The Achilles Heels of the Human Soul

Description:
The human soul is the least perfect thing in the universe. For every drop of love, there is an ounce of hate. For every time of peace, there are months of war. For every ray of hope, there is a cloud of despair. Everything good in the world has a nasty side. Whereas Achilles had only one weak spot, we have many.

Synopsis:
These are poems about about war and peace, about hope and despair. These are poems about the soul.

Poetry:

A Poison Tree by William Blake

Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley


Mending Wall by Robert Frost

Peace by Henry Vaughan

Requiesquat by Matthew Arnold

The Fall of Rome by W. H. Auden


The Soul Unto Itself by Emily Dickinson


Why is the Color of Snow? by Brenda Shaughnessy

Falling

The darkness,
creeping in,
leaving me
alone
falling endlessly, rapidly hurtling towards the ground
that I can't see
grasping, clawing at the air,
searching for a way to
slow
my descent.
A surge of light,
of power,
of strength,
I find a handhold, a place to rest.
Holding myself close,
safe at last,
my mind moves on
in its slumber
leaving me
until I can
catch up

Melancholy

My mother sat by the computer, phone in her hand. It was my dad. I knew it
Eavesdropping on her side of the conversation, I heard her say: "Should I tell them?" She didn't speak again, but she nodded her head.
"Love you, bye," she said finally. I waited for her to continue.
After an antagonizing moment, she did.
"Nosotros va a..." she spoke, struggling with her Spanish.
"Can I speak?" We were laughing at her, but she continued, "We're moving."
Hateful tears filled my eyes. We couldn't be... not now, not when I had come to love this place so much.
Overtaken by the lump in my throat, I sat back,
Loving my life, my friends, not wanting to give them up.
Yearning to keep the time I still had.

Return

A Naval Officer stood on the sand
Without grownups, the boys stood beside him
crying, acknowledging the crimes they'd committed
a semi-circle nearly complete
save three:
Simon
Piggy
The boy with the mark on his face

"Nobody killed?" the Officer asked
The savages stood silent: they knew what they'd done
Ralph, the leader, stood alone
wishing he could have done more
The boys wept
for the end of innocence
for the darkness of man's heart
for the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called
Piggy

The Officer's eyes rested
on the trim cruiser in the distance

Without Regard

Noxious scarlet
boiling pink

Plumes exploding
in the awe-inspiring nightfall

Plunging cataclysmically
crevices halting
the steaming hot lava

Erupting without regard
for ice caps
for humanity
for Mother Nature

Anticipation

Anticipation
Wait for days that never come
Freedom seems so close
Seems so very far away
Minutes go by but days never do

DEFEAT

Death's cold embrace looms
Et tu Brute? You were betrayed by those you thought you knew
Friendless
Easily slipping away into nothingness
Any hope of a Last Stand swiftly flees, leaving you without a chance
Tired, you lay down your head for the final blow

FLAME

Freeing faith from the bondage of darkness
Like the last lifeboat off the Titanic
Anchoring just before the storm
Making it through to the end
Entirely safe while you watch the world burn

BALBOA

Brain dead, I hobbled through the door. I was a zombie: no brain functions were working, no thoughts raced through my brain. I vaguely noticed the car, vaguely noticed my siblings. I was a member of the horde of the Morning Undead.

"Almost out of time!" my mom exclaimed, stepping on the gas. Out of another life, I remembered the school clock was minutes behind ours. The car rolled to a stop, I stepped on the wet grass. I waited in the middle school until the bell rang, and then I rushed to the high school. Unfortunately, the AC was cranked up to the max. I was a member of the horde of the Morning Undead.

Lethargically, I picked up my pencil and started the first problem. I shivered, my wet hair freezing to my scalp like a  drip of water on a cold winter day. The weather here is anything but winter. I finished the next problem, I continued to the next. I was a member of the horde of the Morning Undead.

"Borrow me a pencil, will ya?" someone asked, I reached for my spare, still half asleep, and handed it to him. "Lend me a pencil" I muttered, "lend me a pencil."  I sat back up and finished another problem. Almost done. I was a member of the horde of the Morning Undead.

"Only a few minutes to go," I muttered to myself. I finished the last few problems and stuffed my books into my bag, staring at the clock, willing it to change its digital face, anticipating the bell ringing. When it did, I returned to the middle school. I was a member of the horde of the Morning Undead.

As I passed through the door, the second bell rang, but I had a good excuse, so I went to the office for a pass. I coolly stated my name and my next class. I headed up the stairs, my zombie-ism forgotten. I was a member of the horde of the Morning Undead no longer.

POETRY

"Probably, Mom forgot us," I said to my brother as we were waiting for her to pick us up from school, " She's been known to do it before." He agreed, and sat down. we waited for my mom for what  seemed like hours, but must have only been minutes. Finally, my mom pulled up, and we ran to the car. "What are you?" I asked her.

"On Time," She replied as we hopped in, she drove slowly to the house. "Eight minutes late," I informed her. I instantly realized how stupid I sounded. Face-palm, I thought. We pulled into the driveway, and I ran to the door, my heavy bags beating against my legs. I sat down  at the table, finished my history homework, and pulled out my English homework. I had finished half of the Acrostic in class, but I was stuck.

Every time I tried to thin of a paragraph for the letter "O", I came up with nothing. Writing an Acrostic is harder than it looks. I tried again and again, but I kept failing. Eventually I put it down for a few hours, and I tried to finish when I got back.

Try as I might, I couldn't figure out how to continue. I threw solution after solution at the impassable walls of poetry until on finally got through. After fixing up some loose ends, I continued onto the next letter.

Relentlessly, I attacked the next few letters, the words gushing from my hands, my pen flying across the notebook. I could feel the end of the poem approaching, I could sense it, from the words I was writing, from the careful phrases that I chose. I knew that I was almost there. I wrote the last few sentences.


"Yes!" I exclaimed when I was finally finished, I took a look at the poem that I had finished writing. Satisfied, I went on to finish the rest of my homework.