This blog contains poetry written by Stephen Stacey. Feel free to explore and read all the poetry you want. I encourage you to leave comments concerning your reaction to any given poem.

This site and all my poetry is dedicated to my lovely wife Emily.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

A Walk Outside

In restlessness I sit inside my house
With energy infused inside my bones
Exhorting me to let my labors wait
And breathe the freshness of the outside air.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

An Evergreen in Snow

A starry blur of white undaunted came
And softened, smoothed the gentle countryside.
Creation marvels at her own white flame,
Her appetite for beauty satisfied.
Below a hill, serenely standing strong,
An evergreen, concealed beneath the white
Now emanates a silent winter song
And dances in the evening's waning light.
Enveloped by a soft consuming glow,
The glittering boughs portray a mood serene.
Though laden low with weight of thickset snow,
It stands a noble marvel to be seen.
The Master's sculpture breaks above the ground,
With all of winter's glory it is crowned.

Messy Pete


Messy Pete began to eat
A dusty, dirty grimy treat.
He found too late that what he ate
Was also on a dirty plate.
It was a mess; I must confess
His room was filled with dirtiness.
What caused this scene that’s so obscene
Was Messy Pete would never clean.
He’d never try to clean that sty.
His dirty clothes all piled high.
His underwear was here and there.
His toys were scattered everywhere.
He had a knack for losing track
Of where he’d left his school sack.
I’ll tell you now the story how
Pete overcame the mess somehow.
It was the treat which Messy Pete
Decided that he’d try to eat.
Just one small lick so very quick
Began to make him awfully sick.
So sick, in fact he coughed and hacked
So hard his jaw bone almost cracked.
His fever burned and then he turned
So green his mom became concerned.
He lay in bed, his father said
“You’re lucky, son, that you’re not dead.
The doctor called and he’s appalled
He says your mess here must be solved.
If you don’t zoom to clean your room
It could spell out your sudden doom!”
Pete was aware as he lay there
His room was filled with odors rare.
“This mess,” thought he, “is killing me.
If I get better I’ll agree
To be the best, above the rest
At making cleanliness my quest.”
He hadn’t lied. From then he tried
To clean his room with certain pride.
And what completes this tale of Pete’s?
He’ll wash his hands before he eats.

A R T

How is life explored by stories,
Quietly composed in books?
Why do poems give enjoyment
To the one who deeply looks?
Even words of tiny size
Oft show virtues to the wise.

When we gaze upon a painting,
Oft a voice speaks to the soul.
Paint and canvas, both displaying
Semblance of things physical.
We, the subjects in them, see
Life laid out exquisitely.

Why, when soundlessness is conquered,
Filled by noise of symphonies,
Are our senses seized by grandeur
Of pervasive melodies?
Music is a jewel of sound
Which explorers keep when found.

Addicted to Poetry


Poetry is an odd thing.
Sometimes it has no verse,
With no rhythm,
And no meter,
And flows much like prose.
It may, however, have artistic beats,
A pattern followed with deliberate care
Composed of meter, cadence, beat or swing,
With lengthy sentences and careful thought.
And poems, sometimes,
Are peppered with rhymes.
And as the fruit in fall adorns the trees,
A poem may be filled with similes.
Or else the fruit of purpose from its core
Can plant in poems the seed of metaphor.
Moreover a couplet in deep contemplation
Can banter around with personification.
But the best part of poems, obviously,
Is when you include a hyperbole.
Alternatively, alliteration also adds appeal.
In the end it all combines,
Every aspect in its place.
This conglomerate of lines,
In amenity and grace,
Most effectively invokes
Such a thrill inside my brain.
Fire of fantasy it stokes
'Till delight I can't contain.
In a word (or maybe three):
I
Love
Poetry

The Last of Effects


So often one can assume
that the world is not
In the palm of his hand.
To become as we must,
that we cannot see
the End of the path,
and to see is to
become
and in Becoming, the
last of effects
reaches out to empty paws,
and the vacant wanderings
of a mindless crowd.

This is the path
doomed to become
that which is the pastime of
those who cannot become
that which they desire.
Overcoming the last of effects
is the goal of those who are destined to fail.
Forgotten roads lead to
a destination even longer removed,
and life causes
the last of effects.