Monday, June 30, 2014

June 26th

1. Okay, crazy one
2.         Pause for one second
3. Take a deep breath
4.         And calm your senses
5. You have to count backwards
6.        Probably from ten
7. And all will be well when you get to the end

Riley Welch

Friday, June 27, 2014

Favorite Friday

In addition to writing to improve my poetry, I am also trying to read more poetry. I am going to start posting my favorite poem I find during the week each Friday. I hope you enjoy!


By: Louise Gl├╝ck

Is that an attitude for a flower, to stand
like a club at the walk; poor slain boy,
is that a way to show
gratitude to the gods? White
with colored hearts, the tall flowers
sway around you, all the other boys,
in the cold spring, as the violets open.

There were no flowers in antiquity
but boys’ bodies, pale, perfectly imagined.
So the gods sank to human shape with longing.
In the field, in the willow grove,
Apollo sent the courtiers away.

And from the blood of the wound
a flower sprang, lilylike, more brilliant
than the purples of Tyre.
Then the god wept: his vital grief
flooded the earth.

Beauty dies: that is the source
of creation. Outside the ring of trees
the courtiers could hear
the dove’s call transmit
its uniform, its inborn sorrow—
They stood listening, among the rustling willows.
Was this the god’s lament?
They listened carefully. And for a short time
all sound was sad.

There is no other immortality:
in the cold spring, the purple violets open.
And yet, the heart is black,
there is its violence frankly exposed.
Or is it not the heart at the center
but some other word?
And now someone is bending over them,
meaning to gather them—

They could not wait
in exile forever.
Through the glittering grove
the courtiers ran
calling the name
of their companion
over the birds’ noise,
over the willows’ aimless sadness.
Well into the night they wept,
their clear tears
altering no earthly color.

Thursday, June 26, 2014


It would certainly be feasible
Or conceivable
But probably not obtainable
Only done imaginably
Perhaps or perchance
Or weather permitting
Might be
Could be
Or we certainly can be
All I can say is maybe.

Riley Welch

Wednesday, June 25, 2014


Green, streaming light
Bursting through cracks
That were not meant to be there,
Supposed to be seamless,
But cracked
Stretching far from its containment
Out and Out.
Streaking past shadows

Riley Welch

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Day to Night

Standing on the solid sky – early for her arrival
Growing bright as lights dim on the opposite horizon,
As shadows stretch and then the sky
To purples and pinks and oranges,

All the living let out a sigh
Of coolness and of shade
And gasp for rehydration from the redness of the day.
The deep colors of the sun dance upon the edge of the Earth
Only to be suffocated by the dark black of her;
So the stars can come to sparkle and tell stories in the sky
Providing a deep slumber under night's watchful eye.

Riley Welch 

Sunday Morning Music

Gliding keys and moving feet,
Happy songs and grooving beats.
Thudding bass drum sounding strong,
In-between notes, short and long-

Goosebumps lifting to the curve of music,
Booming, vibrant, ringing, acoustic;
Steady picking fingers dance delicately
Along with chantings, ever rhythmically.

The easily impressed,
over (and under) dressed,
old and bold,
young and gold,
Take to the floor to unfold the tunes
Because to musics' solid beat no one is immune.

When the band packs up and the crowd's no longer there
The music's sweet hum still hangs in the air.

Riley Welch

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Night to Day

Dim, Dew, Darkness,
Lightening to a marbled blue gray painting.
Redoranges, yellows,
Signs of gates let open
Petals turn their gaze to welcome Apollo to the day. Roaring out closed channels,
Bright fire licking air,
And breaking guarded horizon of dusk to dawn.
Dew drifts from leaves to kiss the airs new warmth.
As the fingertips of day reach to illuminate the sleeping sky 

And the rays wipe away the starry dust from morning's eye.

Riley Welch

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Busy Streets

Wow oh wow
Look at the world now
Shining and bright
Not always right
People pacing and quick
But not sharp in wit
Laughter full of sweet
Loud and soft, inbetween. 

Riley Welch 

Thursday, June 12, 2014

25 Minutes

This poem was written for my grandmother. The first letter of each sentence spells out her initials: BLPW. 

Breeze kisses the grounds' soft grass,
greeting the Earth in a light tickle,
raising petals and leaves like hairs on the nape of your neck. 

Laughter-like rain sprinkles across the soil- 
the literal watercolor dance from dirt to sweet, well mud. 

Pitter patter hums break only for thunders' jolting impact,
and sing through all illuminating flashes. 

Wet doughy terrain melts underfoot, 
cradling a newly dampened shoe sole, rich for a new beings breath. 

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Part Two

Let me paint you in words
Made from happiness spit from my fingertips 
Bursting Stitches Smiling 
As laughter lifts from my light lungs
And feels its way into the air, singing bliss
Verse after verse into a warm perfect evening
Outstretched arms greet my painting in gentle ease
Barely there

Riley Welch

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Sweet Summer

Feel the sun's warm finger tips push gently on your sweet eye lids,



Seek the shade.
And feel the cooling sweat sticking to your back
And the breeze licking against the delicate hairs on the edge if your neck
Lay back-down, toes up. 
Smiling at the leaves lazy shade. 
Return to the fiery sun
And let it wrap you in its summer whisper
Dive into a creeks shallow bank
And bury yourself in the waters crashing cradle. 
Wrestling with the grass stains and street dirt. 
But then close your eyes and remember the




Riley Welch

Saturday, June 7, 2014

In the Kitchen

As the soft steam lifted from the pots boiling mouth
The flames leaped to catch its metal edge
And inside the warmth cooked its sweet foods
To make a soft bite of warmth
Seasoned and plated so delicately
Set on a table, dressed in clothes and fine silvers
With light lit candles
And sweet small flowers
Decorative and inviting
For the presentation created by a burning flames work.

Friday, June 6, 2014

A Stab at Haikus

Work never felt so,
Long, boring, tedious, flat,
Just five more weeks left.

The length of a line
Is not chosen by letters
But by your breaths shape.

one two three four five
one two three four three two one
five four three two one

A cool calming pitch
Rings bright over a grand crowd
Who gathers for sound

Wednesday, June 4, 2014


The metal patter of the rain,
The long streaks of splattered serum,
The droplets building to puddles,
The shatter of thunder,
And flashes of white light,
The crack of a branch,
Hits the ground top to base,
The endless winds push,
The break of the rain-
Of the wind-
Of the pitter patter-
Of the loud crashes and white heat-
The end or beginning-

Riley Welch

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Under the Influence of Caffeine

A jittery heart rate.
With fingers attempting what is usually called steady,
Though they give an urgent twitch.
And your legs tap continuously,
As the heel lifts up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.                       
And you try to steady finger tips,
As they cradle the pen that pushes to paper,
A rolling ball of ink to spread
Your shaking words.

As your mind ticks from one.

Thinking faster than the words will sink to the paper,
Dying to be heard,
Too impatient for the slow pull of your jerking fingers.
Pushing out of your mind and into your hand.
Before you even know what you’ve thought.

And once it’s all been painted on
Ruled paper.
Your shaking palm pauses to push that last sip of morning coffee to your lips.

Riley Welch

Monday, June 2, 2014

My Favorites

Sweet rhyming poems are my fallback,
I go to them when my alternatives crack,
When things just don't sound right,
And the words don't come together, bright.

I want all my words to shine, reflect,
Like they fit together perfectly correct.
So people say, "Yes, they go in that order,
Any other pattern creates chaotic disorder".

And when I can see it's not coming together,
I switch to rhyming, a different type of endeavor.
Making sure each line makes sense
and not sacrificing quality at any expense.

And words just sound pretty rhymed in pairs,
Like they belong without spares or repair.
And the rhythmic chanting of each line
Can be predicted by every end rhyme.

Riley Welch