to cry small streams,

The price of justice is to feel,
Your dead weight hand grip cold blue steel,
The price to feel is to be cut by a knife,
And the price of truth? It is your life.

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Another Poem

By Mr. Y

Greetings everyone. I wrote another poem, and I decided to post it here. This will be the last poem in a while, probably, because I have to go back to school in a few days, and I probably won’t have much time.

This poem is a dialogue between two people. One person’s words are in Black writing, and the other person’s are in Green writing.

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O dear friend, why do you cast out,
Your precious gold for stones so cheap,
I must warn you, there is no doubt,
The mistake you are making is too deep

O dear friend, this gold so pure,
You will not find with such great ease,
But stones and sand are on every shore,
And in every wind and every breeze

Why do you bother me this way,
Why must you question my affairs,
Let me have my fun and play,
Of no use to me are these golden wares

O dear friend, no harm do I mean,
No ill will do I bear for you in my soul,
Lord is my witness my intentions are clean,
Your best interest is my only goal

O dear friend, I ask you to heed,
These words of warning at this very time,
A day will come when gold you may need,
Do work for it now, to you I cry

I do not desire to work and to toil,
To purify this gold from ore,
Give me stones, give me sand, but do not spoil,
This evening I have without any chore

O dear friend, do you not know,
For all things of value, the price is sweat,
Work is your friend, and sloth is your foe,
With this you will have no regret

O dear friend, if you wish it so,
From my own stores will I give to you,
So hard I worked since long ago,
But you may take it if you choose

Keep your gold and keep your gestures,
I have no use for either,
Will you ever stop your lectures,
Please leave me be and do not bother

O dear friend, I am so sad,
I only did mean to help,
My dear friend to understand,
And to achieve true wealth

O dear friend, I will not despair,
Here I shall wait without a sound,
When you are ready, you have my ear,
Ye who are lost can also be found

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A Poem

By Mr. Y

Greetings everyone:

I wrote a poem last night/early this morning, and I decided to post it on the blog.  To anyone who is reading this, I hope you find it interesting or meaningful in some way.  Hat tip to Mr. A for helping me get started with some ideas.

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I see a path cut in the wood,

Without any lights, there it stood

A little girl sat in the dark,

A dog sat by her, and a lark

Small red bows colored her hair,

This must have been only her third year

So small she was, that I didn’t know,

If talk she could, but ask I did so

“Who are you here, and why do you sit still,

When other children do play, and laugh with thrill?

What is this path, and who has gone down,

Who has cut these trees and opened up the ground?”

“Don’t you fear, don’t you worry,”

She said to me so clearly

“It’s my father who has built this path this way,

When he left he has asked me here to stay

For the truth he’s been searching,  all of his life,

His thirst was very deep, to quench his inner strife

Fifty years ago was when he started down this path,

I’ve been waiting for him here, and here I’ll be when he comes back.”

“Fifty years?” I asked, “Surely that can’t be,

To me you look like you just turned three

For how many more years will you sit here waiting?

Surely you’ll get old, there is nothing to stop aging

How many years must it take, for the truth to be found?

How many years will it take, until you decide to leave this town?”

“Fifty years it has been,” she said to me again,

“To you it might seem strange, but to me it is very plain,

My father said to me that the truth is precious and dear,

He said he’d bring it back for me to taste and to hear

He said I must not grow, I must not change a bit,

This is why I have not grown, why you see me as this

I know you don’t believe me, but this is the truth,

For fifty long years, I have maintained my youth

As for if I shall leave here, don’t you worry, don’t you fret,

I’ll be here if it takes him a hundred years yet.”

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