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

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

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.

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.

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 There is a Disaster

Written by: Kalen Lewis 

Can you taste the iron in your mouth?
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.

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.

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.

~

Rest In Peace, Kyle.

The Airplanes

Written By: Kalen Lewis

I see the airplane lights above,
Where do they come from?
They fly so high on this warm night,
Where do they go?
The blinking lights are white and red,
Who is the crew?
Their paths are always east and west,
Who are the passengers?
I'm sure they carry letters to lovers,
What do they say?
Or gifts tied in ribbon,
What's inside?
These planes, they are a mystery,
How far do they travel?
That I would like to know some day,
Where could they carry me?

Written by: Kalen Lewis

White is the color of paper,

Before it meets the pen.

Blue is the color of music,

A soulful tune back then.

Yellow is the color of paint,

On the canvas-on the shelf.

Red is the color of fire,

A beautiful art in itself.

~

I've had a little trouble with titling pieces lately. I can't seem to find that perfect title that fits the poem. So, please excuse the lack of title for now.