Poetry by Rose West
The reason I've put this collection together is partly because of myself. I thought it would make things easy if I had all my poetry cataloged in one place. If I get organized, maybe none of my poems will get lost. Well, the other reason I put this together is you. I hope this helps you, my reader, to find all of my poetry, if indeed you desire to read all of my poetry. My readers are the ones who make my writing worth anything. So thank you in advance for reading.
Poetry, to me, can be such a relief. I am no master crafter of poetic words. Anything I've learned about meter and rhyming schemes always seems to get erased from my memory. A poem is a moment in time, my moment in time. I love the sense of fulfillment that putting my thoughts in a poem gives me. I don't moralize (often) in the endings. Sometimes, poetry doesn't have to end. I am reminded of Psalm 88, the Dark Psalm. It doesn't have a happy ending, but that's because it doesn't have an ending really. So, raise your glasses with me, and let's toast to neverending poems, relieved emotion, and human attempts at the beautiful!
This poem was inspired by Psalm 31:21: "Blessed be the Lord, for He has made marvelous His lovingkindness to me in a besieged city." This verse struck me one day in that way that Scripture sometimes does: all of a sudden it meant something to me, personally. I live on an island, far away from the home I once knew. Lonely island, besieged city - same thing. And even through isolation and loneliness, God can break through with His mercy.
- Besieged City, a poem
The sea looked at me With an ocean-deep sadness That burned my eyes with its tears Its like a soul Afraid of Paul or the gospels The Psalms were opened upon And they burned my heart With...
I have a habit of looking in other people's windows as I pass by... not peeping, just glancing for a half-second. That half-second is a moment in someone else's life; it's a part of a story. One night, driving home from a bonfire on the beach, I watched the glowing inside of the houses seeping out through big picture windows (or postcard windows :). It made me feel alone. I was cold in the dark, with the distant warmth of those homes just touching the tip of my nose. Nevertheless, the most of this poem is inspired by a disappointing evening in a lonely Starbucks.
- Postcard Window, a poem
postcard window Im on the wrong side of a Postcard Window Trapped inside a fish bowl with All the water on the other side Here I am I can do No other than stand here And let you stare at...
One morning I woke up and these words were floating around me. Sometimes that happens. You wake up with inspiration on the tip of your tongue, you write it all down, and then the rest of the day goes down the drain. Just kidding. Well, not really, but anyhow, I hate sleeping with worry; I hate waking with worry. I am learning to trust God more and not worry so much. Learning is the key word.
- Worry, a poem
cast off your worries and fly Yesterdays worry, like death, about today comes surging up with the morning Sleep was silent, like death, about the pain that pulses * waking * awake ...
Night Dies with a Drop of Dew
Life in Hawaii isn't always easy, especially when that life is completely different from your former one in that you live far away from so many people that you love. I had a hard time when I first moved to Hawaii, which sometimes feels like a foreign country more than just an island across the sea. But over time God has showed me that He can use your life wherever you are. A bad attitude about your circumstances is never going to help. I still miss friends, family, and things like "hard-pressed cider," but I believe God will redeem my time here.
- Night Dies with a Drop of Dew
I feel homesick, Lying here In my dark and humid home. Light and hope are flickering In and out of shadows Of shadows in the corners. Unfamiliar, I Am among familiar, ...
Torture to Love Unloved
This is the poem of a person dreaming of love. Love is an illusion to that person, yet it is still something quite tangible. We all love to love, but sometimes love takes a long time to come to fulfillment, leading to frustration. It is like a tortuous maze in your mind, where fiction and reality meld together.
- Torture to Love Unloved
Torture to love unloved, To wander about the middling obscure Fictionalizing possibilities While feeding on mediocre memories. Life is beyond the vaulted ceiling Throughout the vaulted skies ...
All right, for those of you who tire of long, drawn-out winters and snowy cold afternoons, this poem might not make sense. Close your eyes, and try to imagine what it would be like to live in place where you rub on sunscreen on Christmas, where your blood runs cold if the temperature dips to the 60s, where you can't remember what season it is because the seasons don't seem to change. The worst part is when I feel sad, and the sun stares me straight in my downcast face and silently laughs. This poem is a song of complaint, I suppose, but like I said before, a poem is a moment in time - just a small moment.
A year of sun revolves around A host of winter days. They live up on the calendar; On snow and frost they gaze. But gazing is not knowing, And summer is not cold. Of far off winter...
The Secret Life of Elephants
This poem was the result of one of those dismal red-eye flights to the mainland. The girl sitting in front of me kept changing her clothes (in the bathroom, of course), as if the cramped plane was her bedroom. The tiny television was playing one of those lame shows about animals or plants or something... and I was sad.
- The Secret Life of Elephants
on tv in silence the secret life of elephants with their wrinkles in the driest mood of gray stumbling, beasts too large for reality beneath an even larger sky, across the plains on their...
I used to live in a house with slatted doors. Sounds and cracked light would pour through the slats from room to room. Some days are so warm in Hawaii, that life doesn't really seem to begin until the day ends. It's like you are awake, waiting for the sun to set, waiting for the heat to fade.
- The Maze
It was a maze Amazed people walked their lives through it Calling out to each other to share it ...
We Were Dead
This poem (with its weak attempts at rhyme) is about change. It is the change that God gives a human heart. Unlike popular opinion, I believe the human heart is born dead. Dead is a strong word. But life is an even stronger one, and God gives life to the dead. We can't do anything to save ourselves; only Jesus Christ can save us. I really don't like the first word in this poem, but I can't seem to change it.
- We Were Dead
Egging on our own destruction With the words we say and do, Every beat of our pretension Is rhythmic with the homeless blues. We kicked ourselves out of our home To take the world by...
This poem is a jumble of my childhood memories. They are like frozen pictures, flashes of moments. What is a buttercup nose, you might ask. Well, when I was little, we used to put buttercups up to our noses to see if they would glow. I can't seem to remember why we did that, so if anyone out there did the same thing, please remind me.
- Buttercup (poem)
The girl with the buttercup nose Smiles in the sunshine as she Runs across the wild field To climb up a giant pear tree That isnt as big as it used To be to the girl with the buttercup...
One of my greater faults is a leaning toward negativity. Everyone hates rejection, I know, but I have a bad habit of finding rejection in more places than I should. I also have the fault of passivity when something is bothering me. I have a hard time speaking up. These problems combined with a frustrating situation made this poem. Maybe someone should just send me a mailbox.
- Rejection, a poem
You didnt care When it seemed to matter the most That you should Maybe Im going crazy Or youre just not at all Rejection is mine and Vengeance is the Lords And I just...
There is a line in a Sara Bareilles song: "You loved me 'cause I'm fragile, when I thought that I was strong." Gravity, it's all gravity.
- Fragility, a poem
murky mountains muddled with mist and valleys that stretch from rock to rock: the barren land i call the sea a hand lacking rings sinks beneath the fog falling under consciousness ...
The albatross is regal when he is still, poetic when he is flying, but when he tries to land on the ground after roaming among the heavens, he loses his balance.
- Albatross, a poem
An albatross wise, I am Like a poet on a hill, Preening my strong-as-air feathers With sea-hardened bill. -- A devastated wasteland A thousand minutes long The vacant field of memory That...
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