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Friday, June 01, 2012

Poems by Harrison Feain


 Harrison Feain is the 15-year-old son of an old friend of mine, an Australian who now lives in California. He's a talented lad! When he was younger, he created a series of quirky cartoons which I enjoyed. Recently he was asked to write several poems for school and got 100% for them. I can quite see why: they are excellent examples of the forms specified. I also love them as good reads, so much so that I am using one, my favourite, as my featured piece this week in 'I Wish I'd Written This' at Poets United. I think they're all worth sharing, and as Harrison doesn't have a blog, I'm sharing the others here. Harrison and his mother both gave permission.


Insanity from a window
(imagery poem)

The sparrow watches me with his sharp eyes
Through the tiny window, I see him mocking me
My ears hear him, laughing at me, which I despise

He ensconces there in the golden threads of the sun
Chirping and pleasantly flirting with his friends
He is not confined, nor shunned
However he is free and has made amends
I hate how he watches me

For I sit in an isolated room with no free breeze
Cursed to work and fill the roles I own
I suffer from his glee of joy, in great degrees
As I closely watch him, it is shown
That he openly mocks me

He is happy and I am not
Which constantly saddens my throbbing heart
Yet his happiness occurs a lot
Causing my despair towards life as a piece of misused art
Thus he laughs at me

My anger pours out towards his crimson red glow
With my glossy hands, that pours sweat from tiresome work
I painfully extend to my bloody gruesome foe
In order to take part in his demise


Pondering in a Pond
(symbolism poem)

The gray turtle sat by the ancient pond
Contemplating his long life
He tried to see what was beyond
Yet all he saw was his third wife

Who was the cruelest mistake he made
Unlike water which was warm, she was cold
She was the reason he felt betrayed
He again remembered that he was old

And his second son would be brave
For the gray turtle understood
That he would be carried by a wave
Since he had done all that was good

Nothing was required from him
His only fault was that he lived too long
Which in itself became his great sin
However his life was the first great song

That would swiftly ripple across the water
And become the history of the pond


History is not just a mystery
(villanelle)

There is no such thing as mystery
Even when it cannot be explained
For everything has its own history

Reports of aliens is trickery
Also including the other false claims
There is no such thing as mystery

There are no fictional injuries
Of the falsely blamed John Booth
For everything has its own history

The top secret auxiliaries
Are just silly kitchen rumors
There is no such thing as mystery

The known Aztecs conspiracies
Falsely denied and then ignored
For everything has its own history

Every truth is manipulated
Every lie has some part of reality
There is no such thing as mystery
For everything has its own history


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