Here are a couple more examples of the poetry I was writing when I first started writing poetry. Is it good? Nope. But it started me writing, and I will always be happy about that.

THE KINGDOM OF CADABRA

In the air beneath the surface of the golden lined clouds,
In the turning, brewing breezes like a falling silver shroud,
In the burning of the thunder, in the freezing of the night,
Lies the Kingdom of Cadabra, spreading far to left and right.

It’s a land where time is twisty, where years are but a jumble,
Where gypsies do their dances while they prophesize and mumble.
It’s a land where fire-spitting rockets fly alongside brooms,
And atoms vie the esper force in many-crystaled rooms.

Pilgrim prudes and pagan gods coexist so nicely,
And beggars beg for glowing gems, expensive, even pricely.
The royals frolic merry at their happy final fling.
In the burbling wine of apricots fly dinosaurs with wings.

Witches brew and white-foamed beer mix in velvet lined seas,
And pinkly glow the elephants, with tiny, dimpled knees.
Schooners fit with milky sails fly ever swiftly by,
In the Kingdom of Cadabra, in the softly glowing sky.

THE GRAVEYARD

A wrought iron fence, tall and black,
encloses the graveyard—
a twilight boundary between different worlds.
The gate is rusted. It comes open at a touch
with a flurry of fine red dust.
Slippery with dew, the gravel path is unkept, overgrown,
nearly invisible beneath the moonless night.
It twists and turns into the rustling grass,
into obscurity.
Shadows flit between trees in imitation of lost spirits,
or spirits in imitation of shadows.
The headstones are islands of marble
in the low-lying sea of mist.
Crimson-veined and distant,
monuments in the corridors of time.
In the far corner something moves.
The mist parts to reveal a woman bent over a grave,
the angled planes of her shoulder like atrophied wings,
taut against the faded fabric of her coat.
She lays wilted flowers beneath a wood cross,
not marble like the others,
and falls against it.
The mist swirls, closes.