Final Warning

 Change of plans, I'll let you think of the answers to my Philosophies poem. Here's a different poem from the point of view of a wave :

Final Warning

I crash and come back,

Like a rhythmic dance,

My victims can live or they don’t have a chance,

When they drown in my riptide,

I don’t give a second glance,

They were asking for this hate,

When they threw trash in my waters,

They were destined for this fate, 

When they cast nets and sent my fish to slaughter, 

I’m tired of preening and cleaning after them, 

Can you just stop?
You know it’s hurting me,

You know it's hurting our beautiful sea,

Yes, “our sea” we share it, 

It’s not hard to admit, 

Look around you, the sea we share, 

The sea for which you don’t seem to care, 

If you don’t change your ways, beware, 

If the ocean isn’t your friend, you won’t be spared, 

I, The Waves, will not be so nice, 

I will rise, 

When away goes the ice, 

All your spite and hate come with a price. 

The ocean will rise and so will I, 

But this time, we won’t be an ally.

This time, humans will be the ones to say goodbye.

Philosophies

Is there a certain question that you think about every day?

 A question that isn't exactly answerable? Some seek out the secrets of the universe (me).

 Others think about little wonders that most people don't think about until they are reminded (also me).

 This poem will share some of my questions that are deemed unanswerable. 

Philosophies

How can a bird fly with the fear of being hunted?

How far can you go before you are confronted?

What do you do when you fail to meet the unwritten expectations?

What alibi do you have when you are accused without explanation?

Not a day goes by before I think of these curiosities, 

These inquiries, these questions, the answers to these philosophies. 

The Eagle's Call

Eagle's Call

Drowning out the lion's roar, 

As an eagle flies toward the shore, 

Sailing on the wind over the ocean, 

And opens his beak in one quick, swift motion, 

He closes his eyes and lets the sound travel through him,

As the moon sinks down and begins to grow dim, 

The eagle's call, the call of peace,

The eagle's call brings opportunity 

https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/bald-eagle

The Smell of the Morning.

Have you ever thought of the smell of the morning? Or about the smell of the rising sun. Wait a minute; the sun doesn't have a smell, does it? Well, scientifically, no. But, in poetry, a comet can have a smell if you just imagine. This is my interpretation of the smell of the morning:                                 

                                    The Smell of the Morning

The smell of the morning, 

The dew on the grass, 

It smells of the rains that silently passed, 

The smell of the sun, 

Of resting bread dough, 

The heart of a flame, 

From where a fire grows

The smell of fresh color, 

On the newly-painted home, 

The metallicity of the smell stands out,

Like a lone garden gnome, 

In a pitiful fairy garden, 

The smell of breakfast, 

Wafting through the breeze, 

Of pancakes and bacon, 

Just out of reach

The light of the morning,

The moon’s last beam, 

It allows the sun to wake you up from this dream

The Book

Another house poem for y'all (that's right, I used an INFORMAL SLANG in a post) 

The Book 

                                                                                        Date: 9-21-21

Each page is a blade,  

Ready to turn, 

Each word is a spark, 

Ready to burn, 

She reaches over and grabs my spine,

What’s in this book, 

She needs to learn

A soft tickle comes from her eager hand, 

As she traces the story within, 

Her burning eyes glued to the page, 

As the tale takes a spin, 

Her eyes remain on my fantasy, 

During the reading time in class, 

For my characters’ fate in the story, 

Lay just beyond the looking glass, 

My thin, sharp pages,

Cut through your mind, 

The plot and the words,

 knotted and entwined,

There is no escape from my literary wonder, 

In me, there is sunshine while outside there is thunder, 

The crinkles on my pages signify how much I have been read, 

My dark crimson cover has turned light red, 

Now in my old age, I finally see, 

That the only reason, that girl picked me up, 

Was for my story and not for me

The Picture Frame

 The Picture Frame

I hold the scents you cannot smell,

I hold the secrets you cannot tell,

I hold the world you cannot touch, 

I hold the words you cannot call, 

I hold so much, 

Yet nothing at all

When people pass, they say, “What a nice picture,”

As if I am invisible, 

The picture gets the glory, the frame gets none, 

The picture is proud, while I am miserable, 

I am the one that brings this empty picture to life, 

The rocks in the picture as black as night, 

The snow as gray as the tip of a silver knife, 

The outline of my beautiful frame is spruce-brown with swirly designs, 

There is no frame in all the lands with wood so very fine, 

I hold the scents you cannot smell, 

I hold the secrets you cannot tell, 

I hold the world you cannot touch,

I hold the words you cannot call, 

I hold so much, 

Yet nothing at all

Do you ever feel like a picture frame or like the only reason you have any glory is because you are holding the famous picture? You don't get any glory, you "picture" does. I hope this poem will help express that you are not alone and everyone feels the same way some time or another. 

Blue

 Here is a poem called "Blue." I wrote it when I was eight and I thought that it was a cute poem to post. Although blue isn't my favorite color. It's so pretty, it definitely deserves a poem: 

 Blue

Blue is the ocean, the sky, and the ice

Blue is waves whipping and the clouds cries

Blue is the salty sea

Blue is a bird that's free

Blue is dark and bright

Blue is fish and light 

Blue is a coat on a cold winter night 

In a large storm, blue is a float

An ocean with a small boat.