The poetic works of...

I'm taking a Poetry class this semester, so I have put up some of my poems below. Keep in mind that I am a neophite at this. I hope you enjoy them. I know that I have surprisingly enjoyed writing them.

This poem was written from a news article I read about suicide bombers who had killed 17 people in Baghdad in one week. It struck me odd that reading about people blowing up cars as innocent people walked by didn't upset me more. The article made me realize how desensitized I have become to all the gore that is in the news today.

The Desensitized

The words blare loudly,
pounding morbidly in the ear and heart.
The heart replies,
"It's too far away to feel,"
and the ear retorts,
"It's too far away to hear."
Why should they worry?
Seventeen lives gone in a week, in a single city.
Acts of selfish agendas-
a bomb here, a bomb there
an explosion, oops!
There goes another.
The eye, it didn't see it either.
So it can't be held in remorse or responsibility.
The senses are dumb to the panic,
while mindlessly passing a parked car.
Why should they care?
But the paper reminds them all:
the heart, the ear, the eye, the sense,
that 17, no matter how far,
is too many
and that I do care.
Or does this daily saga
simply enforce my fear
that I am desensitized
to others' steeping loss?

This poem is about the Calusa Indians who were driven out of southern Florida 6,000 years ago by immigrants. The tribe was considered an expert in fishing, and also helped to make Florida what it is today through their skills.

Lost Salts

Where the sands join the cooling crests,
at the seam of trickles and tides,
a Calusa grasps his wiers, his staff, his nets,
and holds them still after 6,000 years.

He wades in the estatuary's languid pool,
his crackled, white-washed heels planted
in hunt for his kill, his fish, his life,
while the saline streams down his cheeks.

The skeletal Mangrove roots stand alone.
The Brown Pelican has flown its nest.
The plague, the war, the slavery has come,
rushing in like smelling salts.

The salty marsh stings his wounds,
and leaves behind a film
that cakes his feet, his hands, his heart.
as his trade is stolen outside his grave.

I know that the last two poems have seemed depressing, but this one is more light-hearted. Our last assignment was to write a poem about a loved one who we have lost. I have never really had someone close to me die, knock on wood, so I wrote about my cousin who I lost touch with when I was 10. Keep in mind that all of these poems have had an assigned domain. Hopefully we will get to more freelance assignments at the end of the semester. Anyways, enjoy!


I changed my dress for you
after my graceless belly-flop off the high dive,
and my loss in UNO.

We met outside in the sunshine,
and bonded immediately
over bumble-bees and scraped knees.

We built together
the tallest house of cards
that we knew would stand forever.

We played for three days straight,
before my uncle left,
and your step-dad came.

On the third night we prayed,
you would grow up to be my brother,
not a memory.

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