Poetry A few little ditties

[Ilyena]

..Well, not really ditties, I suppose. Most of my poems tend to be long actually. I just couldn't think of a good name for the thread.

I thought I'd post a few of my poems here (the few that I like). Feel free to offer constructive criticism. I'm always open to suggestions. xD



This first one is kind of short and simple. I rarely write poems that rhyme but I thought it was appropriate here.

"Santa Claus is Comin' to Town"

I keep a quill in my pocket
even got a bag of loot
If your window's open, better lock it
and beware the man in the red suit

I'll sneak in while you're sleepin'
'round midnight Christmas eve
Through the shadows, I'll be creepin'
with a knife hidin' in my sleeve

My knife, I keep it sharp, you see,
it'll cut you nice and quick
No time for you to scream, you'll see,
'fore your blood runs red and thick

My quill is soft and ivory white
'til I dip it in your blood
When the kids wake up at morning's light,
bet they'll wish that they'd been good

I'll stuff their stockings 'til they bloat
'neath the tree leave presents too
And on the mantel there I'll leave a note
signed in blood from 'you know who'

Then I'll be slippin' out the window
won't be readin' the front page
'Til next year I'll be layin' low
and polishin' my blade

Just remember I'm always watchin'
and if it's you I pick
'Round your corner I'll be droppin'
I ain't your average St. Nick.

The next one is my attempt at writing a poem from the POV of a dying person. I liked it when I first wrote but now I'm not so sure. I think it might be kind of cheesy now.

"As I Lay Dying"

The bullet ripped and tore
through my chest. Searing pain
spread from the hole. Falling,
I hit the ground hard.

As I lay dying, my
eyes search the blue sky. Clouds
pillowy and white like
I've never seen float overhead.

The sun is brilliant and
golden in the sky. High
above an eagle soars,
uncaring and unaware.

As I lay dying, the
scent of dewy grass fills
my nose. It mixes with
the metallic scent of

blood as it pours from the
wound. At last the burning
smell of gunpowder fills
the early morning air.

As I lay dying, the
sound of bullets ripping
the air surrounds me. Shouts,
screams, growing fainter

every second. I
hear another voice now;
warm and loving, she sings
to me as I close my eyes.

As I lay dying, I
taste blood. Nearly choking
as I cough it up. It
mixes with spittle and
pours from my mouth.

Bile
and vomit force their way
into my throat; bitter
and warm as they spill out.

As I lay dying, my
fingers track through the blood
that is soaking my chest;
they rest on the torn fabric.

Everything around me
is growing cold. My fingers
at last find the bullet hole.
It feels so small.

As I lay dying, I
see nothing but black.
A humming sound fills my
ears. A voice I loved as

a child. I no longer
taste the bile or blood. The
grass and gunpowder have
faded too. I feel--

The next one is about child abuse and it's effects on the abused children.

"Spilled Milk"

Part I:

Little Jenny is seven.
“Smart as a whip,” they say.
“Lovely smile.”
“What a wonderful child.”
“Her parents must be proud.”

“Little Jenny, always so polite,”
Her mother often mimicked.
Always stressed.
That was Jenny’s mother.
No, she wasn’t proud.

It was only spilled milk.
Little Jenny’s hand slipped.
Clumsy Jenny.
Milk soaked the tablecloth.
Mother was always stressed.

“Little Jenny missed school.”
“For an entire week.”
Mother called.
Jenny won’t return.
She’s moving out of town.


Part II:

Little Tommy is nine.
“A bit withdrawn,” they say.
“Very quiet.”
“He always sits alone.”
“He must be very shy.”

“Tommy, don’t slouch,” he says.
Father is very strict.
Some say anal.
Mother just sips her wine,
Pretends she’s far away.

Father lights his cigar.
Tommy slouches again.
Silly Tommy.
He should have listened.
Father was very strict.

“Tommy’s wearing gloves in May.”
“Always long sleeves and pants.”
“An odd child.”
His parents are wonderful.
“You really should meet them.”


Part III:

Little Lizzie is eight.
“Sweet as sugar,” they say.
“Always so nice.”
“Everyone loves Lizzie.”
“They all want to be her friend.”

“Fix me another drink.”
Her mother’s favorite words.
Always drinking.
The living room is dark.
She hates to see Lizzie’s face.

“Just like him,” she tells her.
Lizzie’s father is gone.
Seven years.
“Ugly. Worthless. Like him.”
She wishes she could please her.

Lizzie can fry eggs well.
Sometimes they have tuna.
“Another drink.”
Mother is always drunk.
Lizzie cries herself to sleep.

Part IV:

Little Jenny is sixteen.
“Smart as a whip,” they say.
“Head of her class.”
“She always gets straight A’s.”
“Her parents must be proud.”

“Jenny is a good girl,”
Her foster parents say.
“Always polite.”
Their own children love her.
Yes, they are very proud.

“Jenny got into Yale.”
“She has worked very hard.”
Lovely Jenny.
“A natural leader.”
“She’ll make it very far.”

Jenny sees a therapist.
He helps her handle stress.
Always stressed.
That was her mother.
She doesn’t like to think of her.


Part V:

Little Tommy is eighteen.
“A bit withdrawn,” they say.
“A delinquent.”
“He’s not very friendly.”
“Always dressed like a hood.”

Tommy never passed tenth grade.
He said he didn’t care.
“A wastrel,”
Father would always say.
Mother just sips her wine.

“He’s simply acting out,”
The therapist told father.
Anal father.
Tommy wasn’t little anymore.
Father couldn’t keep control.

Tommy calls him from jail.
He set fire to a car.
A stolen car.
Father hangs up the phone.
Mother pretends she’s far away.


Part VI:

Little Lizzie is seventeen.
“Sweet as sugar,” they say.
“Always nice.”
“She’s graduating soon.”
“She’ll probably leave this town.”

Lizzie has a secret.
She carries a silver flask
In her purse.
She never pleased her mother.
She taught herself to cope.

Lizzie graduated.
Her mother didn’t show.
Another drink.
Useless, ugly and stupid;
Lizzie had learned to cope.

Lizzie drove herself home.
She forgot the sharp curve
In the road.
“She slammed into a tree.”
“She was only seventeen.”


Part VII:

Little Jenny is twenty-two.
“Smart as a whip,” they say.
“Always A’s.”
“She’s come far in life.”
“Her parents must be proud.”

Jenny’s getting married.
Her foster parents are proud.
A great man.
He has a bright future.
He’ll make Jenny happy.

Jenny picks out her dress.
They’ve already set a date.
Lovely Jenny.
“Such a beautiful smile.”
“She’ll make a radiant bride.”

Little Jenny is stressed.
She will have a baby.
So soon.
She thinks of her mother.
She doesn’t like to think of her.


Part VIII:

Little Tommy is twenty-four;
Just released from prison.
Nowhere to turn.
Father answers the door.
“You’re still slouching,” he says.

Tommy needs a place to stay.
Father doesn’t want him there.
Anal father.
Tommy isn’t little anymore.
Father can’t keep control.

Tommy’s anger boiled over.
Father hung up the phone.
Six years ago.
Mother just sips her wine.
She pretends she’s far away.

“Tommy was guilty,” they say.
“He was covered in blood.”
“His father’s blood.”
“The police shot him dead.”
“He got what he deserved.”


Part IX:

Little Abby is six.
“Smart as a whip,” they say.
“Like her mother.”
“Such a wonderful child.”
“Her mother must be proud.”

Jenny often remembered,
People spoke that way of her.
Always stressed.
That was Jenny now.
No, she wasn’t proud.

Jenny was all alone.
Her parents lived so far away.
Poor Jenny.
Raising a child was hard.
Jenny was always stressed.

It was only spilled milk.
Her hand slipped. Clumsy Abby.
Jenny was stressed.
Milk soaked the tablecloth.
Abby missed a week of school.
​

 

[jasminepotts]

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