Minnow's Poetry

I never really enjoyed or really understood poetry, but after we did a unit a while ago about poetry in English, they've kind of grown on me. They're pretty fun to write. Right now all I have are the ones I wrote for school, but I'll probably end up adding to them.

So, comments? Criticisms?

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This one's a dialogue poem. For those that don't know, it's a poem that alternates between two speakers, whose lines vaguely mirror each other most of the time, and then precisely do at a few points. They're meant to provide interesting and differing views on the same subject.

The Price of Death

I am a dead man
I am a dead man

I was always a good man
I thought I was a good man

But I went wrong, so he said
That’s when they go wrong, so they say

I guess I could have been nicer
I wish he had been nicer

I was unhappy, dissatisfied
I was happy, content

And his suffering made me happy
And his mockery made me angry

The fun never stopped
The pain never stopped

I could have been worse
He was the worst

I might have taken it too far
He always took it too far

I provoked him
He provoked me

And one day, he fought back
And one day, I snapped

He seemed far too angry
He seemed far too cocky

It was just a game to me
He treated it like a game

He flew at me in a rage
My hatred burnt within me

I fled
I chased

He tackled me, a barrage of blows
I was on top of him, blind with rage

Pain, was this revenge?
Joy, sweet revenge

I couldn’t breathe
My hands around his neck

Then I was dead
His body relaxed

Why had he killed me?
Oh, God, what had I done?

And then it hit me, my life was over
And then it hit me, my life was over

I called out in anger to the fading darkness
I called the police and turned myself in

Fists in the air, I was outraged
Head in my hands, I was ashamed

Then I saw the Reaper
Then I saw the judge

He said I was a bad man
He said I was a bad man

“But, he killed me!” I cried
“Yes, I killed him,” I sighed

Sentenced to eternal suffering
Sentenced to the electric chair

Now it is over, I cannot repent
Now it is over, this is the end

Mourning my death, I lie in Hell
Mourning his death, I wait in my cell

I am a bad man
I am a bad man

I am a dead man
I am a dead man

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This one's about the house we moved out of. It was an awesome house, but I'm kind of meh about this poem.

An Ode to a Lost Home

I wander softly
Through your empty halls
Your doors all locked
Except for the front
Your windows all shut
Old blinds all drawn

It’s all over now
This life has passed
Our home is gone
It did not last

Our life with you
The sights and sounds
Are missing now
The darkness drowns

I feel lost as I pause
In each empty room
Memories fly,
Almost gone, all too soon

I remember the friends
The parties, the food
All found together
A wholly happy mood

I remember the texture
Of your cold basement floor
Concrete and grit, even mushrooms
No more

Art hanging on walls
Mostly my mother’s
Paintings and sculptures
Among a few others

People would visit
To cook and to talk
Sometimes for hours
Sometimes, though, not

And then, the end
They had all left
Gone
Went home
Leaving only a mess
The smell of dried hops
The clink of the glass
Dishes, now, yes

But a piece of the past
Wet plates aplenty
Now slimy to touch
Soon lost to the soap
And gallons of water

Like memories
They soon are wiped clean
Everything gone
Scraps of food
Like furniture
In the now empty house

These things all given
To me
In flashes of thought
I never knew I felt this way
Until it was lost

You were more
Than a building, a home
More like an old friend
Whose feelings have flown

The nexus of my
Continued existence
A castle, a fortress
A place to feel safe

For when I would enter
I would soon feel the weight
Of the day, the drama
Lift off, fly away

You gave me a refuge
When I was hopeless
And a tie to reality
When ambition struck

And the wind through the trees
Just outside the window
Sped all worries and qualms
From my mind as I fell
Into a slumber
So many nights
I would awake peaceful
Try as the world might

And all thanks to you

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Yay, riddles! Try to figure it out. I thought it was kind of easy, but no one at school who I showed it to got it. So, I don't know. Oh, and we had to include ten historical facts about whatever it was, so if the dates seem a little forced, that's why.

The Wooden Reaper

I’m telling you, in 1792, I really wasn’t that bad.
I fought crime for France, a merciful tool
Helping all, like Joseph, my dad.
I grew tall and wooden, as I expected I would
I had to, to hold up that blade
Whose cords would be cut, by the man dressed in black
Punishing those that France bade.
Now the year is 1981, and I fear I soon shall be dead
My only regret is I won’t again hear that
Happy cry, “Off with your head!”

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I had written a sestina about pirates (yay, pirates), but I can't find the entire document for some reason. If I find it I'll post it. It's too bad, because it was probably my favorite one that I wrote.