Four Poems
ABOUT THE WRITER
I’m a self-proclaimed Socratic curiosity enthusiast. I see the world as a cabinet of curiosities and I’m trying to share those stories through whimsy poetry. I’ve recently been struck with a feeling of wonder for the every day. I have previously written for The Daily UW, a student-run publication at The University of Washington.
Those Distant Quiet GalaxiesÂ
A smattering of stars
or a
spattering of
leaves?
I wonder if the silence
scares them
No cripple nor crackle
in the breeze.
For I do love the forest,
Full of stories, known
and true.
Familiar rhythms
of the rivers
Sweet comforts in
the morning
dew.
But the heavens hold
deep secrets,
The tricks and turns of
time
And I would walk forever,
Just to listen to their rhyme. There’s such knowledge
in the nighttime, for those who feel astray.
Look up, fix those points of wonder. And go
on to greet the day.
Spree Vol. 1
How grand the world must be,Â
from the eyes of little spree
Treetops were home to this fae, a creature
born of wind and play. Spree’s job was
nature’s painter, leaves her
canvas, she their ordainerÂ
And every morning as
the sun
woke, her job
was to paint what
the forest spoke.
Spree would watch the world
wake up from
her perch.
Quaintest of birds’ nests
high
up in the birch.
and the light would fitter
fatter in as
the ducks
pitter
patter
would begin.
Spree’s palette was the sunlight
and the sound of children’s delight.
And she would let her paint
doth
spill
And deftly
with her
quill
Draw the patterns
of her daydreams,
As they often matched
the sunbeams.
And she flung her paint
round in a tizzy
And spun till she was dizzy.
And if she needed inspiration,
Or some new whimsy motivation
She’d pop down to the
pond and hop a ride,
On the back of a
kaleidoscope dragonfly!
Oh, to be a little Spree.
Just as happy as can bee.
Spree Vol. 2
When night fell
Spree was a dancer,Â
And when she
became a prancer,Â
She twirled
and whirled
in pindrills,
In a skirt made out of ferns frillsÂ
Twisting to daffodils rattles
Her orchestra was their spandrelsÂ
And Spree sang the stories of stars
Â
Red maples above her
the colors of Mars
And starry moss spoke of
distant planetsÂ
Spirals of dahlias, bursting
shades of pomegranatesÂ
And viburnum berries
dripped in starlight,Â
Each drop a new moon,
within its own rightÂ
Rainy dew on the daisies
her inspiration,
Larches leaves on the wind
her motivation,Â
And when night came
a whispering in
Spree Rose among
stars, her spin twinkling
I See Starlight
I see starlight in the trees,
And remnants of ancient galaxies.Â
The red vine maples stars
Reflect the burning moons of Mars
And the quiet forest canopy,
Waves in the wind,
andromeda's symphony.Â
And stories hang like
bits of raindrops
Each one a golden clover
There’s nebulas in the sycamores,
The universe all spilled over
And within the twisted
branches lies
1000 little fireflies.
When the end begins to come,
And when
the night has won,
Darkness kisses all
the leaves
And I see
starlight in the trees.
A Green Lake MourningÂ
I like to see the ducks that dabble,
their feathers all a skew
And behind them hear
the friendly calls
Of the jolly rowing crew.
As daylight softly pulls the dark,
A story starting new,
The quiet world begins to sound,
Grass rattles ripe with dew.
The color seeps in slowly,
Orange, purple, every hue
Like a candle warms a lantern
A vision just to view.
And in the misty mourning,
Stars sadden, they must hide
The sunrise is their cue.
But fear not world!
For sparrows glide,
And jays paint the morning blue.
And the leaves dance
in the daylight,
Tangerine oodles of curly cue.
And Elio’s spirit is with the ravens,
Muse of song, aids them as they flew
And the hummingbirds
spin melodies,
Calliope’s lyre spurs them on anew.
And the geese begin to fitter fatter
As the morning doves cuckoo.
And the morning isn’t
one of mourning,
It’s full of wonder, color, anew.
The stage all set for
daybreak's song,
A Shakespearean symphony,
who knew!
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