A/N: This lovely extract is re-posted from Sarah Doughty’s website. Follow the link below for many more of her wonderful poems!
Forget what your parents told you.
Sometimes words can hit you like bullets.
© Sarah Doughty
Source: Bullets
Category: Poetry
Eighty Drinks
A/N: So yet another poem for you guys! Enjoy!
Eighty Days ain’t enough, so I travel with drinks,
A new one for every country I go.
In Eighty Days you might see quite a few things,
But the world offers far more than you know.
Sure we can see aplenty, perhaps even reasoned enough.
But the world is far more than merely a lot.
One; Mother
A/N: I will most likely read this poem again in a couple of weeks and cringe. If you guys cringe as well, I suppose it’s as good as reaction as any 😉
And furthermore; Happy Birthday, Mom!
The world is still new and I stare with eyes from The Tinderbox.
Marvelling over snow crushing beneath me, sun warming above me.
And that little sound the microwave makes, when the minutes are out.
And over the dog; greeting me with a cold, wet snout and a wetter tongue.
Twilight Love
A/N: The following piece is a sestina, and a parody of Twilight. If you’re a twilight fan, I suggest you skip it.
It wasn’t that I didn’t know I was obsessed.
But he was worth my obsession, my statue of marble.
He was everything pure, and perfect, and golden.
And I could dream of was his smouldering eyes.
From the first time I saw him I knew this was no shallow love.
This was the love of Romeo and Juliet, a love, which would inevitable lead to blood.
The Train Station
The train station of Frederikshavn is my train station.
It’s a silly thought, of course; that is could be mine, but yet it is.
Perhaps I don’t own it, and perhaps it’s not my property, but still a part of it is mine.
My staff. My little shop with over-priced books and clichéd romance novel. My trains. My station.
Delicious
A/N: The challenge behind this text was to write a poem with of exactly 100 words. Not 99. Not 101. 100 words exactly. Delicious Words.
Delicious. It’s a delicious word, isn’t it?
The drum of your tongue transforming to a snake’s hiss. Delicious.
But the dance of the sounds are nothing compared to the pictures.
Cake. Chocolate. Ice cream melting in your mouth. Delicious.
The mere scent of your mother’s cooking, and you are once again a child.
Sitting impatiently in the kitchen waiting for buns and hot chocolate. Delicious.
There’s so many pictures conjured by three little sounds.
Soft lips. Wet skin. A whispered name. Delicious.
A rose perfume sprayed at her neck.
Burying your face, and whispering a word; delicious.
Everything desired.
Delicious.
Yoda
A/N: Okay, this is prose poetry, where I have as far as possible tried to write the entire poem in inverted syntax – which is basically the grammar of Yoda.
I’ve never seen all the Star Wars movies, so please let me know if there’s anything I could improve on Yoda’s speech pattern!
Enjoy!
Yoda he wished to be.
Little he was, when Yoda he saw; as television was watched.
From that moment on, like Yoda he spoke, all attempts to change him he refused.
It was because of his parents’ divorce his shrink him told, but that wasn’t true he knew.
Yoda he’d seen, Yoda he wanted to be, immediately realized this he did.
Room Without Doors
A/N: Hi everyone! So here’s my first poem. I usually don’t write poetry, but is was actually quite fun and I hope it has kept a bit of the quirkiness I like so much! Enjoy!
Room Without Doors
In a room with no doors,
Sat a man without hope,
On a lone chair, forgotten,
With no plans to elope.
Maria Sjöstrand 