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Lyndal Doherty Apr 2015
Your eyes are too wide.
You wonder too much, my dear.
Conformity is best.

Why not break the mold?
I will live outside the box:
A force of new things!

No, my child, no...
Voice low and your mind silent.
Then they will like you.
With Easter weekend happening, I got a few days behind on my National  Poetry Month project. In order  to catch up, I wrote 3 haiku for the 3rd, 4th, and 5th. These are some of my first haikus.
Lyndal Doherty Apr 2015
We keep using the phrase
later on in life
A vague band-aid for the now.
But how do you define it?
When does it come?
There are no numbers.
There is no time.
People don't have time to be human
because they are waiting
for a tomorrow that won't come.
All that is certain is that later is promised.
It will come.
Whether it be a day, a week, or 22 years.
Even the seconds ticking by now
is your later coming true.
You will make it to your later.
I promise.
Poem #2 in celebration of National Poetry Month.
Lyndal Doherty Apr 2015
The deluge came without warning,
too fast for it to seep underground.
So, they broke the soil for a taste of rain
and openly met the flood.
They cinched towards exposed surfaces
only asking for more.
So quickly, it was as if
their bloated bodies were ripped from the soil
and thrown to the sidewalk.
They littered the pathways.
A mass suicide in pink.
This is the first poem in a series of poems that will be written by me through the month of April. Celebrate National Poetry Month with a poem a day!
Lyndal Doherty Sep 2014
Somewhere, there is a poem written for you.
Maybe I’m not the one who wrote it,
but somewhere,
someone saw the beauty of your movements
and thought the only way to capture it was with words.
So they put pen to paper,
ink to lines,
and wrote down all your curves and angles.
They toiled,
line by line, letter by letter, and word by word
and when the words united
they made a sentence,
and that sentence made
an arm, a leg, a mind, a person.
Your life wrote poem upon poem
until you had an anthology so thick you had to move on.
And you walked out of that book
with a crooked smile and a determined look
right into the world of the unknown.
But that’s ok because you liked it that way.
The more unfamiliar the better.
It left you room to fill your pages
with your side of the story instead of someone else’s.
You are like some eclectic collector,
storing parts of your life for later,
or in a worse case, a rainy day.
And you don’t collect stories or poetry.
You collect words.
And people would dare try to erase you!
I tried to erase you…
But you never left.
As I looked from a different angle,
seeing if it made any difference then.
But no, you were still there,
broken and bent at your odd angle,
permanent and black on the page.
For my good friend, Rae Snider.
Lyndal Doherty Mar 2014
I sat and watched the sky line.
Just below the horizon street lamps flicked on in response to a early morning commuter.
The sky was just blushing pink and orange.
How the colors could seamlessly fade from the ink of night to the fire of the morning never ceased to amaze me.
It was then that I thought of home.
The sun comes up in the east everyday
without fail.
And I know that the same sun that I saw had risen for you exactly 16 minutes earlier.
A four hour drive and the sun could cover it in mere minutes.
I sat and thought that maybe,
just maybe,
if I could cover an hour of distance in 4 minutes maybe,
just maybe,
I could watch that same old sun rise.
Twice in one day.
Two new beginnings.
One extra sunrise in my life.
All in the span of 16 minutes.
Could you get anymore beautiful than that?
Lyndal Doherty Dec 2013
We fell in love over a game of war.
With others the game could have lasted for hours,
but with you I scored because I won in only a few moves.
What I didn't know
was at the same time I was winning your affection.
You saw me at my worst
and yet I faced no rejection
of me being tired, crazy, and probably cranky
but you still liked me like the best you could see.
I wish I had known then that I would fall for you.
I wish I had known all about you.
But I'm getting there.
Slowly.  
And people who don't know you say I could do better.
And I laugh, smile, and play along,
but no.
Maybe I could, but I wouldn't want to.
Better is not always best,
but you are the best you can be
and you may not be perfect
but you're perfect for me.
And that's love.
You’re the last thing on my mind before I go to sleep
and you are my first thought when I wake
and I'm longing to keep
these memories of you close,
because quite frankly long distance *****
and you and I both agree
but when our four year stretch is finally up
you and I will be free
to have and to hold to love and to cherish
until we are old and when we finally perish
people will know us,
not me,
not you,
but both of us together
and I know the real truth
that love can sneak up like in a game of cards
when the two people playing accidentally play only with hearts.
Lyndal Doherty Oct 2013
I grew up between the pages of a book
with invisible friends that could only be seen
through the mind’s eye.
I could envision what wasn’t there
and I was free to write my own adventure.
Maybe that is why I became an actor.
Because I wasn’t quite ready to give up
on the game of make-believe.
And I knew a man who wasn’t quite ready to give up
on learning.
When he read books, he fell in love with every word.
It was a new romance with each turn of the page.
His heart would lie on
page 85,
Or 50,
Or 123,
depending on whether or not he enjoyed a character that day.
Throwing books was always acceptable,
And he could demand excellence by simply peeking over his crooked glasses.
He was content to exist in perfect silence
and asked the same of us.
But when those moments of silence were broken
beautiful choruses erupted
because he believed that poetry was like a song without a tune;
Even the most tone deaf could croon
to the sweet melody of simple phrases
that even inexperienced tongues could move to.
Music was everywhere in the room.
In the scribbling of pencils,
The cracking of a book’s spine,
The laugh of a student,
Or in the mind of a great teacher.
He was the kind of man I could have believed
had placed the moon in the sky with only his words.
And we were blessed to be his diaries of flesh
and with every hushed story he told
and every beautiful word he spoke
he became an open book.
And by the end, we only wanted more,
but he simply stated,
“You know all my stories. We read them all.”
And with that, he pushed us from the nest
and he expected us to fly,
and so much more.
I was amazed by him because he taught me to soar.
There are some amazing individuals out there
that we are blessed to know
and with them, minds blossom so,
a teacher of language and beauty is not soon forgotten.
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