8 Poems
Mark Petersen
Published by Mark Petersen at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Mark Petersen
Special thanks to my peers and teachers who have helped me refine my art.
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A Burst of Thought From Heaven
A burst of thought from heaven, a tingling under my skin.
Elation, ecstasy, contentedness, there isn’t even a word for it.
Perhaps if I could paint endless landscapes with my fingertips,
And splash sunlight upon them as water,
Fill the image with sound and joy, sweet smells and a soft wind.
Or plunge into a song, and swim in its waves,
Swim out into endless space, past the bounds of my imagination
Touch a sound, hear a color, taste an emotion.
A sudden shake and I’m awake, the world seems dull and still.
Eternity in a flash, the tingle fades, my eyes see, my ears hear.
The air is still and tasteless, I draw an empty breath.
It was a memory to come, home in the blink of an eye.
I was created for something far greater than this world.
Finding Heroes
There are many
different kinds of heroes,
In
many shapes and forms.
Some
live right down my street,
Others
ride on thunderstorms.
Some
heroes are big and strong and bold,
Fighting
evil-doers.
While
others fight disease and filth
by
cleaning out our sewers.
Some
heroes save the whole wide world,
And
millions they inspire.
While
others save a single child
from
a raging fire.
Some
heroes have a million bucks,
and
drive a fancy car.
While
others feed a homeless man
with
pennies from a jar.
Some
heroes fly and soar,
some
fight hard and tough,
while
others simply smile,
because
sometimes that's enough.
In the Pit
Deep in the bowels of the earth lies the burrow of the beast.
A guest in place not meant for men, I wait
crouched and eager in one of the oily black tunnels.
From inside the wall grows a dull roar
a ripping, grinding roar.
As the beast approaches from within the wall
I can hear its hungry gnashing teeth,
hundreds of gnashing teeth,
scraping claws,
the sigh of steel muscles pushing through the earth.
About 40 feet from me the tunnel starts to crack,
but it feels much closer.
Little pieces of the wall crumble.
My gaze is locked and my heart is racing.
Suddenly the wall collapses and spills like an avalanche.
The earth shakes with a terrible banshee roar.
A thick dark cloud spews forth from the hole,
cloaking the beast in darkness.
But not before I caught a glimpse
of those terrible carbide teeth.
Suddenly I am aware of the sulfurous stench,
I spit, but the bitter eggy taste lingers in my mouth.
As I stand up to leave, the coal crunches under my boots like snow.
Prose Poem
Prose poetry, from my own understanding,
is what people write when they suddenly
realize they are not creative enough to write
a poem. So they simply write their ideas
in perfectly normal sentences with no flavor
or rhythm or rhyme or structure, yet they
add a single element of a true poem to create
an illusion of a poem, like these fake stanzas.
It Was Worth It
Cold enough to mask a chill running up my spine
I lie frozen.
So dark I can barely see my own breath against the backdrop of distant stars.
Silence pounds in my ears, deep through my skull
as my ears strain to hear the sighs of unseen beasts.
Why have I come?
Endless trees whispering
Silent secrets to the wind
are the only sounds I can hear
I am alone.
The sky behind the stars is black
the trees surrounding the sky, blacker
the trees surrounding me, blackest.
Enveloped in darkness I lie vulnerable.
I bring my hands to my face
the coldness of them startles me.
I bring them back to rest on the roof of the car
and realize until then I had been unaware of the cold metal
stinging my skin through my jeans and my sweater.
I lie still.
SILENT CRACK!
A magnesium flare shot across the sky in an instant
A pinpoint, the whole sky became warm with light
the earth below basked in a heavenly glow
A shooting star!
as soon as it had come, it had gone
Dark, Silent, Cold
I am alone, frozen, vulnerable,
satisfied
Water Balloon
In my hand is a cool, damp water balloon,
and I shall throw it at something this afternoon.
My friend suspects nothing, he’d be easy to soak,
but I refuse to become just a backstabbing bloke.
There are girls down the street playing some stupid game,
but I’ve attacked them before and it’s gotten quite lame.
There are mailboxes, lampposts, but none of its new,
So I stand here bored, wanting something to do.
Then our neighbor draws nigh, in his shiny Corvette,
Now there’s something awesome I haven’t hit yet!
I had doubts, I was nervous, but there was no time to think,
so I launched that balloon- SPLAT!
Panic! Excitement! What tremendous fun!
We laughed in approval and started to run.
We got home but we were quickly surrounded,
it was my dad’s new ‘Vette, and that’s why we’re grounded.
Perspective
At night the forest is dark.
Shadows twist and turn like black
timberwolves through the trees.
At night the forest is still.
The slightest sound, a cracking twig
the soft footstep of an approaching bear?
You stand petrified,
fishing in your pocket for a flashlight
wishing there was a gun in your other pocket.
Not me.
I become a shadow, running past firs and oaks
soft moss crushes under my feet.
The forest is subdued by my presence.
Timberwolves return to the their dens,
bears to their caves.
This forest was home to man once,
before technology and society.
When we ran wild and free
kings and queens of the wilderness.
Writer’s Block
A blank sheet of
paper
thoughts
overflow from my head
and
drift over the table
but
none of them stick to the page
they
fall to the floor in piles
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