i wrote this for my class. it should define what is poetry. i got this lines from my closet and wove them. see if the lines sound good. feel free to give comments and murderous criticisms. tankzz ^_^

A second before the rot.
The image of a memory,
still, unmoved. The vision
of a white heaven and
the screams of hell. A time
before passing. A pause
before death. The walk
through the mist towards
eternity, before the
beginning of an endless
and silent whisper.

The ghosts of the evening

raided the dead in

the middle of the silence

passing from one nose

to another disturbing

one’s happy dream to a nightmare

a short man

with

thick

and

kinky hair

wrapped in a

bear’s skin

that he hunted days ago

giving

a woman

with

the same outfit

a rub in the nose

their Siberian kiss

I woke up before six a.m.

Cooked rice and swept floors

While singing Sugarcult’s Memory.

Before I wake at 7, but not today. Not today.

When was the first time I cooked rice and swept floors?

I can’t remember. I can’t tell.

Classes will bell at 10. Have I studied?

Or at least read readings?

No? Not yet? Why? Is the dream of Suma

Used up? Or perhaps it will only remain as it was? A dream.

Oh I remembered. I dreamt kissing

Kierra Knightly on the lips. How I miss my ex

Who now spends royalty on top of the Sears.

Is there anything else to be done?

The laundry is heightening like the Everest.

How I wish someone would come and wash all these.

I’m tired of working and studying, eating and sleeping.

Is there anything else to be done?

It’s almost 9. Something’s burning. Shit the rice!

I won’t read the stories. Guess I’ll skip class.

Set the laundry for tomorrow.

It’s the same excuse like yesterday.

We planted a seed and now it

grows a sturdy little tree

sprouted from nothing. I

supposed it was just nothing.

or was it really nothing?

Then why can’t we cut down

this tree we grew from planting?

Do I keep it in remembrance of you

or do you keep it with my memories?

It’s not a tale that I fancy.

It’s cold rain,

sharp daggers that

falls from the heavens.

The visions of the past that

I see in that sturdy little tree.

Ang kalisud sa mao rang usa

Pareha sa langgam

Nga wa jamoy sa’ag

Nga hing lupad sa kawanangan

Ug way mahugpan.

Busa ngari na

Aron mutabang ka naho

Pagpanapok sa mga

Lajang sagbot

Aron gam-ong sa’ag.

Beneath the tree we used to climb

I wander in the midst of

Dead and rotting earth.

Where no light shines

And shadows cover the surface.

A ray of hope is dying,

Like a lifeless leaf

That falls on summer.

Standing on top of the wild

With wild flowers whispering

Of loneliness. The covering

Silence shouts the laughters

Of the past – missing the other

half. And I wander again

But now I mourn, kicking as I

Walk, the leaves that fall.

On silent nights

near a river   silent.

the water flows

soft and calm.

The tiny stones

rolled together

with the stream.

The dreams of the

earth flushed

by the unstopping

current.

My teacher ate my homework.
I'm aware it's rather odd.
She sniffed at it and smiled
with an approving sort of nod.

She took a little nibble --
it's unusual, but true --
then had a somewhat larger bite
and gave a thoughtful chew.

I think she must have liked it,
for she really went to town.
She gobbled it with gusto
and she wolfed the whole thing down.

She licked off all her fingers,
gave a burp and said, "You pass."
I guess that's how they grade you
when you take a cooking class.

–Kenn Nesbitt