Poetry Saturday: Light Ray Divergence

I wrote many poems in my physics class during my junior year of high school. I have several poems about physical concepts, or inspired by my time sitting in that classroom. I should find that poem I wrote about how nice a day it was outside, only to find myself stuck indoors. I feel like this poem was an odd attempt at a love poem, but I don't know for sure. I didn't write too many love poems during my few years of intense poetry writing. I'm not the type to get mushy. I wasn't in love either during that time, which probably made a different. Too bad for my fiance. No poems for him. But he does get Valentine's Day cards, birthday presents, and dinner, so I think it's a fair trade.

Light Ray Divergence


Your light is incident to me

and the reflection is congruent.

We are similar

as your light strikes me.


I am a plane mirror;

what I show you is undistorted

It is proportion.  It is truth.

I reflect your light.


But it doesn’t reach your eye.

somehow, you don’t see

the Laws of Physics

the regular reflection of rays.


Your light is incident to me

and the reflection is congruent.

I saw a virtual image:

you at the critical angle.

Poetry Saturday: The Glass of Monkeysweep

This is a poem that I remember clearly! During P.E. class my sophomore year of high school, we were required to choose different sports to participate in during class. For part of a semester, one of the sports I chose was ultimate Frisbee. We learned the rules of the game, how to throw a Frisbee, and part of the class was play games and compete in teams. The inspiration for this poem came from a great catch that I made during one match. I was wide open near the end zone (no one covers me ever when I play sports), and the person throwing the Frisbee (I don't remember who) had no one to throw it to but me since everyone else was blocked. He threw it. It was a big Hail Mary, and I caught it! Points for our team!

The "monkeysweep" referred to our victory move we did when we scored a point. We would take the Frisbee and "sweep" is across the grass, hence the name. "Buns" was our team word for the short pass when we were open, so we were supposed to shout that word when we were ready for a pass. "Weiner" was our word for a long pass. I'd like to think that I didn't shout, "Weiner," when I caught the big Hail Mary, but I can't guarantee that. After all, I was the only one open, so I might not have had a choice.

The Glass of Monkeysweep


Taste the victory of green

in the glass of monkeysweep

pour in that touchdown wine

and toast to green's triumph


Buns! Buns! Buns!

A short pass to the other

Vwip, vwip, vwip

stealthy through the defense


Weiner! Weiner!

The pinnacle of the game

Hail Mary to the end zone

Throw it out there, long and hard


The jargon of the Ultimate

the win spun on a disc

Taste the victory of green

in the glass of monkeysweep

Poetry Saturday: What Blue Doesn't Tell You

I had hoped that I had something American or Patriotic that I could share during Independence Day weekend, but I couldn't find anything that stuck out. So, I figured a poem about the color blue would be just fine. I do have a poem about the color red, but I didn't want to share that one yet. I don't really have any poems about the color white, but I do have one or two about snow. Those are better suited when there's actually snow on the ground. I don't know why I wrote this poem or what inspired it. I've always liked that there are so many synonyms for each of the colors, but I don't think that's the main reason or the only reason why I wrote this poem, if it's a reason at all.

What Blue Doesn’t Tell You


Aquamarine surfs in harbor

not telling where to catch the waves.


Cerulean adds pigments to the water

but doesn't show the midnight how.


Cyan fiddles with the lights

keeping certain things in darkness.


Sapphire sparkles with shimmering glee

knowing why the dolphin smiles.


Navy leads the cadets to battle

cause and enemy left unknown.


Cobalt tortures the baby blue

picking for the answer's sky.


Why such the unusual blues?

Blues thought's bear no admittance.

Poetry Saturday: Under the Syringa Tree

"Syringa Tree" is such a specific reference, one that I cannot remember (are we surprised at this point that I can't remember doing many of these poems). My first instinct was that I was referring to a species of tree mentioned in Wangari Maathai's memoir, "Unbowed," but I knew that wasn't right. I read that book during my junior year of college, and I know I wrote this poem in high school. Most likely my senior year of high school, based on the format, but I'm not entirely sure. I did a quick Google search, and "The Syringa Tree" is a play about childhood under apartheid. I didn't read the play and I haven't seen a performance of the play, so I know I didn't get the idea of the tree from there. I'm not from Africa and I've never been to Africa, so I know the reference isn't from a personal experience with an exact tree or with the species. I'm dumbfounded. Why would I write this poem and reference this tree? I wouldn't even know what a Syringa tree looked like if I saw one.

Under the Syringa Tree


Good work, good moral

and good luck


from the fallen leaves,

broken branches,

and withered roots

of the Syringa Tree


Ignorance is bliss.  And when the truth is hacked to the ground right in front of you, it’s all difficult to salvage.  From under the Syringa Tree, we saw the loss of comfort.


Late lilacs blossom

lavender, brightly,

after a winter

of hibernating strength.

Together, in one

the flowers grow

in soil cluttered

with the giant kudzu,

the fat outreaching one

with an overbearing green


through manipulation


Kudzu battles

the rival Dandelion





There’s only one

Syringa Tree,

one set of lilacs

for all to share.

They fight

for the credit

of the lilacs


Lilacs fade

and shrivel

with stolen credit

and stolen time;

The pleasure

of the flower



Gust to gust

puddle to puddle

winds and monsoons

were tough to trek

time and time again;

But under the Syringa Tree

leaves, branches

and roots

have protected

the underlings



fostered by rings

of an extended legacy


the fruits of labor

in koa bowls

and golden trophies


Cutting the grains

of harvest,

sharing the gold

under the Syringa Tree,

fun and company

under the Syringa Tree



nurtured by

the Buddha

the native gardener

the distant hope

the rival dandelion

and all-knowing doc


But now,

the Syringa Tree,

gnarled by drama

wrinkled by stress

and tireless labor

of previous sunsets,


and grew

a most honorable name,

only to have it

eventually slandered

by senior woodcutters

and junior poachers

of a selfish gain


Senior woodcutters

who squabble for wood.

Wood that doesn’t

matter in the long run

yet benefits all

in the short.

And through the skirmish,

hack branches.


Junior poachers

looking for

every advantage

to help themselves,

to feed their inane mouths

and bask

in stolen sunlight


We now fight for the lilacs,

the same lilacs

we used to share

and grow together.


The underlings are losing

the Syringa Tree

he blossoms no longer

the same lilac





Lovers to Come

Journeys to Go:


and lost

The rich savannas,

a balanced circle,

and prosperity



except the foes


The previous season

oversaw glory

of a new kind

and a fight to defend

a clean match up


But soon squandered

is tomorrow,

under the Syringa Tree

the lilacs are lost

The underlings

won’t be there much longer.

They will wither too.

dried spirit,

dried young’un spirit

deprived of an energy

even hose far from

the Syringa Tree

could use


And by then

more than the lilacs

will be lost


But the whole tree.


Just a stump will sitt,

trying again to rebuild

what the kudzu

and the senior woodcutters

and the junior poachers



Branches severed by the human hand never regain their original shade.  The comfort under the Syringa Tree will never have the same breeze nor will the lilacs bloom in the same radiance.  The Syringa Tree may survive but will never grow greatness again.

Poetry Saturday: 10 Minutes

I'd like every poem I post for Poetry Saturday to have a story behind it, but some of them don't have a story behind it, such as today's poem. I don't know what this one is about, or when I wrote it, but my best guess is that it's about the fact that it only takes 10 minutes to write poem. It only takes 10 minutes to be hit with inspiration and to get it down on paper before it's lost or forgotten. At least that's what I've gathered from reading the poem. Since I needed to reread my own poem to have an understanding of what I was writing about, perhaps others will come up with different interpretations.

10 Minutes


10 minutes, just ten

to compose one

What shall ink from

this noble pen

is up to the mind

in its protection


Where the time goes

where does it go?

can really be any guess

for in 10 minutes

just 10 minutes

anywhere the pen can go


Time's winding down

thee I must finish

before we go to dinner

the noble words

strewn from this pen

are glorious in time indeed

Poetry Saturday: An Untitled Rondeau

I didn't know what to title this poem after I wrote it, which is why it has the title that it has. A rondeau is a type of poem where there are three verses with specific lengths and rhyming schemes. There are three verses, and the first and the last one are six lines each. The second verse is four lines. For the six-line verses, the first, second, fifth and sixth lines much rhyme. The third and fourth lines must also rhyme, but it must be a different rhyme. The same two rhymes must be used throughout the poem. For the second verse, the first, second, and fourth lines rhyme, and they must rhyme with the one used with the the first, second, fifth and sixth lines in the other two verses. The third line must the the third and fourth lines in the other two verses, although it won't rhyme with any other line in the verse.

I learned about this format from a book I borrowed at the library. I can't remember what the book was called, but I do remember that it had a green cover. I wanted to improve my poetry skills, so I found a book or two that introduced me to new techniques and formats. This poem is one of the final products that came out of that endeavor.

An Untitled Rondeau


The will to power will rise forever.

This is my leading endeavor.

To soar and be so free

with what I have been destined to be.

This from me you cannot sever.


Don't you dare try to be so clever.

There are no exceptions whatsoever.

Eternally remains my joyful glee.

The will to power WILL rise forever.


And I do not need you as a lever

Trust you I will never ever.

As you preach your golden sea

and all of this absurdity!

You WILL go down in my endeavor.

The will to power will rise forever.

Poetry Saturday: 7777777

If I remember correctly (which is about a 50/50 chance here), I wrote this in high school in the middle of class. I think it might have been my fiction writing class during my senior year. Unfortunately, I can't verify the timeline. All the Word documents are time stamped with the same date (July 25, 2011 - the date I purchased my new computer and transferred everything to it from my old Mac). I also didn't date a single poem in my notebooks. The best that I have is that I know the order in which I filled those notebooks. I still have notebooks that I have yet to fill.



The square root of 7 is 49,

again, again and again

doubled, repeated,

again, again and again.


The grand confusion of the 7

and its children

more and more sevens

again again and again.


Invisible is the cycle

and the rain

and the storms,

but their thunder ain’t excluded.


Feel the thunder

the strike of the lightning

both of them,

again again and again.


The mind’s eye sees the rumble,

the cycle,

the mean annual rainfall,

the children of the seven



and again.


This is the world I live in.

7 times 7 is 49

again again and again.

Poetry Saturday: Movement II

I also wrote this poem for my poetry class at SLU. This poem is much more reflective of my poetry writing style: short lines, short verses, nouns turned into verbs, cutoff words, obscure culture references. Don't remember the assignment or the story behind this poem. It's been so long that I probably won't remember the stories behind many of my poems.

Movement II

I hear a song,

a floutist serenade

the eyelids fall

and I drift deeper

to dream of better things


A soothing, softly wind

I float to clouds

with freshened wings.

I fly, blown over,

the beauty below


like the rich Italian field

flowing of reeds and flowers

to the wavy hills,

washing with the hues

of European spring


and the restaurant at the river,

a glistened shore by moonlight.

Couples warm the ambience

woven by Debussy’s

celloed yarn


and with me

are the birds,

they sail

in their brethren

to the ‘rizon


Then, the sunrise

the eyes of Ra upon the sands.

Wake, I must awaken,

land, release my wings,

emerge from slumber

Poetry Saturday: Emulate This Then Top It

I have written hundreds of poems in my lifetime, although I haven't written a poem since 2007. I was really into the craft in high school, but once I got to college I didn't have the time for poetry anymore. I was distracted and intrigued by a variety of new things. These poems have been sitting on my hard drive for years, and are only there because I took the time transfer them from my notebooks to the computer screen. I posted most of them online many years ago, but I don't remember the site anymore.

Quite frankly, I don't remember writing this first poem I am sharing for Poetry Saturday. I wrote it when I took my poetry class during my freshman year of college, and since we reviewed each others poems in class, I didn't think I wrote it. I thought I had a copy of someone else's poem on my hard drive, which was weird but not inconceivable. Including years and dates isn't normally my style, and I didn't realize it was my poem until I found it in two places on my hard drive and continued to read further. There are references in there that can only come from me.

Emulate This Then Top It

Good, you left me

Good, you left me November 1st 1999 and that’s when I screamed “Armegeddon” found that you weren’t there and overtime felt the fallout from your detonated disappearance

Go party like its 1999 in the World of Forms as you have no particulars in this world and that’s where the problem lies

Good, where were you?

Where were you when I was told to stop trying to fit in when I couldn’t fit in anymore and people told lies to deny me the chance to fit in

Where were you when they spread the rumors the love the hair the smell the mouse the room all the rumors in their clicked language that’s cliqued together by added syllables

Where were you when I was left in isolation told that I should sit in the corner told that I needed permission to speak told that I was ugly told that I was better off not there at all

Good, I’m ready to prove Plato wrong and pry you from the party

I’m defiled by your increasing absence

When will you restore the pure of heart?

When will you solidify the loyalty?

When will you fight for the right cause and not the popular one?

When will you kill the ignorance?

When will you trump working hard over working smart i.e laziness?

When will you face the truth of your nonexistence?

Cause you weren’t there as Backstreet NSYNC 98 the Spice Girls Britney Christina all sang and I could not enjoy as I was not a part and only those a part could enjoy and all others who tried to enjoy posed oh they posed OH THEY POSED all right

You weren’t there with every idea ventured and ignored cause I was me “That’s not a positive” blank stares don’t look keep going let’s move why is she here she’s only Student of the Week 3.6 GPA Honors diploma dork doesn’t think like us farther from the rock than us bearing a much more goddamn colder climate than us yet I remain below as you build yourself this mountain that I could not scale and I ask you and I ask you and I ask you to substantiate why with your West Coast universities

You weren’t there everyday in Pre-Algebra as I had to sit next to Stuart three trimesters in a row and Mrs. Rosehill didn’t see it she didn’t see it she didn’t see it and I still see it clear as coordinates

You weren’t there as I held my ears tight to not hear a thing and yet I heard everything even the subtle silent ways they went to seductively slaughter

You weren’t there as I went home night after night straight-faced fronting the façade of nothing wrong

You weren’t there as I Twisted Metal: Black and saw the darkness and wished insanity, better insanity then battling sane better insanity then battling sane

And that’s just in two years

It’s been a six-year absence Good, a six-year absence

and not only have you left me but left the world as well.  Do you have any of your particulars?

This scarcity of your current state, to say… unsatisfactory is an understatement

Because in the next four years I learned how to do it all according to Alanis’ “Eight Easy Steps”

Step 1: How to stay paralyzed by fear of abandonment

Good, I watched I your nonexistence