Joseph Kreydt

Tag: poet

  • I Believe

    I believe The Father speaks.
    He says the violet fire in the morning sky.
    He says fields of indigo and Indian Paintbrushes.
    He says the silence that falls from the clouds
    And blankets the ground.

  • Pain and Rain

    Do you suppose there’s any reason
    That the words RAIN and PAIN are so alike?
    A mere sloped line divides one from the other.

    Maybe they’re related in the feelings they encourage,
    Like ill malaise and dreary days.

    Or maybe rain, coming down like \\, washes away the pain.

    Well, doesn’t wash it away, per se, but distracts us from it,
    Gives us something wonderful to turn to,

    Something that falls in rhythms and waves,
    Something from above, something here, today.

    And then, every once in a while
    The sun puts a bow on rain,
    And a collage of colors cross the sky
    As she dances herself dry.

  • Rush

    In the haze of the rush
    Through the days and the months
    We have no time for poetry.

    We have only time for poetry.

  • Dare

    Would you like to see something
    More incredible than all the myths
    Or all the wonderful films?

    Go on an adventure,
    One that pounds your heart with fear.

    Even when you fail, you’ll be amazed
    At your strength, at the way you could
    Keep your eyes awake, late
    Into the smallest hours of the day;

    At the way you held your guts
    In the toughest, saddest conversations;
    At the way you marched into
    The place you never thought you’d dare to go.

    What a show, what. a. show.
    It lets you know that you are more than body.
    Strength like this could only come
    From the essence of a soul.

  • Dizzy

    Sometimes you sit there
    On the brink,
    Dizzy from the journey,
    Battered by the storm,

    There, in the airport,
    Waiting for a red-eye-flight,
    On the brink, dizzy,

    Unable to think,
    Dizzy, and you didn’t even have a drink,
    Dizzy in the face of all your fears,
    Dizzy, on the brink of tears.

  • I Am The Donut

    I am the sprinkled donut from Marie’s,
    As sweet as icing and soft as the man
    Who gave you cash so you could purchase me,
    The one with whom you shared a short romance.

    Your stomach hurt when you got to the park.
    You said the macchiato from the shop
    Across the street was, maybe, just too harsh,
    But maybe I, the donut, made your stomach throb.

    I’m not sure if you finished me, or what
    You did with me when you could take no more.
    It’s dark in here, so maybe it’s your gut,
    Or maybe it’s the garbage can beside the door.

    I’ll be okay. My sprinkles are abut.
    I’ll wait to hear you say, “wherefore art though donut?”

  • Fire

    Chilly September
    Morning, I am warmed by the fire
    Burning through my pen.