by Kalen Lewis
July 6, 2018
Oh my daughter,
You will fall in love
With the mountains.
And the countryside
With its sunsets.
And when you travel the world,
You will come to find
That's where you'll always
Want to go home to.
Oh my daughter,
You are just like me.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Sunday, June 10, 2018
It's Because of You
I was once a tidal wave
If you ever tried to stand before me
You would get knocked down
I was too brave for my own good.
Now I am like a river
I will constantly wear on you
Whether that's until you're smooth
Or until you are gone
Depends on how long you wish to suffer my abuse.
February 15, 2018
by Kalen Lewis
If you ever tried to stand before me
You would get knocked down
I was too brave for my own good.
Now I am like a river
I will constantly wear on you
Whether that's until you're smooth
Or until you are gone
Depends on how long you wish to suffer my abuse.
February 15, 2018
by Kalen Lewis
Sunday, April 30, 2017
The Little Old Lady
When a little old lady,
With her little old chair,
Marches to the hillside
Where the flowers do share
Their secrets of joy
And their oaths of joy,
The little old lady
Forgets past remorse.
She takes up her easle
And the pulls out her paint.
Then the little old lady,
With her little old chair,
Marches to the hillside
Where the flowers do share
Their secrets of beauty
And their oaths of color.
So the little old lady
Paints comfort there.
She paints for the wars.
She paints for the peace.
She paints for those
Who keep losing sleep.
She paints the flowers,
Then she marches home.
So the little old lady
Was never alone.
March 9, 2017
With her little old chair,
Marches to the hillside
Where the flowers do share
Their secrets of joy
And their oaths of joy,
The little old lady
Forgets past remorse.
She takes up her easle
And the pulls out her paint.
Then the little old lady,
With her little old chair,
Marches to the hillside
Where the flowers do share
Their secrets of beauty
And their oaths of color.
So the little old lady
Paints comfort there.
She paints for the wars.
She paints for the peace.
She paints for those
Who keep losing sleep.
She paints the flowers,
Then she marches home.
So the little old lady
Was never alone.
March 9, 2017
Saturday, September 24, 2016
No Goodbye's
Do not cry,
When you hear me leave
In the middle of the night,
Past the dark pine trees.
There will be no goodbyes,
Under the moonlit sky's.
Just a warm breeze
While the cicada's sing.
Written: August 29, 2016
Kalen Lewis
When you hear me leave
In the middle of the night,
Past the dark pine trees.
There will be no goodbyes,
Under the moonlit sky's.
Just a warm breeze
While the cicada's sing.
Written: August 29, 2016
Kalen Lewis
Monday, March 28, 2016
The Lightning
The lightning strikes,
Are all I have.
In this empty world,
They light my way.
All I have,
Is a dangerous thing.
But the rain is cold,
The wind is brittle,
And the thunder,
Is the price I pay.
Are all I have.
In this empty world,
They light my way.
All I have,
Is a dangerous thing.
But the rain is cold,
The wind is brittle,
And the thunder,
Is the price I pay.
Monday, November 30, 2015
The Silent Struggle
Written by: Kalen Lewis
Where do the shadows collect on your face?
Under the eyes,
Hidden in your cheeks.
Where does the darkness battle with the light?
When you can't sleep,
In the dead of the night.
Where can I find your unconscious soul?
Buried in my heart,
A big black hole.
Written September 19, 2015
To those battling with PTSD.
Where do the shadows collect on your face?
Under the eyes,
Hidden in your cheeks.
Where does the darkness battle with the light?
When you can't sleep,
In the dead of the night.
Where can I find your unconscious soul?
Buried in my heart,
A big black hole.
Written September 19, 2015
To those battling with PTSD.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Sonnet 106
William Shakespeare
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see desciptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of food, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see desciptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of food, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
When There is a Disaster
Written by: Kalen Lewis
The fatal blow is pouring out.
Can you feel it running down your nose?
The volcano's plasma, a steady flow.
Can you feel the explosions dance in your head?
Alive one minute and the next almost dead.
Can you even tell what's going on?
The thread has been cut; the light is gone.
June 15, 2015
~
At first, this poem was inspired by the sensation of a bloody nose I had. About half-way through writing it however, I started thinking about the events of 9/11 and the lives that were tragically lost. I started to imagine the confusion the victims must have been feeling and the pain they must have gone through.
And so... I wrote.
In Memory of the Victims from the Events of September 11, 2001.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
The Grove
Written by: Kalen Lewis
7/19/15
As I drove,
Through the grove,
The smell of dill weed,
Filled my nose.
The strange sensations,
Of high-speed winds,
They made my face tingle,
And forget my sins.
The sun was setting,
The golden hour was here,
So I took out my ponytail,
And let down my hair.
7/19/15
As I drove,
Through the grove,
The smell of dill weed,
Filled my nose.
The strange sensations,
Of high-speed winds,
They made my face tingle,
And forget my sins.
The sun was setting,
The golden hour was here,
So I took out my ponytail,
And let down my hair.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
Author Unknown
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.
~
Rest In Peace, Kyle.
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