A Collection In Which The World Becomes Poetry

I decided to focus on the thorns aspect of the theme. My first poem, a haiku called "Stained Glass", has thorns for me. I have always had a complicated relationship with religion and it has been an area of contention between me and the rest of my family. However, I have always been fascinated by stained glass pieces in churches and other important buildings. By creating a poem about such things that are commonly found in churches, I am pulling out the metaphorical thorns in my mind. With my second haiku, the thorns are very much still freshly embedded in the skin of my mind. The poem is called "Betrayal" and was written as a form of coping with a betrayal that came from someone I trusted. This is me taking those first steps to pull those thorns out in the future to make it easier to manage my garden. As I state in the poem, I want to let go. My third poem, an Italian sonnet called "Autumn", coincides with thorns in the sense that they are both about nature. Like the bite of the thorn on a beautiful rose, I compare fragile fall leaves to embers which also have the potential to do us harm. My last poem is a freeform poem called "Uncertain Times" is about a topic that I believe has thorns in it for all of us. As you can probably guess from the title, this poem is about Covid-19. I chose to keep this poem factual so that it doesn't bring politics into it and so I would be less likely to trigger anyone. This poem helps us realize that the way to get through this is to help each other pull out the thorns that this pandemic has left behind in all of us.

Mariah Crutchfield

Stained Glass

Painted rainbow shards Tinted light in 

colored beams Sun-filled mosaics

Betrayal

Red cheeks and wet eyes Burn 

hot with a fiery rage How can one 

let go?

Autumn

Winds blow the brittle burnt fragments to the ground. The shades of fire dance upon the hardy limbs. Dead bodies fall, detached suddenly from their stems. These bright embers land softly, without even a sound.

Though they were living, now for the dirt they are bound. People, like tinder, collect the prettiest embers on a whim Glued onto wreaths or decorations so fancy and prim. Children and pets in the flames, playing lost and found.

Their colors are more vibrant than the flowers in spring, The sound they make when they crunch underfoot, Though they mimic fires, they are too cold to burn.

So much joy do these little palms to people, bring! In piles so high the sparks are collected and put. All year nature waits patiently for them to turn.

Uncertain Times

Our world was shaken,

But did not raze to the ground. Extra 

caution is taken,

When people are around.

So we mind our distance, And 

stay six feet apart.

We make our persistence, Into a 

new form of art.

We hide from the public And peer through 

our windows. We isolate the dying, the 

sick, And weep like the willows.

The numbers on the screen, Aren't for 

the faint of heart. If you know what 

they mean, It might tear you apart.

This year we have learned, To take 

nothing for granted. As our 

stomachs churned, Our feet 

remained planted.