I am Human
by Patricia Harris
The best idea of who I am
is found in the mirror,
flaws showing,
Dreams weaving into a form
resembling something divine.
I am human,
with all that it might mean.
I am human,
with the whole world laid
out in front of my feet.
Splash the ink
so carelessly,
give poetry freely.
for the world deserves
the best of verse,
with no thoughts
to the what ifs and such.
poetry is another art
meant to ease the disturbed,
and so I say it should be
written with abandon
to make the world better.
Soul
By Patricia Harris
Perhaps I am mistaken
In belief that a soul is not meant
to be trampled upon.
I think that too many are thinking
of the wrong spelling of the word.
The sole of our feet are for
walking upon, Nothing within
the soul of a man
is meant to be trod upon.
*sorry I am running late.
I don’t have time
For writing poetry,
Though it’s all I want to do…
Instead I am running
Races in my own mind
Wishful for the idea
That I can write
Poetically everyday.
To the Max
By Patricia Harris
Humanity has been trying
To find the best way
To maximize
Our own way to
Survive…
So often we have
Forgotten about
The idea that
We need to do more
Than just survive.
So we should live
Life to the max,
Always ready to
Ignore the same
Bull that life throws
At us.
* This is the first poem in Human Shaped Verse. The newest volume.
The words flow
To form the flower
Of poetry petals.
Though I have
Ink for a soul,
I leave petals
Of poetry
everywhere.
Heart of Hope
By Patricia Harris
Stretching to the edge of insanity,
When the pressure gets to be too much,
That is where you find it…
The strength that is the heart of hope.
Courage is not being brave
Because you don’t feel fear,
It is feeling it and doing anyway.
The heart of hope is knowing
Despair and choosing
To believe in the possibility
Of what time will bring.
Why are all the poets tortured,
The artists starved,
And that somehow makes
The world go around?
Poetry seems to heal
The tortured souls,
And so I am inclined
to think that those who
Need it most create.
Wasteland of the heart
By Patricia Harris
Perhaps dystopian tales
Have it all wrong,
The apocalypse will not be
Some huge global catastrophe…
Instead I think that
It is going to be
A slow decay of the social
Heart and mind.
That has already begun
With man no longer caring for
The fellow man…
The wasteland of the heart
Has already started to form
With the world not decaying
Just falling apart silently
From within.
When does all of the noise
Become poetry again?
The darkness seems to
Overwhelm the senses,
Making poetry seem
harder to hear
Harder to write…
But eventually
The cracks let in
The light.
Poetry will return
When it is given
Time to flow.
Pattimouse 