OwenPowers

Yeah...I'm not so good at writing poetry...


 * "Poetry is the doorway to the soul" Floria**


 * Sonnet #1**

Your Ivory keys always wait for me The music that you make can soothe my heart Although I do not always play on key Sill, you have been there for me since the start

I started lessons when I was a boy So small that I could not reach the pedals However, playing you still brought me joy A year passed before I won a medal

My teacher was extremely strict with me She would get mad when I played a wrong note Then, sit down, out of breath and sip her tea I endured her rants and tried not to gloat

Thank you for being there throughout my life Do what you do and wash away the strife


 * An "OOD" to the TARDIS:**

A big blue box, limitless possibilities. I wish I could hear the hum of engines which heralds your arrival. A madman is your captain, although his face may change, his love for you will always stay the same. Many have been lucky enough to see you appear, glowing and translucent. Those few returned changed, different. Bigger on the inside that on the outside, you travel through time and space. Laughing at the boundaries of our world.    **I was taught by...:**  I was taught by a slipper-wearing, blanket-covered kind of teacher. A "get your work done or I'll tell you father" type of teacher. Some coffee-sippin, Sock-knitting, screw the rules kind of teacher. A, "get your ass out of bed and start working already" type of teacher. The, "no xbox for you if you don't pass your math test", a "I don't care if you have writers block,finish that essay" kind of teacher. The sleep late, work late, blonde haired, queen of the house type of teacher. A protective mom, a warrior for the future of her children, I was raised and taught by my mom.     <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;">**The Interview:** <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> The day I interviewed //Cold, Dark, nerve-racking, gut-wrenching// I waited in a room with kids younger than I //Shy, excited, on the brink, ready to panic// Waited for my name to be called, I hear it, It's my turn. //Oh God help me, I'm going to fail, why did I do this?// I presented, stumbling over words, answering questions //Music and dance, humming, leaping, flowing out over me// They asked for a demonstration, I showed them what I could do //Flying, jumping, freedom, body at ease, bending and contorting// Then it was over, adrenalin raced and pumped, I had done it //Relief, cool and refreshing, washed, slid, glided over me.// I left, backpack slung over shoulder, whispers followed me like shadows. //"Did you see that?" "Oh my God what's that he's carrying?" "Is that a bow?"// I ignored, gave no heed, to the stares, eyes following me down the hall //I was scared, I wanted out, please leave me alone, don't talk to or touch me.// Found my parents waiting, grabbed them by the wrist and walked out of SLA //Wind, snow, biting,sky a smooth pane of grey glass I left and didn't look back.//

<span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;">**Carl Sandburg: Wildeness** <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana,arial,'lucida sans',helvetica,geneva,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">There is a wolf in me … fangs pointed for tearing gashes … a red tongue for raw meat … and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fox in me … a silver-gray fox … I sniff and guess … I pick things out of the wind and air … I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers … I circle and loop and double-cross. There is a hog in me … a snout and a belly … a machinery for eating and grunting … a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fish in me … I know I came from saltblue water-gates … I scurried with shoals of herring … I blew waterspouts with porpoises … before land was … before the water went down … before Noah … before the first chapter of Genesis. There is a baboon in me … clambering-clawed … dog-faced … yawping a galoot’s hunger … hairy under the armpits … here are the hawk-eyed hankering men … here are the blond and blue-eyed women … here they hide curled asleep waiting … ready to snarl and kill … ready to sing and give milk … waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so. There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird … and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want … and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness. O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness. <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> The Wilderness, deep understanding:

In the poem “The Wilderness” by Carl Sandburg, the poet uses vast amounts of imagery to get his message across. That message is one of frustration I think. Mr. Sandburg feels as if he needs to give multiple examples of why, (and I think this is what the meaning of the overall poem is) he is more complicated than just one thing. He compares himself to the wilderness throughout the entire poem, and the multiple animals that live within. “There is a wolf in me … fangs pointed for tearing gashes … a red tongue for raw meat … and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fox in me … a silver-gray fox … I sniff and guess … I pick things out of the wind and air … I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers … I circle and loop and double-cross”. He is saying that you cannot peg me as one thing or one type of person; I am made up of so many different feelings and emotions that one description can cover it all. In addition, Mr. Sandburg uses a lot of periods, so when you read it out loud or to yourself; the reader has to read slowly to get the full effect. This poem is one of my favorites because of the way it is written, I feel as if I can see every one of the animals he describes. <span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;">

<span style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana,arial,'lucida sans',helvetica,geneva,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">**Carl Sandburg: Fog** The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city

on silent haunches and then moves on.
Fog,Deep Understanding: In the poem “Fog” by Carl Sandburg, not a whole lot is said. There are only 21 words in the whole thing and only three lines. Despite this, I get a vivid picture out of this poem, one of a London street, with a street light, which has been blurred out by the fog. I’m not sure why I think this, or why London is the place I think of. This interests me, even though this poem is very short I still feel like there is hint of depression hidden within the lines. This is one of those poems where I could read it over and over and still find something new. The rhythm of the poem is dependant on the three lines. When you read it out loud, you can clearly hear when each line ends and begins. This makes the overall poem, although short, seem to have a lot more marital then meets the eye. Fog,Deep Understanding: In the poem “Fog” by Carl Sandburg, not a whole lot is said. There are only 21 words in the whole thing and only three lines. Despite this, I get a vivid picture out of this poem, one of a London street, with a street light, which has been blurred out by the fog. I’m not sure why I think this, or why London is the place I think of. This interests me, even though this poem is very short I still feel like there is hint of depression hidden within the lines. This is one of those poems where I could read it over and over and still find something new. The rhythm of the poem is dependant on the three lines. When you read it out loud, you can clearly hear when each line ends and begins. This makes the overall poem, although short, seem to have a lot more marital then meets the eye. <span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana,arial,'lucida sans',helvetica,geneva,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">**Carl Sandburg: Under The Harvest Moon** Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers. Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions. Under The Harvest Moon. Deep Understanding. After reading five or so of Mr. Sandburg’s poems, I have noticed that he uses the same way of narrating/talking in all of them. Every time I read one of his poems, I feel as if he is standing in front of me, reciting of the top of his head. Under The Harvest Moon is no exception. What makes it impressive is that while it has the same cadence as all his other poems, it is also very different. I would say a good 70% of this poem is description about how love feels. But, there is a darker side to it, “ Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend” this I think shows that there is a darker side to love, its not all flowers and moonlight. Like anything, love can be turned into something darker. I think Mr. Sandburg understood that and was able to write about it in a way that reflected his style of poetry. The use of capitalization makes the reader notice and observe the words that he thought were important and the imagery that he uses instantly transports me to a field under the full moon; it’s easy to get lost in web he weaved in this poem. **My Statement:** I don't consider myself to be a poet and when I have to write poetry, I immediately think of Shakespeare and other famous poets that I have read. These are my inspirations and when I write, I try to remember all that I have read and learned while writing my poetry. Sometimes this works, but most of the time I "wing it" and write what feels natural with my style and personality. I have been told that I can write, I don't really see it, but if thats true, then my poetry might by some miracle be worth reading to somebody. But I am not a poet, I am barely a good writer. Poetry just seems to be above what I cant do. It takes a level of creativity that I just don't have. So when I try to write, I can immediately feel these barriers being laid down, they stay in my way and the only thing that makes it past is a frail, weak version of what it could have been.