Don't Treat Me, I'm to Blame

Hold head in hands,
world falling down.
Invert the skyscrapers,
all my fault.
Sprout white wings
to escape it all.
Stay away from water
for fear of hungry trout.

Palette of Emotion

This is a new series I have come up with.. I want it to show different emotions linked with certain colors..

Envy
- Andrew Williams

Paint the town green with me,
with envy --

but when the paint on your hand
gives you away, your screams
won't get any saving.

No, shave your head bare
and sew your mouth shut,
leave only your eyes blinking

madly.

Thrown in your cell,
stay away from the walls --

"Wet paint"
spelled in green.

All Fair in War

It wasn't fair,
you chose to leave.
You chose
"I'll miss you"
while I cried.
You chose so far away from me.
The postcard's happiness
only a lie.

The Infinite Possibilities of the Space Between Good and Bye

It is just a faint breath,
an almost imperceptible pause,
but it is, without a doubt, there.
You can't ignore it's existence,
nor can you pretend
you didn't hear it.

It has so much potential,
don't condemn it to the fate
that so many do.
Give me a chance.
Maybe, throw in an
"I love you."

Daydreaming at Night

Perspectives change from when you are young.
Grandpa is big; I am small.

White hair means old,
Brown hair means family.

Bicycles are frightening,
Basketball is fun.

Mommy gets kisses,
Gramma gets hugs.

I awake from my thoughts as a little girl's voice
calls "Daddy?" from upstairs.

On Growing Old

I don't want to grow old.
I'm too young now to die.
Old and gray and wrinkled and slow.
Some say it's all a lie.

You are wise they say.
Ripened and whole.
You can fill an entire day
With one single stroll.

But nay, I say.
I'd rather live.
Live to see my children play,
and run, and give.

I don't want to grow old.
I'm too young now to die.
Wise and kind and laughing and whole,
Waiting for the Good Lord to close my eyes.

Blind Man's World

Breathe in.
Freshly cut grass
and coffee.
Must be morning.

Reach out.
Carved ivory handle
and birch.
Crooked floor.

Listen well.
Singing floats in
with sizzling bacon.
Now to tackle the stairs.

Nightmarish

Nightmarish
- Andrew Williams

Tumbling
D
_O
__W
__f_N
into nothing(dark)ness.

Reaching out,
hands torn
by rocky paths.

Falling,
could be flying--

(perhaps floating)

Hit your pillow,
sit straight,
"Go back to sleep."

Ars

Here is my series so far on Poetry and its different aspects as I see them..

Poetica I
- Andrew Williams

Poetry is a young child,
doing only what told not to.
In a library -- joyous tantrums,
throwing grammar books to the floor.
In a black and white world,
poetry prances around in red pants.

Poetica II
- Andrew Williams

Poetry is a masterpiece,
framed only by the mind of the creator.
Stand back to see it;
squint, peer, gesticulate or sit in awe.
Bask in it's splendor.
Each moment holds newfound glory.

Poetica III
- Andrew Williams

Poetry is a color-by-numbers
brushed by a blind man.
Pigments and lines, swirls and swoops,
the picture that should be there becomes anew.
Form and pattern, a small concern.
Emotion drives the brush; poetry yearns.

Poetica IV
- Andrew Williams

Poetry is a newborn giraffe,
recently landed onto life.
Curiosity and will overcome unsteady legs,
wary steps and frequent falls become unknown.
Poetry, with prickling ears,
lifts her head to greet the world.

Poetica V
- Andrew Williams

Poetry is my favorite grandmother,
always ready with fresh cookies and sweets,
always bringing new delight,
always having things "just right,"
always has and always will,
poetry whispers, "take your fill."

Poetica VI
- Andrew Williams

Poetry is a brand new friend
met while strolling in the park.
Salutations and formalities completed:
now to know this new bloke.
Learn his secrets
over coffee and bagels.

Poetica VII
- Andrew Williams

Poetry is the family rocking chair,
an heirloom to Some, junk to Others.
Some say character, Others say damage.
Poetry holds both with love.
Some see cherished memories, old and new,
Others just see termites.

I Miss You

I Miss You,
- Andrew Williams

Like a flower in a greenhouse
misses the sky.
Like a polar bear on the North Pole
misses the night.
Like an orphan on the street
misses his family.
Like the ocean at low tide
misses the sandy beach.

Memoirs of a Three-Year-Old

Memoirs of a Three-Year-Old
- Andrew Williams

Crowded. Stuffy. Unfamiliar
knees and shoes brush by.

Not her. Must find. Not her --

Pinching fingers,
stinging cheeks.

Fear growing. Must find. Not her --

Tousled hair,
brimming eyes.

Lip pouting. Must find. Not her --

There, I see
familiar shins.

Collide head-on. Just found. Mother --

I Touched Your Hair

This is a work in progress.. it started out just as free-writing, so please comment on it and help me out.. :) thanks..

I Touched Your Hair
- Andrew Williams

While you were sleeping,
I caught a strand
of glowing, fiery amber,
yet cool to the touch --
A single weave,
a wave of wonder,
piercingly beautiful,
yet softer than a kiss --
I stood fixated, once,
yet again
held captive
by a sight so liberating --
Now, with my heart in one hand,
my love, another,
I shall give both to you
while you sleep --

Writing Poetry in a Noisy Room

Here is some more work from the all-night party.. It is now 2:30 am.. :)

Writing Poetry in a Noisy Room
- Andrew Williams

Remember, concentration is key:
let the vibe enfold you,
twist you and mold you.

The cheating cardplayer's glee:
hear his song around you,
inside you, rebound you.

A child, falling asleep:
feel a yawn fill you,
control you, lull you.

The frequent eyemeeting with she:
notice love consume you,
flow through you, doom you.

Stargazing on a Cloudy Night

I am right now at an all-night party at my school.. It is 2:23 am, and I was just laying outside looking at the heavens.. I was inspired to write, so here is the outcome.. It is in no way a finished work, so please give me some input..

Stargazing on a Cloudy Night
- Andrew Williams

Pretend, for a moment,
the sky is the floor.
Reach out and feel the heavens --
stroke the shag stratus sheet.

Pretend, for a second,
the sky is a bath.
Hold your breath, plunge below;
watch as the bubbles burst above.

Pretend, for a time,
the sky, a looking glass.
Take a seat and peer real close;
curious glances question your soul --

A blast from the past..

Here is the second poem I wrote in my first couple trials at poetry.. It is quite facetious and lacking the maturity that I want to continue to produce, but I did write it when I was 15.. Enjoy! Note: if you read it really fast, you will get the full idea..

Poet
- Andrew Williams

I wasn't a poet
Until I showed it

But when I showed it
I started to know it

I am a poet
Who showed that I know it

But by knowing my showing
And flowing and going

My showing is slowing
Without me knowing

Even though I am going
To keep on showing

My poem is slowing
So I can't rhyme.