A Treaty with Death

Often I’m told that

he waits in the

shadows for curious spectators.

But I’ve looked

for him,

throwing myself into the

dusk.  He hides

from me,

refusing to take me

away into that far off land.

He’s a coward, and

at least I’m not

afraid to say it.

Like the tiger,

the lion, the

bear, he’s feared

when really, he’s

harmless.  Humans tend to

fear the unknown like

his motives and place

of dwelling.  Ha.

He’s a coward, trust

me.  It’s not him

who stabs you

in the back or sends

the bullet through

your heart.  No,

he stands by and

waits for you to

stop twitching.

He’s terrified of

anything that’s living—

that’s you, and

me.  But he will begin

to taunt you as

he does me,

stepping close but then

retreating as you

squint to see.

His very touch

is agony, my

friends.  Pain is in the

prints of his fingers,

lining the creases

of his nails.  A

scream tears from

our lungs and he

lingers, for the noise

gives him strength and

life.  ‘Tis the only

way to keep him near,

to let him revive

as you speak your

words, which clamber

down on deaf ears,

a nuisance, perhaps,

but nothing more.

But, you see,

I now get my

revenge, for I am

shining light onto his

deeds.  But there is

nothing he can do, for

his pride ensures

that he will turn on

himself before he

allows me to perish.

It is in this way

that I have made

myself immortal.  But

that is not without

its burdens.  For I

will still grow

old and useless,

lose my mind and

beauty, but with

no end.  I will never

accomplish the greatest,

final task, and for

that, I will be

looked on as a coward

and a freak.  But

as I crumble down to

dust, he turns a

blind eye, pride taking

the place of mercy.

But I am the same

way, in a sense.  I

will suffer an entire

lifetime and eternity

before I request

that mercy.  And

I will never

stop taunting.


By Megan

A Pessimistic Poem (We all love 'em)

the world is crashing down

smothering me in smoke

wrapping me in the arms

of something like death

but worse

because nothing ends

and nothing new begins

it’s a perpetual ratrace

in a pointless rotating world

each little gamepiece

playing its part

without thought

round and round and round

a mantra that means everything

and, therefore, nothing

what was to be expected

what was being hoped

when I believed I could stop the turning

did I really think anything would change

I am trapped

here, in routine

aren’t we all

perhaps you call me paranoid

the world tells you to

I would not hold it against you

if you call me crazy

and move on

running your mazes

finding your cheese

and expecting something will change

nothing will

of course it won’t

we are all slaves to laws

aren’t we


by Megan

Farewell

A year has gone by

through fingertips time slipped

Sand that had seemed to trickle slowly

now lies in the past

A trail for some to trace me by

I had wanted to leave a legacy

a physical remembrance by all

but perhaps all that is needed

are my memories given

I have read that

to the world you are just one person

but to just one person

you could mean

the world

Perhaps it needs to stay that way

An empty detachment 

as I pull myself away

I convince myself I'll see you again

but that will be different

and we know

One can change completely

over a summer

I can not promise

what will happen to me

how I will change

when I become a freshman

So I guess this is goodbye

this may be the last time

we meet

as these persons--these minds

For now we start

afresh

--Megan

(A poem for my friends as the school year ends.)

A Letter to an English Teacher

Please, nobody take offence from this poem.  I wrote it a couple years ago, and it is not to a specific teacher.  Actually, it was written to the stereotype "English Teacher" that most of us think of when we think of teachers.  It was simply a fun poem to write.

A Letter to an English Teacher

From a rebellious student

I’m going to put this bluntly.

YOU

Have

DESTROYED

My writing.

To be honest,

The only thing I've

Learned

In your class,

Is how to

Cage

Up

My

Words,

And set them in

ORDERLY ROWS,

In sturdy stacks called

P---A---R---A---G---

R---A---P---H---S.

But don’t worry.

If my writing were a

Marathon,

You wouldn't have made me

Take a

Step

Back.

You have thrown me

Into a car,

Shoved the gear stick into

Reverse

And have

Floored

The gas pedal.

Let’s face it.

It could have been

Partly

My fault.

A smidge.

A tidbit.

I should have struggled more.

I mean,

Seriously,

What’s the difference between an

“A”

And an

“F”?

Let’s see…

Five letters.

Four,

If you are going

Grade-wise,

And are skipping

“E”.

My point is,

You have shoved

All

Of my words into

Sturdy,

Confined

Cages,

And every one that has

Escaped

Has been

Tazered,

Its limp letters

Swept

Off the ground and

Tossed

Into the trashcan.

But this,

This letter,

This poem,

Is how I will

Rebel.

I am

Popping

All of the latches

That have

Confined

My words

For ever so long,

So they will be

Free.

And by free,

I mean that they can

Scatter

All

Over

                                                                        This

Page,

And there’s not a

Thing

That you can do about it.

Give me an “F”.

An “A” isn't in the word

Freedom.

In fact,

An “F” is the

First

Letter.


By Megan

Another Love Poem

Love is making soup

Chopping up carrots

With her fingers

Soft as silk

Placed over mine

The pieces

Finding their way

Around the gentle

Pathways of wrinkles

That is her hand

Together,

She guides my

Knife-wielding fist

To the onions

We cry together

Through our smiles

And burning eyes

Peppers? She asks

And we slice them

Together

A pinch of salt

A dash of pepper—

Though we linger a little

As it’s tipped

We drop it all into the

Bubbling, churning water

Waiting for its feast

A pile of radishes

Picked from the garden

And snow peas

That grow in the spring

A handful of each

But my hand’s too small

I protest

She curves my fingers around

Your hands are perfect


By Megan

Gifts, A February Love Poem

I gaze upon

dewdrops

left by fallen days

gone by

midnight flowers blooming

unfurling

soft blue petals

of silk—

the sky

hues of

pink

yellow

orange

in a sunrise

painted for me

soaked into the air

color

in a world of

blindness

warmth springs

from the shadows

created by a

flickering flame

as wind

screams outside

in unforgiving lands

your comfort

in the darkest nights

your presence

when I wake

an ear to my trembling words

a voice in my silence

the cross shining in the night

a star to light the day

in a world of hate

of scorn

of sorrow

a touch of

joy of

love

--Megan

Poem Writing

Try it.

Put the words

On the paper

Like so.

They mustn't

Mean anything,

Just letters of ink

On parchment.

The Blessing

Deep in thought

Comfort he seeks;

Tears in his eyes

Not quite on his cheeks.

I will remember you.

He whispered goodbye

To a grandfather

Who could never reply.

I will remember you

By your house at the farm,

The hay rides in the winter,

The cider to warm.

I will remember you

By your photos up on the wall

Of the dogs you loved so dearly

Iditarod dreams recalled.

I will remember you

By your 65^th birthday where

You broke bread through the tears

While speaking a prayer.

I know with your hands so gentle

You could wash away all fear.

I wish I knew you like the others

Full of memories so sincere.

As you were in the hospital

Others gathered ‘round in care.

Cancer, they told me

But I never saw you there.

I want to know without a doubt

When I come upon the end

That I have touched the lives of people-

Been more than just a friend.

And as I await the angels

In the end I hope I know,

I’ll too have nothing left to give

But my blessing before I go.

And that it will be enough.

~Megan