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June 9, 2023

By Kirsten Nicole

I don't write poetry often, but I took a class in college, and even though it isn't the genre for every writer, I think it is beneficial for every writer to study some poetry. Poetry forces you to be visual, make deep, thoughtful analogies, and condense into the least amount of words possible. This is a great exercise in being concise and as vivid as possible. I've thought about turning the second poem into a children's book. What do you think? :)


The only crisp light

Dripping from the stairwell

Mutely brightens the depths

Where I descend.

One more day,

One more boarding,

One more chance to blend in to


To the roaring current,

Our special colors

Lost amongst the same others.

So many eyes

So many heartbeats.

Each battered seat holding


With violin cases

With sleeping children

With plane tickets,

Noses plunged into phones.

Elbow to elbow with


With purple hair,

With nose rings,

With clown feet.

That man

Does not have anything,

Just a worn out farm jacket,

Over a pair of coveralls.

His rough hands rub over

A forehead trenched with creases, and then

Our eyes meet…

And hold.

We share a smile, hesitant but polite,

And then something more,

Acknowledging each other as a


With a family,

With a home…

All in a brief, thundering silence,

Never to speak, or shake hands, or meet again,

But breaking free of the current,

For a moment.

Heedless, the shoal stands together

When the train jolts to a stop.

We rise from the abyss,

A wave,

Flowing up cracked and crooked stairs,

Crowded and alone,

To the buzzing scents and

Flashing hums of our world,

And the clip of my pumps

Lost amongst a colorful sea of others.

Winter’s Tree

The Winter waking came late this year,

Autumn lingered long,

Now snowflakes shook from Winter’s beard.

He gave a gusty yawn.

A crisp and cold, harsh, blustery breeze

Battered the leaves of the oak.

A fiery flicker of reds and orange

From this wind was stoked.

The tree, she trembled. Her leaves, they quaked.

She had been unprepared.

The bumbling bestirring of the Old Man,

Left many branches bared.

As he rubbed his fists in eyes of cloud,

Winter shifted in his berth;

The oak tree welcoming the warmth,

Of his frosty blanket falling to earth.

Then Old Man Winter spied the tree,

Leaf cloak from her shoulders tossed

And sheer and shimmery covering her,

His neglected blanket of frost.

Filled with pity, the clumsy Old Man

Reached from the clouds to below,

And covered the frightened and frigid oak

In a glimmering garment of snow.

1 Comment

Gail Boyce
Gail Boyce
Jun 11, 2023

I love them both. Yes, you should definitely make the 2nd one into a children's book.

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