When (a poem)
Inspired I write.
Tired I sleep.
Stressed I can’t.
Lonely I weep.
Enabled I do.
Afraid I don’t.
Excited I thrive.
Ordered I won’t.
Inspired I write.
Tired I sleep.
Stressed I can’t.
Lonely I weep.
Enabled I do.
Afraid I don’t.
Excited I thrive.
Ordered I won’t.
The beauty of a rose,
wrapped tight within the vines,
upon my trellis waiting,
just waiting for her time.
Bursting open, petals stretch
unto the light of day.
Exploding colors all around,
for Spring has come to stay.
Why do we employ pen and paper
or, having been given words,
dutifully put them to rhyme?
Why do we apply oil to canvas,
or form a masterpiece
with not but sound?
Some poems rage through me
like a flame across a matchhead.
While others must be plucked,
word by excruciating word,
from my flesh.
A heavy storm is brewing,
out on horizon’s line.
Panic sets as we worry how,
to prepare ourselves in time.
Heroes stand tall,
for those who feel small,
lifting their spirits to the sky.
Lost courage regained,
we move past the pain,
never again asking why.
Of what more worth are we than dirt,
with vain ambitions nigh?
Crawling up on spindly legs,
to gaze upon the sky.
I am a work in progress,
unfinished, incomplete.
Each day I grow in knowledge,
most learned here on the street.
Some poems seem to flow out,
while others take their time.
A collection of thoughts and feelings,
that don’t always have to rhyme
Sometimes they’re full of depth,
and others skim the surface.
Exposing feelings that are raw,
expressed with simple grace.
© 2009-2026 E.L. Redwine