My Two poems!

[Tristan]

Silky Sky
By: Tristan Mertik (Me)

As I Lye beneath this silky sky,
I see the stars begain to fly.
Their beauty unmatched,
Their light so soft and calming.

Why do I see them this Way,
So fragile and elegent,
A beautiful blanket to warm the earth,
A beautful blanket to warm my heart.

Its Like they were made for me,
Just for me, Always for me,
To warm my heart and make me wonder,
Why do I lye beneath this silky sky.
............................................................

Can you see? Can you believe?
By: Tristan Mertik (Me)

Can you see it?
Our mother is crying.
What happened to our victory gardens?
Why did our hearts harden?

Can you believe war?
Why do we help mother?
Only because people are dying and we are bored?
Why do we even bother?

Mother is dying.
Why aren't you trying?
...........................................................

Feel free to post any questions you would like.

 

[Congrats]

I like 'em, Tristen. They have a totally random sense of orientation inside themselves that make them totally unique. In other words, you have a great sense of honesty and noncomformity in your poetry.


Ok, here's some improv poetry I'll write right now. (It's been awhile...)

I. COLD SPINSTER IN UTERO

Nither, hindering upon a self,
of sorts, rushing to a sonic fate,
of sorts, rushing onto
the wind and in any nature, and qualm,
I find my way.

Not knowing,
inside every ball of knowing
and somehow collapsing into one, solid
grasp of fearing.

Cast upon, given up to the palm of my hand
thrust through the old Earth of seasons in my head
casting upon the dirt in quite a brilliant
neverland upon the door
heatherland up over my moor
and I sleep

II. AFFIRMING DOUBLE QUANDRY

I touched them
the silly grapefruit in front, of me, in a bowl.
Now the phone is ringing, I told it,
stop.
I'm just in here, in the kitchen so I said.
But it was never onto my head many times.

This is how I liquidate
this will be my fate.
given all denominations of wealth, tokens of surprise,
I'll still be there, and sadly does it breech.

Once sprang two ideas, one into my head and one into
the forest.
With the head, up form the mouth,
the redstone warmth 'sous mes chasaurres'
So, with a brush of wind,
a palm of indelicacy
my sheep are slaughtered.
On the other side of the mountain, and I don't care.

I think these have the same idea as yours-neither free verse or structured yet with a definate solidity.
Golly, I like poetry too much.