Haiku: The Weeping Willow by Haley Despard

I haven’t attempted poetry in a while, but this was an English assignment for school, and I think it turned out okay.

Inspired by this tree in my backyard (not sure if it's a real weeping willow or not, but it looks like it to me).

Inspired by this tree in my backyard (not sure if it’s a real weeping willow or not, but it looks like it to me).

Haiku: The Weeping Willow

By Haley Despard

The willow weeps in

The corner of the field. They

Wonder what she mourns.

Her weighted limbs sag

And faint, bringing sorrow to

A green, limpid world.

The trees misunderstand

Her dreary form; they beg her

To stand tall and proud.

They do not know her

Nature is to sag and faint,

But her strength is great.

SPEAK–A poem

This poem is my statement against cult-like religious oppression. Speak out, victims of silence, and experience the truth of God’s mercy washing over you.


by N. Lingarow

Should I speak?


Their bows are poised to shoot.

Their arrows are lit with flame.

Silence is my savior.

Should I act?


Their nets are set for capture.

Their pits are dug for entrapment.

I must remain in place.

My only freedom is in my mind,

But even my brain is sick with their poison.

Should I think?


But the fog is setting in.

The clouds are walls around me.

Are they right? Am I wrong?

Should I breathe?

I must, or I shall die.

Should I think?

I must, or I cannot see.

Should I act?

I must, or I shall be a prisoner forever.

Should I speak?

I must, or the fire in my soul will consume me.

“I am a Writer” (short poem)

“I am a writer”:

I think deeply and dream.

I am a cat; rub me the right way, and I won’t scratch–

But God forbid you should ever wake me from a deep sleep.


I do not live in your world.

My world is a magical land filled with pleasure and promise;

Yours is dominated by money, mine is dominated by soul.

I like my world. I don’t like yours.


I stare into the invisible,

And you wonder what I’m looking at. You think it’s nothing,

But I am peeling back the barrier between this world and the next.

I am the history of tomorrow.


“I am a writer”:

I am not merely human.

I have tasted the riches of an invisible plane.

My soul is an ocean–and my body the sand.


~N. Lingarow

My Small Tribute to the Fallen of 9/11

God bless America and all who grieve this September morning. May your hearts be filled with hope.


One Calm September Morning

by N. Lingarow


One calm September morning

A tragedy took place

One that splattered history

With blood it can’t erase

It started with a plane ride

Bound for California

Everything began as planned

But something went astray

“I think we’re getting hijacked”

The flight attendant said

And 27 minutes later

New York was painted red


A “tremendous boom,” and flames, and smoke

Alerted all to threat

The North Tower had been struck

But the worst hadn’t happened yet

Another plane swooped from the sky

And hit the second tow’r

And a third one hit the Pentagon

Revealing thirst for pow’r

The second tower then collapsed

The number killed was grave

But one plane that was hijacked

Was deterred by heroes brave


They crashed in Pennsylvania

And saved so many lives

But then the other tow’r collapsed

And few inside survived

After 9/11

Our nation fought a war

A war against the terror

That the evil have in store

Courageous men and women

Have given up their lives

In honor of those who suffered

From September’s awful crimes


On this September morning

America is free

We honor firemen, police,

And those in the army

We honor all who’ve fallen

And comfort those in grief

And we thank God for what He’s done

Preserving our country

We bonded all together

Through blood, sweat, and debris

And America’s safe this morning

10 years later, we’re still free

The Disgruntlement of the Misconceived Writer

I am often misunderstood.

People say I am self-absorbed.

This seems true, but is not a fruit of careful examination.

My mind is my favorite place to explore

Because my dreams are beautiful and majestic.

When an idea kisses my perception,

I feel a pulse in my blood

Separate from any mortal actuality.

It possesses me, it ravishes me,

And I have no choice but to surrender to its force.

Nothing can stop me from writing it.

When an idea is born, it must be obeyed.

But I, not my mind, am seen.

I am insignificant, almost invisible in comparison,

But often loath to explain that to those who will not apprehend.

In truth, I am but a slave to the dictator which is my imagination,

Yet I am a happy slave; for my imagination

has always been my most pleasant earthly company.

It is faithful and trustworthy, never running late.

It does not betray me for another.

It does not defame me or cheat me.

It steals my time, but I willingly let it take

For it gives me far better gifts in return.

I would not trade it for all the world’s gold, silver, and diamonds.

I am often misunderstood, but someday all will be as it should

Because someday people will see

Not I, but the fruits of my imagination.

Interval Running–A Poem

Looks like a city beneath my pounding feet
Its charcoal and sparkling stones
Strangely beautiful
The cracks tell a story
Years old
Of a different time, different place
I try not to step on them
For they are sacred

Feels like a well-oiled machine, at first
Every bone, every joint, every muscle working in harmony
Then as the hill gets steeper, I feel the pull
Of gravity and lethargy
Telling me I should go home
My mind screams, “No!”
Ignoring the pounding of my heart
And the weakness in my limbs
I started this, and there’s no turning back

Is like the CPU for my body
Anything my mind does, my body will do also
I let nothing take my mind off the prize
My health, my happiness
These are the prize for which I strive
And I see in my mind’s eye
My beautiful self, 5 years from now
Looking back at me with a smile