Poor Sam

At the corner of Heartbreak Avenue, when the clouds overhead begin to clear,

There lies a girl sitting there, waiting for the bus every day for 3 years:

Poor Sam has passed by the stop and has never seen

In the silence of morning the splendid scene.


There’s a text of enchantment; what bothers him? He sees

The bloom of flowers and the budding of leaves on trees:

Spring has come, and with it, the couples too,

Holding hands and taking pictures, memories anew.


Cheesy coffee dates he views in the midst of the mall,

Remembering he enjoyed them too, when he was small,

He arrives at the movies, his favorite place to spend his time,

The only place he goes by himself, always a quarter past nine.


He looks upon the screen, and his heart in memories that have faded,

The couples look unhappy, the single ones are jaded,

Flowers begin to rot, the clouds begin to form,

The colors have gone dull, he didn’t wear a jacket for the storm.


The poem above is based on”Poor Susan” by Wordsworth, in an attempt to mimic the rhyme scheme of the original poem while also paying homage to the ideas of romanticism and bittersweet nostalgia. My rendition of “Poor Susan” is meant for the modern audience as well as the simplified version of Romanticism among the youth. The story tells of a man who is oblivious to the opportunities of love; he romanticizes couples and relationships due to theatrical representations of love but ultimately views a film and gets a text that changes his perspective. He starts to see the grim, the faults and imperfections within couples. It’s sort of a slap of reality that hits him in the end that he wasn’t prepared for. This choice was meant to speak to the values of young people in the 21st century who romanticize realtionships and idealize them to an unattainable standard.

-Daniel Corral


Executive Poetry

To Donald, from Freedom

When anger with confined borders

Levitates within the Wall,

And my angelic Donald orders

To tweet at yall;

When I stand freely on this soil,

And liberated by this war,

The demons that make us boil,

There will be another four.


When flowing antifa run wildly round,

with no worry of arrest,

Our eyes consume the societal wound,

Our heart yearns for the countries best;

When the swamp gets murky and deep,

When everyone expects services free,

Quality goods aren’t cheap.

There will be another four.


When the cameras are rolling,

With smiles of joy we laugh,

The youthfulness, colorful, humor,

And glories of my president;

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how Great America should be,

Cruel people, seek American blood.

There will be another four.


Stone walls will make protect the state,

Extreme vetting on the terminal;

The path to America is straight

If you are not a criminal.

If I have been prisoned in my anger,

And in my country I am free,

The Don soars like the eagle above,

Enjoy the four more.

To America, Going Republican

Tell me not, (Sweet) I am bold,

That from the tower,

Of my penthouse filled with gold

To international super power.


False, a breaking news story I hate,

The enemy of the people;

And with a haste I underrate

A tweet, a headline, an article.


Yet this harmony is parallel

As our nation becomes secure;

I joyfully ride this carousel,

Because the right is the cure


DEAR Drums of my country! In ruins I found thee

The cold hearted politicians feast quietly on prey

When loudly, my own whistle blowers, unbound thee,

And gave the people victory, freedom, and dismay


The global system working together as one,

has been enslavement of the people:

But eyes in the sky which we can not outrun

The heaven on earth escaped from the steeple


Dear Drums of my country! Farewell to the corrupt,

This great tune wealth is the start of reconstruction

Go, eyes open with encouragement I conduct,

Till released upon those equally worthy of production


If the heart of the patriot, conservative or liberal

Have throbbed glancing at lady liberty

I’d bet they support being backed by shiny mineral.

And may you be saved from drinking bitter tea.


Firstly, my imitation of “To Althea, from Prison” was inspired by Richard Lovelace’s loyalty toward king Charles. For the most part, Charles stood on the side of the common people and tried to protect them. This instantaneously reminded me of a modern situation with the newest successor of power in America, Donald Trump. Lovelace’s setting was speaker is in an English Prison convincing himself that he is freer than ever. Since America is the land of the free I decided to use the setting freedom rather than prison. In the first stanza I took the readers to the political stance of a President Trump supporter. I used words such as angelic, freely, and liberated to show freedom. While using boil. Levitate, and confined to show negative attributes of this American freedom. In my second stanza I continued to show negative attributes of freedom such as domestic terrorist group antifa, the swamp of bad politicians, and the socialist ideologies. In the third stanza I change up the mood with the positive of the somewhat imprisonment of the Trump reign. I continue to show delight towards President Trump as Lovelace frequently does. Each of the last three stanzas are followed by there will be another four. This shows the sentiment of the free society. Lastly, the fourth stanza The successful first term comes to an end and the public enjoys four more years of freedom.

Secondly, my imitation of “To Lucasta, Going to War” was influenced by the honor of war. In my poem I talk about war between political views. For instance, the setting is the Trump in his tower showing its glory of wealth and power. Furthermore, in the second stanza displays the war between conservatives and the liberal misleading news. Third stanza shows the harmony of America as conservatives enjoy the up the ride of Trump presidency. Moreover, I used right wing spectrum to demonstrate the joyful life of a republican in modern times.

Thirdly, my satire of “Dear Harp of My Country” was influenced by the drums of the infantry in the American Revolution. The Irish Harp similarly played an instrumental role in politics and society. I took the opportunity to continue on my policy poetry. In the first stanza I start off with the modern political chaos of America. When the crooked politicians get put on notice by brave media leakers the people are given victory. Moving onto the next stage of darkness in America which is the enslavement of globalism and technology moving toward a medium in which it can govern and spy on people. There is heavens that can stop to globalism. However, like the Irish Harp the American Drum is the expression of freedom. Thus an act of victory has occurred and every American can release the shackles of globalism and celebrate with gold backed currency. A possible short term solution for globalism.

-Dario Lomeli

The Second Mariner

On the swift ocean current calm,

With my hair flowing like the leaves of the Palms,

With a crew of over two hundred men,

Running about like wild pigs in a pen.


A thick fog begins to rise from the sea,

A very bad omen wouldn’t you agree?

With blocks of ice putting us to and fro,

A white-washed bird hovering low.


Could this be without a doubt,

The Mariner’s Rime come about?

But why here now, of any day,

Did the Mariner choose us to stay?


Centuries forth, with vessels of steel,

And an Iron Maiden giving repeal,

With no other thought, I raise my gun,

Three rounds fired for each of my sons.


As the snowy bird does fall on its head,

The pure white feathers now stained red,

The crew looks on in shock and awe,

The fog recedes and air turns raw.


At first the crew believes it’s a good sign,

But I know that darkness will come in time,

And as the stage does surely set,

Life and Death each one I’ve met.


As the angels arrive from the heavens,

This floating slot machine missed all sevens.

All my crew fell down dead,

With blood pooling beneath their heads.


Then Life looked down upon me,

Shook her head only to leave me be,

For then the nightmares soon began,

For me there was no promised land.


For years on hence I spread the tale,

Of Life and Death on wind and sail.

Not one soul dared turn an eye,

Not even daring a polite goodbye.


Now the curse has begun to fade,

I wish to end this escapade;

I want redemption for my sin,

The holy bird’s blood on my chin.


So further I travel every time,

Muttering the Ancient Mariner’s Rime,

Was I not the first to be cursed as such?

Coleridge has made me think as much.


As I walk once again in an inn,

I spot an old sailor speaking through the din,

Of a tale quite so similar to mine,

Almost fully, line by line.


No one listened to his tale but one,

Which was myself with a meal now done,

I spoke with him and asked his age,

He seemed to have lost count after each page.


The man wrote stories of his curse,

Like a woman obsesses of what’s in her purse.

He remembers the script, every word,

The passerby think he’s clearly absurd.


I tell him he’s not the only one with this fate,

Though I admit, I am a bit late,

He takes in every word I say,

Then nods his head and goes on his way.


Now here in the present day,

I speak to those who I may,

Where so few know the tale itself,

The Rime now on a dusty shelf.


Where it is no longer read,

So even now, my legend, dead;

But forever I continue my quest,

To get the penance that I request.


And soon enough or so I hear,

I will be free to ascend with family dear,

So now I bid thee a swift farewell,

As I spread my tale and wish all well.




This is a poem based off the thought of the events of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner repeating themselves in the current day. I used descriptive imagery of the time period, such as Iron Maiden and the boat the narrator traveling on being made of steel. Another difference is that the poem actually makes reference to the original work by Coleridge. The narrator appears to be following a different path, focusing on making sure others hear his story, though none truly listen. The sailor narrating the poem was based off my brother, who is currently in the US Navy.

CW Project: The Hunter’s Willow

The Hunter’s Willow

Ross Koppel


I awoke and to the swamp I travelled

Death in mind

With uncle left and brother right

And hound not far behind


We made our way, quite clumsily

Through the muck and mire

The sky turned black, the wind did howl

And the weather turned quite dire


Rain and thunder crashed upon us

And from it we made haste

A great willow tree in our gaze

Some shelter for to taste


We had some joy

And safety then

Us three

Not merry men


And when the storm began to fade

We found ourselves quite lost

Our future ended, we had been made

What devil had we crossed?


Away and back we meandered

Through that lonesome bog

Until again we saw that tree

Steadfast in the fog


I felt the shudder of the cold

Against my lips so blue

And my actions I took next

To this day I rue


I was so cold and I accept full fault

As I produced a fire

And down and down that willow burned

Becoming nature’s pyre


The hound did bark as the storm returned

My brother loosed a scream

With no shelter to run to I’d become

A villain so it seemed


My uncle was the first to go

On the devil’s ride

With no energy to spare

We left him where he died


I chopped him up and cooked his flesh

And fed him to the hound

My brother, of course, would not partake

He was the next man downed


Hunger had taken them from me

And I did tend the beast

And to this swamp and in this muck

I was never to be released


One night I was awakened

By the howling of the mutt

And from the shadows walked at me

The bodies I had cut


My family shambled to my place

And I then raised my gun

I shot and shot but to no avail

I knew that I was done


The Hound had charged and bit and scratched

And I saw that I had failed

For my shot had hit a mark

And through the dog it sailed


I ran and ran with these specters

Chasing after me

I found my way out of that swamp

A city light to see


It has been many, many years

Twenty, give or take

And to this day when thunder falls

I shudder and I shake


I had ate my brother

And my uncle too

And of my poor courageous hound

It was I who had shot him through


But memories serve me no fear

In comparison to this

On any night dark and foggy

When my family I miss


Their bodies would come unto me

And I would run and hide

For had I not burned the willow

They never would have died


Some nights I hear the snarling

Of a devil dog

And some nights I see the shamble

Of my brother through the fog


There is but one place in this world

For safety I may go

It is beneath the great weeping arms

Of that burned willow




The Hunter’s Willow is heavily inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The similarities are myriad. The Hunter’s Willow tells a similar story of an individual committing a crime against nature, and in so doing curses himself and his companions. The form is similar as well, featuring quatrains and an ABCB rhyme scheme. There are differences as well. The Hunter’s Willow is not broken into parts, fails to feature an audience and never breaks away from quatrains and does not include any portions of ABAB rhyme.

In keeping with romantic tradition, The Hunter’s Willow features an extensive theme of nature’s power, especially in the form of encroaching darkness and fog present in many of the paintings viewed during class. The poem features the metaphorical encroaching darkness in the form of dead things literally chasing the narrator for twenty years, as well as frequent use of fog and night.

The formal elements, specifically rhyme is sustained in The Hunter’s Willow. The rhyme follows a very strict ABCB pattern throughout the poem. The Rime will at times break from quatrains and break from the strict rhyme scheme, but Willow does not. The extensively varied meter of Willow serves to break the monotony of repetitive meter.

The curse of the albatross and the curse of the willow function in similar ways. An individual is lost and is presented salvation in the form of some natural gift. Coleridge used an albatross that granted the sailors luck, I used a willow that provided shelter. Both poems then feature a destruction of that gift, a curse involving the death of the narrator’s friends or family, and then an inability to escape that memory.

The Hunter’s Willow is a contemporary poem. Coleridge’s crossbow and sails has been replaced with a gun and city lights. However, The Hunter’s Willow is not purely modern, as there will always be hunters, hunters will always have dogs, there will always be willow trees to hide under, and hunters have always and will always hunt with family.

-Ross Koppel


“Silence is not Golden”

The poem “The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls” written by Thomas Moore evokes emotional appeal as it personifies the harp -giving it human attributes- specifically that of Ireland’s.

Referring to the Ireland’s nationalism, Moore, on the third line of the first stanza, says:

“Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls.”

The use of the word mute, technically meaning silent, is making reference to Ireland’s inability to express cultural pride any longer.  During a time when the Irish people were under oppression by British society, it makes sense that their culture evolution would be in a state of non-progression, “as if that soul were fled” (first stanza, line 4).

Moore, so far, in the poem, has extended the Irish history, setting the tone of grief and loss.

According to: “Harp Spectrum’s: Exploring the World -’Ireland’s Harp: A Story of Survival and the Shaping of Irish Identity,’” the history behind the harp is a “story of a fight to survive…”

That fight is in regards to the Irish crucially attempting to hold on to their identities as they were forced to assimilate into the British government.  

First stanza, lines 5 and 6, “So sleeps the pride of former days/so glory’s thrill is o’er” truly indicates the depression the Irish were feeling. While the poem is using sleep as a metaphor to indicate that there is no longer any pride, and “glory,” it could also be taken literally as sleep is a common reaction to feeling sad, or with lack of hope.  

Moore, moves through the poem, as if moving through the body of the Irish, mentioning the word “heart,” stating that there is “pulse no more”(first stanza, line 8) and “the only throb she gives/is when some heart indignant breaks/to show that she still lives”(second stanza, lines 6-8).  This heart that Moore speaks of is the Heart of the Irish, alluding to the notion that, despite their state of oppression, and that their pride may have been in a state of slumber, there is still hope that lies within the beat of their harp.

-Maricela (Marcy) Martinez

The Harpers

Thomas Moore’s, “Dear Harp of My Country” demonstrated an example of the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries significance of the Irish harp. The Irish harp is used in many contemporary Irish politics, society, and culture. The first two lines are examples of political use of the harp, “DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long,” (1-2) The darkness looming in silence represents the current state of Ireland, however the coldness is broken with the winged-maiden harp and Protestant Ascendancy to become the dominant political power in Ireland. Moving onto the next two lines it appeared the culture of Ireland was being described. “When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!”(3-4) The island harp is the Irish Harp relating to the fact the country is an island and when the harp is musically played it releases Ireland’s cultural expressions of light, freedom, and song. Furthermore, the social injustices of the extreme poverty of the native Irish were depicted.  “The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That ev’n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.” (5-8) In these lines the Irish Harp is the positive light or note of gladness for the indignant voice of Ireland’s the deep sigh of sadness(poor). As we move on to lines 9-12 the theme of culture continues. “Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine;” (9-12) farewell to old Irish original beauty that meant so much to the Irish culture. The harp has transitioned to Irish tradition to newly- invented instrument which is now portable and influenced by design and technique of European pedal harp. This new European popularity is the hand less worthy of the Irishman.

-Dario Lomeli

The Harp as Poetic Resistance in “The Harp of India”

In Henry Louis Vivian Derozio’s poem, “The Harp of India,” Derozio appropriates the image of the harp to connote the consumption of Indian culture within Britain, similarly to the consumption of Irish culture into the British. For Ireland, the harp is an image which represents cultural, musical, and artistic heritage, and it is a uniting figure for Irish liberation movements contesting against the colonial rule of Britannia. Therefore, one might wonder why Derozio decides to use a typically Irish image to within an Indian context, but, rather, it seems like an image which works well as a poetic device for speaking to colonial power.

Like the poetry of his Irish counterparts, Derozio uses the image of the harp to represent cultural celebration, a reclamation of culture within a society plagued by colonial influence. Derozio represents his harp as a broken instrument: “Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain;/ Thy music once was sweet — who hears it now?” (ll 2-3). If the harp represents national identity and cultural pride, the “harp of India” is busted, unstrung and in need of repair.

Although it is broken, the speaker of the poem indicates a familiarity with the instrument, as the poem reads: “O! many a hand more worth than mine/ Once thy harmonious chords to sweetness gave” (ll. 8-9). Despite the fact that the harp cannot be played, and the speaker of the poem acknowledges their own inadequacy in playing it, there is a similarity between the act of playing the instrument and writing the poem, as both conjure a musical quality: the harp literally the plucking of chords and the poem stringing words together with a rhythmic pattern and linguistic mastery.

Likewise, the poem is itself musical, conjuring the sonnet form to laud the beautiful music of the instrument. Additionally, the speaker notes the “flowers still blooming on the minstrel’s grave,” the undoubtedly given to the skilled master of the harmonious instrument (l. 11). Although the musical minstrel is dead, the poetic minstrel lives on, within the pen of the poet. The last three lines of the poem celebrate the return of the minstrel, this time through the hands of the poet: “Those hands [the minstrel’s] are cold — but if thy notes divine/ May be mortal wakend once again,/ Harp of my country, let me strike the strain!” (ll. 12-14). Derozio, although crying the death of the minstrel (the old guard of Indian culture), shows the bards of language to be the new holder of the torch, a new minstrel by which the people can celebrate their national heritage, their cultural pride, and their rights to national sovereignty.


—Nathaniel Schwass

Merced 2017

Merced 2017

Having been born and raised in Merced, California, molded the artist, and coincidentally the poet, that I am today.

I was able to witness the town of Merced evolve from a aesthetically clean, working family/blue collar community, to an unemployed, drug and homeless riddled, littered town.

In hindsight, I realize that it was bound to happen.  

The rich, one percent, of this community are happily comfortable in their blissful ignorance turning the noses away from the rest, and, unfortunately the rest, are in a “mind forgd manacle state” too because they can’t see any other way to live.  Their standards, for the most part, are polluted, just like the streets of London.

Welfare is handed out as a means to disillusion minorities, keeping them comfortably caught in a cycle of generational poverty.

Its ironic really.  This vision Merced could potentially have on the map: The Gateway to Yosemite -known as one of the many “City of Trees of California” and also known as a sleepy town.  Whats more, now that we have had the UC Merced campus in our town, it has contributed to that ideal that we have potential to become something. Or that, everything is okay.

And dont forget:  never go on the other-side-of-the-tracks.  At least, that is what they say.

But the other side of the tracks is where I come from.  And while it consists of migrant families, farm labor workers, low income housing, as well as the working class, and is considered “hood,” i find it the most raw honest culturally rich community.  However, when you do drive through it, you will see more homelessness, broken roads, cracked and raised cement sidewalks, than you do on the “better side of town.”

Most importantly,  what you won’t explicitly see is the struggle, exploitation, and violent and impoverished cycle that keeps those tracks a strong divide between the good and bad side of town. This reminds me of Wiliam Blake’s “London.”  And so I choose to write about the griminess of our town because just like that London, there is an implicit and explicit divide between social class, and living cirumstance:

“Windows with bars,

No rooms, just tombs

Broken hearts in jars.

Encapsulated gloom.


Single moms

Section 8 rent,

Welfare, fraud.



Incarcerated fathers.

Summers are warm,

Police beats are hotter.

ICE and police sweeps swarm.


Gangs raising arms

Asking, ‘Where you from?’

Carrying arms.

Empty eyes, loaded gun.


Iiquor stores are coffee shops

Malt liquor


blunt wraps, make them sicker.


Empty playgrounds

Tagged jungle gyms

Corner churches

Filled with hidden sins.


Polluted gutters,

crooked streets,

keeping the ‘others’

discretely unseen.”




-Maricela (Marcy) Martinez

Carlsbad, 2017

Envision Carlsbad; A changing time

Green Trails, soft sand: No real limitations

Trail blazers: Freedom in imaginations

Secret beaches, Hazy blue so sublime

Moonlight lit adventures under the stars

Of inward happiness we are selfish men

Save us from the need of a pictured lens

help us recreate, what now seems so far

A beauty once untouched, secluded sight

A voice we never thought we would ever need

Pure as the white sand, turned black by our greed

Living care-free ,we  forgot our impact

Silent beaches, safety in the star light

Sun kissed and dazed, a land we left ransacked


In my poem I based it off Woodsworth London 1802.  In it he uses the style of Petrarchan sonnets or ‘Italian sonnet’ in which it is written in iambic pentamenter, which has 10 syllabuls in each line and follows generally 5 pairs of stressed and unstressed syllabuls. The overall structure  is Petrarchan sonnet is divided into two parts, an octave (the first eight lines of the poem) and a sestet (the final six lines). The Petrarchan sonnet can take a number of variable rhyme schemes; in this case, the octave (which typically proposes a question or an idea), follows a rhyme scheme of ABBAABBA, and the sestet (which typically answers the question or comments upon the idea) follows a rhyme scheme of BCCDBD (sparknotes). Woodsworth is calling for Milton in almost an outburst in his frustration with the current times of England. He calls out the ‘sword’, the ‘alter’, and the ‘pen’ all symblozing the church, the military, and the English writers of the time for loosing their morals. Woodsworth wants Milton to come back and restore all these great tragedies he sees and return it to a time of the great old England.

Similarly I attempted to follow this pattern by following the structuring and similar ideas with my hometown of Carlsbad. I begin with “Envision Carlsbad” a program where they are focusing on saving and preserving the land of Carlsbad so that more and more people can enjoy the nature and beauty of a beach town with lots of natural areas to explore. A lot of the terms I chose to use are also inunendos in that 10 years ago Carlsbad and a lot of the parks didn’t need to have so much drastic changes for preservation and the city vibes were very laid back and had a lot of emphasis on exploring the nature ( not exactly in the right state of mind). The problem was these people would often drink and smoke and end up trashing up all these great things so that it is no longer the same. There is this beautiful area back home called the mushrooms caves where it is said that a long time ago people would do shrooms and that’s why all the walls are painted so intricately but as more and more people go to visit this place (on a nature reservation) illegally, they leave trash and the sands are filled with the black broken shards of glass. My version of Woodsworth is talking about how im reminiscent of a time before where people would ‘blaze’ and explore the beauties of my hometown before all these rules were implemented by ‘Envision Carlsbad’ but how contradictory that is because my generation was living so care free we quickly and in some places permantely altered the beauty of the beach, trails, and the general feelings. But also, as my hometown is being cleaned up there is no ‘silent beaches’ like there used to be. More and more people are coming and what I once experienced as a child is most likely something I will never experience again. It was a time that was different and because of that it is so important that we do start chaging even if it means altering for the future. All this freedom we experienced for so long is now being traded for preservation and it reminds me of woodsworth poem in that England was experiencing it seems more freedom there was also a loss of moral obligations, and so like Woodsworth is saying he wants to go back to the old times, I personally want everyone to start embracing the new times because the old ways just weren’t working. So in this way I attempted to get the inverse opinion of Woodsworth reflected in my poem.  I also used similar words and phrases from woods worth to really emphasize the point of the need for change and the effects of the greed of people. The first set of the poem talks more about the freedom and indulgences we used to feel and the second set talks of the consequences and how we do desperately need change.

woods worth poem:

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,


Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.


Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life’s common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay.


mushroom caves: you can see the original art and now tampered with graffiti

Haley H.






SF 2017

I did an almost line for line rewrite of London 1802. The hardest part was keeping it in iambic pentameter, maintaining wordsworth’s rhyme scheme, and switching to the 11 word/line section in the middle. I feel as though I didn’t have to rewrite much of the poem’s meaning, because so much of it already applies to SF.


Get up! Arise awake it’s time to go.

Your world, our land does flood we need your aid

The water sits, the church becomes unmade

Heroic souls have come and gone to show

That lack of wealth a seed to plant and sow

To find true joy we must relinquish our trade

And should we be revived and raised from the shade

With virtue and freedom and power in tow,

You soul was like a star and lived far away

You had a voice not unlike the ocean

As pure and free as pure and free and high as the heaven

And so you did go forth as life led on

In such a cheerful way, and yet your love

Upon herself the worst of life she’d don


-Ross Koppel