Some old sappy poems because why not?

Filed under: Writing as J.T. Marie Jun 20, 2016

I used to write a lot of poetry back in college, and some of it isn’t half bad (which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s any good, either).

I’ve published some of it under my J.T. Marie pseudonym, but it’s never been all that big a seller, as you can imagine.

While looking through old files today trying to find a story I know I wrote years ago, I found some poems I wrote back in the day and never did anything with. So I thought why not put them online again for the hell of it?

If you’re moved to comment, at least be kind 🙂 Copyright me, of course.

* * *

if you can forget
the way we laughed
like gods creating anew
the world and all its glory

if you can put behind you
the way we talked
as if we two alone
knew the secrets of the stars

then the next time we meet
if you recognize me, please
stop and tell me
how i can forget you too.

* * *

overcast days
as if clouds would say
what makes them love
the rain

* * *

i loved you when i was little,
years ago when you’d smile
down at me, ruffle my hair,
& call me “honey.”

in others’ eyes,
among others’ lives,
i’ve searched for the sound
of your voice
ever since.

* * *

an old cassette tape,
no label, “memorex”
in chipped letters.
all my favorite songs
still remind me
of your hair, your smile,
the reason i bought “memorex”
to record them for you.

i never got around
to mailing the tape
i wonder if you’d bother
to listen to it
if i sent it now.

* * *

in the dark
he doesn’t see you
hiding behind the door

what does he think of
as he edges into the room
his eyes wide, wary
does he sense you?
does he know?

and what crosses his mind
when you jump out
pin his arms behind him
struggle to hold him down
force him to admit defeat?

the only thing you’re thinking
as you glare down into
his frightened, upturned face
is the black of his hair
the feel of his flesh
and you wonder what his lips
would taste like against your own.

* * *

your hair is the forest of life
the autumn of the leaves
the dying of the trees
where i can roam until the solstice
paths like single strands
weaving an intricate pattern.
i’ve forgotten what they look like
wet, spread against the pillow,
words writ on the beach
waiting for the tide.
i forget what they say.



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