Poems by Harrison Feain

 Harrison Feain is the 15-year-old son of an old friend of mine, an Australian who now lives in California. He's a talented lad! When he was younger, he created a series of quirky cartoons which I enjoyed. Recently he was asked to write several poems for school and got 100% for them. I can quite see why: they are excellent examples of the forms specified. I also love them as good reads, so much so that I am using one, my favourite, as my featured piece this week in 'I Wish I'd Written This' at Poets United. I think they're all worth sharing, and as Harrison doesn't have a blog, I'm sharing the others here. Harrison and his mother both gave permission.

Insanity from a window

(imagery poem)

The sparrow watches me with his sharp eyes

Through the tiny window, I see him mocking me

My ears hear him, laughing at me, which I despise

He ensconces there in the golden threads of the sun

Chirping and pleasantly flirting with his friends

He is not confined, nor shunned

However he is free and has made amends

I hate how he watches me

For I sit in an isolated room with no free breeze

Cursed to work and fill the roles I own

I suffer from his glee of joy, in great degrees

As I closely watch him, it is shown

That he openly mocks me

He is happy and I am not

Which constantly saddens my throbbing heart

Yet his happiness occurs a lot

Causing my despair towards life as a piece of misused art

Thus he laughs at me

My anger pours out towards his crimson red glow

With my glossy hands, that pours sweat from tiresome work

I painfully extend to my bloody gruesome foe

In order to take part in his demise

Pondering in a Pond

(symbolism poem)

The gray turtle sat by the ancient pond

Contemplating his long life

He tried to see what was beyond

Yet all he saw was his third wife

Who was the cruelest mistake he made

Unlike water which was warm, she was cold

She was the reason he felt betrayed

He again remembered that he was old

And his second son would be brave

For the gray turtle understood

That he would be carried by a wave

Since he had done all that was good

Nothing was required from him

His only fault was that he lived too long

Which in itself became his great sin

However his life was the first great song

That would swiftly ripple across the water

And become the history of the pond

History is not just a mystery

(villanelle)

There is no such thing as mystery

Even when it cannot be explained

For everything has its own history

Reports of aliens is trickery

Also including the other false claims

There is no such thing as mystery

There are no fictional injuries

Of the falsely blamed John Booth

For everything has its own history

The top secret auxiliaries

Are just silly kitchen rumors

There is no such thing as mystery

The known Aztecs conspiracies

Falsely denied and then ignored

For everything has its own history

Every truth is manipulated

Every lie has some part of reality

There is no such thing as mystery

For everything has its own history