Tired

Tired
By Ben Scheele


I move along peacefully, following my life's purpose.
I grasp the object that my life, and hers, depends upon.
As the miles slowly roll by, I become more tired,
and grow weary as I feel the world pressing down on me.
I exhale, and my bounciness flows away from me.
As my back sags, I sense a fever brewing inside.
My balding head becomes molten like magma,
and my steps become wobbly; I can't walk straight.
My eyes are filled with a smoky haze, and I lose all hope.
I stop by the side of the road, and flop on the ground.
I've carried this wheel so far, but I will soon be replaced.



This is a very quickly written poem, although it's been forming slowly in my mind ever since I watched that woman's tire go flat and just about fall off as she drove by me the other day. It was fascinating, and a little scary, since I had just had that same tire on my car patched a couple days before that. That could have been me. Even though I wrote it quickly, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's more about the idea than about polish, and I think that came through pretty clearly here. What did you think? Kind of fun, huh?

The Mug (Revision)

After some very helpful peer-reviewing from my friends Chris and Cameron, I made some changes to my poem. I think it has a better flow to it, the imagery is a bit more clear, and the style is more contemporary. I removed and rearranged some lines, and it feels a bit more balanced structurally, now.



The Mug
by Ben Scheele

I stretch and reach for a cup with which to ferry
water to my parched mouth in the morning, though not early.
I settle upon the ceramic mug I bought on that holiday,
when I found a student selling his wares at the university
while strolling along with my dear Maggie, carefree, or were we?

I touch it gingerly through its handle curving elegantly,
and let it fall into my palm, where I hold it firmly.
I realize that I am always careful with this piece,
shaped with skilled hands, spun on a flywheel,
glazed and baked at furious heat, unique.

I grasp and flip open the valve,
and the reverse osmosed water slowly pours.
The mug catches the trickle,
like lakes collecting the late fall rain showers.

I cease the flow and lift the mug to my lips,
when I notice a thin black strand of hair,
as if from her head,
draped along the vessel's interior.
I grimace, pinch, sweep it away, and take a drink.

The taste is faintly bitter, as if tainted by my harsh memories.
I set down the empty ware, and the hair is still there
on its wall from front to back, not a hair but a hairline crack.
All I can do is let out a sigh and set it aside,
as I don't yet know how to say goodbye.

Space Pirates

Space Pirates. Who likes them? Me! Or at least, I like to blow them up. In the Metroid games, that is. Well, I was playing around making anagrams of those two words, and got enough good results to piece together a fitting description of them. Here is my anagrammatic poem.

Space Pirates

Species apart,
Parasite spec,
Persist apace,
Airspace pest,
Peace rapists.



I hope you enjoyed it.

The Mug

I reach for a cup with which to ferry,
Water to my parched mouth in the morning early,
And settle upon the ceramic mug I bought that day,
When I spied a student selling his wares at the university,
While strolling along with my dear Maggie, carefree, or were we?

I touch it gingerly through its elegantly curving handle,
and let it fall into my palm, where I hold it firmly.
I realize that I am always careful with this piece,
A simple, utilitarian, everyday object,
Shaped with skilled hands, spun on a wheel,
Glazed and baked at furious heat, unique,
With character and soul.

I let loose the valve,
And the reverse osmosed water pours.
The mug slowly fills,
As if collecting the fall rain show'rs.
Impatiently, I cease the flow, and lift the mug to my lips,
When I notice a thin black strand of hair,
As if from her head,
Draped along the vessel's interior.
I grimace and pinch at it to sweep it away,
And take a drink.

The taste is faintly bitter, as if tainted by harsh memories.
I set down the empty ware, and the hair is still there,
On the outside, but how can this be?
I look closely, and what do I see?
A hairline crack, that has broken its back.
All I can do is let out a sigh and set it aside,
As I don't yet know how to say goodbye.


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I wrote this poem tonight in about forty-five minutes. It was based on my experience from the morning. I was recently inspired by my friends to get back into writing poetry. I hope you don't find this poem too depressing.