The elements of a poem

For what it’s worth …

The elements of a poem

15 letters
5 syllables
1 You

“pulchritudinous”

(a person of breathtaking, heartbreaking…beauty.)

She has the kind of eyes that remind you
To fan the flames that still can burn
There’s still plenty of the year left to run….

And all I hear is shouldn’t she know?

The risk, the chance, the abilities- they keep adding all of this weight onto her year…

I smile, and say,

I’m sure she’s fully aware of all of her abilities….

You’re a light in this year.

Don’t let them get you down.

Thank you for being you.

Keep going.

Put it on paper

I woke up with a very heavy heart.I tried very hard to just not write today…but I couldn’t. I have to write. It’s how I function. So I’m leaving this here…in the void…hoping it helps…hoping it touches someone here at home …someone out there…someone young like my younger self …I hope it helps.

-Ethan 

  

  

The Burning of The House Of Sylvia

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I like New York
I like the flow
This bar
I come here to relax with the piano
I come here to forget ….Sylvia.

Sylvia
A widow
Her husband died in the war
She never came out
She never came to town
Or to church
You could see her movement through the windows from time to time
a shadow
Fleeting

I was just starting in journalism
I wanted to be a success
And my first real chance came
When a story regarding Sylvia
And the loss of her husband landed on my desk

It required staying with Sylvia
For three weeks
Documenting her life
What she did
What she liked
Find out who she was
And if she was grieving

Her house
Was intimidating
more like a manor or hotel
dark
as if it held every
Demon haunted story
Branded by this city.

Inside wasn’t much better
Cold and consuming any light
Rather than being illuminated by my lamp.

I was startled by her ghostly movements
She never made a sound
Rather just floated from room to room
Dressed in black
Her red hair framing her face

The days passed
Without her sleeping
she sat around reading
Or in her window
Whispering to herself
Often going away into her room
For hours
Once I asked about her husband
all she said was
I’m too young and old for this I don’t know what to do

And then rose and left the room in her soft way of moving

I don’t know what it was
But on a particular rainy Sunday
Exploring the house and library
I noticed her bedroom door open
I couldn’t help looking around

It was dark
Consuming all my energy
Old photographs
And painting
covered the walls
And a desk at the window

this is my life do you know what you’ve been sent for?

I was startled turning around
I hadn’t noticed her in the room
But there she was
Standing in the corner
Filling the blackness
Her red hair almost like a fire
Framing her green eyes

I’m sorry I didn’t realize this was …I just..couldn’t help myself

you will find..there are darker rooms in the world then what you’ve seen here and darker evils than all mystery

Later I woke at the darkest hour of the night
There was faint singing
Like an echo
moving through the house
I looked out my window and saw her
Sitting in the garden playing a piano
I left that Monday

all I had was
A story
About a young woman
Racked with loneliness
Voices
And mystery

They published it like she was a witch
Condemning her property under
Eminent domain
She refused to leave
The banks came
And burned her out

I never saw her again
I remember seeing her face in the window
They never found her body
I personally like to think
She went back to her family
In London but I don’t know

Her property was ideal for a large bank…which ironically burned due to an electrical fire last Christmas

That’s my story

I came here to New York to get away
And write about new things
Real things
From time to time I’ll come in this bar
And find an old photograph of the city or of me playing
waiting on my piano
Sometimes I think I see her in a crowd
A flash of red hair …
But I never know for sure
I hope wherever she is
She found her center
I hope she found her light.

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Black

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Look at the earth
The sun
The moon
Are they lovers?
Or
Are they simply
Fighting for
Their place in the sky?

I try to save myself
But myself keeps
We try to save ourselves
But
We push
We pull
We pick
We bleed
And we believe
Good things
Will always come
Come
Come
Come

I am trying
To see
I am trying

Look over your head
underneath
Your hand
What is it that
You want from ….

Is this all
That’s left to be…
Is this all that’s
Changing me.

Angles

Tell me something
Something real
Something substantial
Something you like
No
Something you are passionate about
What hits you like a hale storm
What moves you
We are pressed from every angle
Asked to decide
“What are your opinions ?
What do you believe?
You have to make a stand
For something
Everything
‘Marriage – defined ‘
‘When does life begin?’
‘Pro choice or pro life?’
‘Healthcare’
‘Education’
‘Religion”

But what moves you
Really moves you
You see
I don’t want to see freedom taken from anyone
If you’re not weeping
Then you can’t see
But at the same time
I know
If we are arguing over foundational worldviews
And expect to make it be just one thing
Then what happens to art?
What happens to expression?
What happens to us?
As a person?
As the living…
It’s funny how we can touch
And feel
And remember
But then
Our own bodies
Can be harbouring
A poison
That will inevitably
Erase us
Erase everything

It’s funny how we can be arguing
Over and over
And never say
The things that must be said
Before it’s too late

So here we are
Walking against time
Against history
Against fate
Against ourselves
Our own shadows
expectation
hope
What will history make of us?