For Someone Who Doesn't Write Poetry I Write A Lot of Poetry

Out Like A Lion

There’s a silence in the storm

A faceless reflection in the bitter cold

The human condition, retreated into and away

Where is the Spring to wipe away the frost

The winter that’s covered our windows

Blinded our days?

There’s breakthrough at hand

A sliver of sunlight fighting for control

The grey and colorless, one last fall from the sky

There’s life at a distance. There’s color coming.

Hummings of our return to life

Spring is near.

Poetic Sampletry

Boundless

My greatest fear is that I'll leave this world

And the dust will cover my name.

I'll be blotted out from memory

Passed over like the fallen in the autumn.

Am I instructed or inspired?

You can instruct people.

Instructed people do ordinary things.

Or you can inspire people.

Inspired people do extraordinary things.

Poetic Irony

So, as an author I have a distinct disability. I'm a poetic failure. But, in a class of young adult fiction haters [though I'm starting to see a little more support as we get used to each other] I've decided poetry....regrettably or not, is my best option. Samples to follow.

Moving Day

The walls are blank and white-washed

We're staring at the paint

Both afraid to start with color,

To change the old house ways.

The old wood floors are lovely

But the plain walls have to go

We'll need to start with something, though

To make this old house grow.

So let's pick up the brushes

And paint away our day,

We'll streak the walls in memories

And mark the doorframes in dates.

We'll make this old house echo joy

Louder than before

We'll start with these white walls tonight

And tomorrow we'll do some more.

--Emily Laesser