Poetry Section: Perfect Pocket Poems

Poetry is everywhere. You can find poetry on billboards, newspapers, radio stations, music, and even to the rhythm of your morning shower. These poems are perfect for folding up and putting into your wallet whether you have an early commute to work or simply need a mid-day break.

With the creative works from poets Benjamin Cumbo, Conor Ebbs, Raina Fields, and Bruce Ervin Wood, we’d like to present to you Write From Wrong’s perfect sized poems.

Benjamin Cumbo
A Soldiers Song

We deploy to destroy lives like our own,
Enclosed in danger, uncertain of fate.
Torn from peace in the torrent of battle’s wake,
Watching with painful ache as comrades fall

Bruised and battered, we ponder and we muse,
Upon lives exhausted, beaten and used.
Will benevolent spirits see us through,
Or abandon us to the horrors war construes?

Behold the great lie for which many die.
Dulcet decorumst pro patria mori.
Such ironic tragedy, saddens me.
What beauty exists, when life ceases to be?

Anathema

Anathema, hideous abhorrence.
Crumbling, revolting, ugly monument.
Progeny of careless indifference
Lifeless, empty, terrible testament

Skies dreary complementing buildings gray
Deafly silence screams of a better day
Ghost roam barren streets as dark shadows play
Tragic symphonies of dreams once gay

This Slavic memory, not forgotten
Of deadly clouds, putrid and thick, large and rotten.
The demon who breathed Promethean flame
Sleeps entombed, welded shut in metal frame

Freefalling

Joyful descent, sacred, blessed freefall
Master of the heavens, we summon you all.
The majesty of dawn beckons our stare
We tumble like Icarus, cursed by sun’s glare.

Clouds of magenta, early morning’s glow,
Graces our vision with wondrous show.
Buffeted by winds, chilling our bones,
Peaceful tranquility quiets our souls.

There is nothing but air beneath our feet,
The earthly firmament we will soon meet.
These laws of gravity we cannot mend,
The pull of silken cloth spells journey’s end.

Bruce Ervin Wood
Bruce is HR/OD professional and a leadership coach, he creatively partners with leaders to help them access what they might never find through books, conferences or consultants. To breakthrough barriers, resolve conflicts, and achieve even greater success, he helps leaders and teams discover their wings and fly.

As a Georgetown-trained Executive Coach (PCC), MBA from Howard University, a Human Resources executive (SPHR), he has over 25 years government, for-profit, and not-for-profit experience. His creativity and ethical conduct are widely recognized; Bruce is also a poet and an artist whose stained glass is displayed nationally.

Of-Ten Looking

On life’s river, some folks ofTen look forward to looking back.
They row their boats with their backs forward trusting fate will guide their way.
They gaze past the current to enjoy a gentle view.
While they pull with the current, they focus back.
Sneaking an occasional peak of what is to come.
PRESENT memories, gifts from time’s river, gently ebb and flow in their awareness
Snapshots of joy or pain flash like the sun reflecting off the eye of a leaping fish in the stillness of morning.

Many drift aimlessly bouncing off the rocks, too tired or fearful to row.
Others run aground, stuck in the brown muddy shallows.
Some get snagged among the clutching water grass and once stalwart trees uprooted.
Others struggle swirling in the river’s eddies.
None may stop for long.

Drops of rain and crystal streams just fuel for the journey.
Wind just the breath of the spirit.
Rough water just an indifferent link to what is to yet come.

Some look forward to looking forward.
They keep their memories inside and let their eyes strain to see around the next bend.
Today a premise to tomorrow’s promise.
They understand they too are passengers of fate,
But they push into the current and row toward where they want to go,
Trusting they will see their way clear to the next ten years.
Often looking, of ten looking.

Conor Ebbs
In a lifelong tryst with words and music, I’m very humbled when my creations impact others. I love good food and staying fit in body and mind. I live in Dublin, Ireland.

Love Lost
I
Silent excursions to higher terrain
Restful diversions to temper the pain
of love lost.

II
Daylight engenders a positive hue
Darkness surrenders to black from the blue
of love lost.

III
Winter’s redemption is Spring’s lesson learned
Cooler exemption from days I have burned
in love lost.

IV
Leave me in healing, our road is no more
Tired of this feeling, I’m closing the door
on love lost.

Everything and Nothing
I
Lie with me, my love
Let us indulge the melancholy
For balance
Lest we are consumed by the light
Doomed to an early end.

II
Fault me, my love
Let there be no pedestal
No blindness.
Open your eyes to the cracks
Permeate my weakness.

III
Question me, my love
Let no words evade your reason
Honesty.
For we learn more in high winds
Than the storm’s eye.

IV
Feed me, my love
With the fruits of your mind
Fresh and ripe.
I shall ne’er again hunger
In the orchard of your thoughts.

V
Walk with me, my love
Towards everything, and nothing
No grand plans
Find the streams of your passion
And I’ll meet you at the sea.

Weeping Waterfalls
Braided streams of smoky sand
Dance in time by the water’s edge
Hissing as they pass
Dressing my feet.

Cascading cliffs yield their stocks
Weeping waterfalls of mist and stone
Unveiling the future
With past designs.

Raina Fields
Raina Lauren Fields currently attends the Master of Fine Arts program in poetry at Virginia Tech. Her poetry has been published in Poet’s Ink, apt, and Gargoyle.

In Transit

I’ve been on the bus for an hour
when a woman gets on and sits
behind the driver.

I can see the top of her too-blond
hair, static and dry. She speaks
as if she ate cigarettes and forks for
breakfast.

“Where can I get a waitressing job?”
she asks the driver. “I need a job,”
she says even before he can answer.

“I’ve been drinking, trying to kill myself,”
she almost cries. She stops her mouth
like an old bottle of whiskey as if
she has said too much.

The bus driver says something I can’t
hear over the din of the air conditioner
and the engine. I imagine he tells
her about the community center
looking for help, when I hear her say,
“Uh uh. Not there. Jews are scum.”

21st Century Prophet

In 2000, I made a huge mistake:
I turned 14, grew five inches and fell in love.

Who has time to stop and look at a calendar?

No one could hear my head banging
against the toilet.

Unless you live in a dome,
you know how a fire is so hypnotic,

how it swats away sunshine
like so many mosquitoes.

Everyday it’s different.
Everyday there’s something to talk about.

If you change any part of the journey,
I wouldn’t be here now.

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Comments
One Response to “Poetry Section: Perfect Pocket Poems”
  1. Karen Swim says:

    What a beautiful collection of poems, and these writers illuminate why poetry infuses all types of writing. There is no other genre that is able to convey the imagery, emotion and beauty of the written word. Kudos to all the writers. I look forward to more from all.

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