Poem After Poem
  • Poetry by Cheyenne
  • Who Writes This Stuff?
  • Say Hello!
  • Support Poetry!
  • What Else I Do
  • Creation Cabal
  • Poetry by Cheyenne
  • Who Writes This Stuff?
  • Say Hello!
  • Support Poetry!
  • What Else I Do
  • Creation Cabal

Poetry By Cheyenne
There's a lot of poetry on here. Happy, sad, funny, horrible, and terrifying.
But it's all poetry, and it's all mine
And I'd love to share it with you
So give it a read!

“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”
― E.L. Doctorow

Horrible Writing

8/19/2018

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So let's be honest here.
Words are hard.
Writing is hard.

And some days are a lot harder than others.
What can we do on those days?
The ones where everything we write sounds stupid to us,
or end up being the exact opposite of what we meant.
When our characters go on strike,
or fly to Hawaii on an unplanned vacation
and forget to send us our invite.

Well, some of my favorite things
are to either talk about writing,
write about writing,
or just ignore the fact that my writing seems stupid
and just plow away on my keyboard,
determined to mine something out of my brain-mush,
even if it's simply ridiculous and rambley.
Because at least I'm writing.
I'm not giving up.

And yes, I'd call some of that Horrible.
I might even call this 'Horrible'.
Ask me about that tomorrow,
when I'm not sleep deprived and a little bit deranged.

But, because I wrote today
and made it a point to update this blog,
I'm going to say that I won.
Huzzah, for little victories!
And guess what?
I suck a little less than I did yesterday,
because I did this thing
and didn't let my doubts overtake my love for this weird writing stuff.

Don't stop writing.
Even if it's horrible.
At least you haven't given up on your story
and on yourself.
That's better than most people can say.

Hey guys, here's a little side note for you. What prompted this poem, is an interview that I did with Paul Sating on his podcast called (you guessed it!) Horrible Writing.

It's really fun, and if you wanna hear it, here's the link:
http://horriblewriting.lisbyn.com/website/category/49-using-writing-to-communicate-when-you-cant-with-poet-cheyenne-bramwell

Have a wonderful day! I love you guys <3
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Rocks

8/18/2018

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When was the last time you took a moment
to look at the ground below your feet?

The pictures painted by the concrete cracks,
or the shoe and footprints pressed into the dirt
like fossils from another life.
Or how about the flecks of dust
that have traveled the world over
just to get lodged in your doorjamb?
A hand holding a uneven dark brown rock with a dull orange strip capping one end.
Photo by Tabrarampho
Each one is unique in countless ways.
And no matter how much they are battered
fractured or abandoned,
each one is incredibly beautiful,
a part of this immense earth
that we can hold in our own two hands.

And they are scattered around us,
baking in the sun, or smoothed down by tides,
ready to be discovered,
if we'd only look down.
A woman smiling, holding a small brown rock cresent that looks like a grin.
Photo by Tabarampho
My personal favorite,
I'll have to admit,
are the rocks and stones that tumble underfoot.

I love to pick them up
and feel their weight,
the memories they carry.
Trace their veins with my fingertips,
marvel in each stripe and scratch
upon their face.
A hand holding a large flat rock with two lines forming an uneven cross. The stone is yellow along the edges and lines, with the rest being patches of white, green, and brown.
Photo by Tabrampho
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Fate

8/15/2018

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I can feel it in the thickness of the air,
massing all around me
and pressing against my skin.
Incidents of great importance
waiting just around the corner,
their breath heavy fog from chapped lips.
But every time I walk the path
and look for these the keepers of my fate,
there are only shadows hanging in the chill air.
How hard could it be, to find these creatures?
I search day after day, and my reward?
A glimpse of a heavy dark cloak
that's actually a garbage bag
carried by the breeze.
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When the Words Won't Work

8/11/2018

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Sometimes, I feel all stoppered up,
like a bottle with a too tight cork
or a faucet that'll no longer flow.

I  know there are so many words inside of me
just waiting to spill onto the page,
but I can't seem to let any of them out.

I'll pace around for hours on end,
held up by a single word or phrase
that just won't sound right,
mumbling versions to myself
in an effort to find what's missing from my sentence.

But what finally helps,
what finally does it,
is writing about my writer's block.

For some reason,
typing or scribbling about how the words just won't work
seems to be just the encouragement they need
to come out of hiding.
 
And then what was once a deathly blank document
stops being a damning example of a literary failure,
and becomes a opportunity.
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Hello, old friend.

8/6/2018

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I wonder what you think of the world
as it changes around you.

Do you marvel at the metal towers that grow up
and soar above you?
Are they miracles,
or abominations in your eye?
And do you taste the new concoctions in the air?
Do they feel bitter against your leaves?
Or do you just accept this
as the world's new norm?

Either way, my friend,
It makes me happy to see you're still here,
granting the gifts of your shade and clarity,
without a thought to do otherwise,
even among the changing of days.
The trunk of a tree, with a flat patch where a branch has been removed. The hole is round like an eye, with leaves and the sun in the background.
Photo by me, Downtown Phoenix, AZ
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Poetry v.s Fiction

8/5/2018

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I enjoy spending my days
traipsing about the line between poetry and fiction,
taking rulings of grammarians long-gone
and turning them on their heads
for my amusement,
and seeing what meaning I can draw
from nonsensical patterns of letters and ink.

Because why should I limit myself
to a single mode of communication,
when I can just as easily pick two,
or squish them together
to create my own personal style
of creepy or kooky,
heartbreaking or hilarious,
lyrical prose?
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Coming Back (A Nonet)

8/4/2018

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I've been taking a bit of a break
from posting a daily poem.
But I promise I'm not gone.
I'm working around a
move, mental illness,
and my day job.
But now I'm
coming back.
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    Cheyenne Bramwell

    I love to write, and poetry is one of my favorite ways to figure out what my brain is doing.

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