Nursery Rhyme Adversity Time

“Well bow wow wow whose dog art thou?”
asked young Jack nimble, young Jack quick.
“It doesn’t matter you’re Jack’s dog now!”
The thieves exclaimed, “That Jack is slick!”

The Ugly Duckling succumbed to rum
when Little Robin Redbreast found
out Thumbelina killed Tom Thumb
with help from Jack’s black stolen hound

He took the egg from Mother Goose!
While once he was my young son John,
that Jack is still out on the loose!
What do you do with rhymes gone wrong?

Ernie Harwell

I stood there like the house beside the road,
watching it pass—the voice of Michigan.
How many summers spent with words bestowed
to the ears and hearts of kids and working men?
Thank you for being family all these years:
for spending time in our trampled grass,
for conversation over brats and beers,
for giving the sport your love and gracious class.
But baseball lives on due to countless nights
of Tigers games announced by the tongue-tied boy
from Georgia. Baseball lives through Gehrig’s address,
through Mays’ impressive catch, through sounds and sights
of epic matches driven home in joy.
You will endure within the game. God bless.

The Leaf Dance

In the calm autumn the world watches
a leaf fall from the old birch,
dazzling the quiet crowd with his dance.
He fakes left and he fakes right,
eluding the unseen defensive line.
His agile frame moves like a boxer,
packing nothing but guts –SPLASH–
All eyes view the ripples on the lake
and the man on the dock behind the tree,
casting the line and the lure with ease.
The hook curves through the air and –hush–
The sad little leaf lands without a cheer.

Coles Creek

The long canoe met Coles Creek silent and strong.
Then SPLASH! The ripples swept the stillness away.
Seconds went by before the boy appeared
with an old, brown baseball, waterlogged and loved.

The man escaped through trees, obscured by the woods.
Holding the pistol tight, the man emerged
at a creek, the water cold and black and dead
and SPLASH! The gun sunk straight through the field of dreams.

Portage Lake Lift Bridge

In winter Heikki Lunta pounds the bridge.
The snow masks tall white towers and hides blue piers.
Hancock and Copper Harbor sleep to the north;
Marquette and Houghton hibernate to the south.
The ghost of the Copper Range Rail Road below,
the endless white of January above,
the heavy lift span sits at rest and in wait
to once again allow the ships to pass.

Immaturity Lost

We were climbing the snowy hills with our boards in hand.
The pine trees shrunk far beneath us.

And suddenly a friend shot down the slope.
One of us filmed it with his camera.

That was long ago. Today little of it remains,
Not the film, nor the spontaneous desires.

O my friend, where are they, where have they gone –
The stored memories, youthful crusades, asinine ideas,
I ask not out of sorrow, but in puzzlement.

Out-of-Body

I gaze at the trees of red and yellow hue
Reflected clearly by the portage lake
The hill behind the oaks appears in control
The sun above the crest is watching the time
Mosquitoes hover over lily pads
With lurking fish below in the calm blue
The portrait comes together with a face –
A boy canoeing, eyes toward the shoreline.

The Upper Peninsula

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan
bore me and raised me years ago this Tuesday.
I celebrate my birth by praising Lake
Superior (my mother), the Keweenaw
(my father), and old forgotten pals who gave
me gifts of thunder storms and rainbow skies.
Sunset friends appear above abandoned mines
waving, and copper smelting ruins reveal
the unaccomplished dreams of yesterday.
I may grow old, but my throat still thirsts for life.

Suomi Café

People through the window
buoyant and mellow

altered by white letters—
Sound of pleasantries—

Sunshine of early morning—
On the wooden table

a laden plate, the pancake
browned lightly, by which

a fork is waiting—And the
benevolent close friend

The Transformation into a Woman

This poem was inspired by the old African folktale of the Children of the Anthill.
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A little bitty baby
Born in an anthill
Pops its head up
Where is her mother?

A little bitty baby
Born into a fantasy
A land of ogres
Where is her savior?

A little bitty baby
Continues to grow up
Kidnapped by ogres
Will she be dinner?

A little bitty baby
Now beautiful
Now an ogre's wife
Will she find herself?

A little bitty baby
Slays the ogres
Escapes to her anthill
Transformation complete.

Love?

What can you do with love let loose?
Hunt it down and rig the noose?
Or let it grow and render blind?
By stressing heart and dulling mind?

So many questions, what's the answer?
Is love superb or love a cancer?
I know not this but this I do,
Love is love and that is true.

Where The River Bends

This is a poem I wrote four years ago while I was in high school. I don't want to edit any of my old work because it is nostalgic.

















A steady breeze, raking your hair,
Sailing leaves around your ankles,
Making trees dance in the air.

You come to a gallant, proud stream,
Which keeps on moving, unhindered,
Its surface holy and agleam.

Every step you take, a new sound appears,
The leaves swish, the water churns,
Everywhere nature whispers in your ears.

All around you sway the mighty trees,
The skyscrapers of the forest,
Their tranquil moods leave you at ease.

You breathe in the fresh air of the Earth,
And realize you have never breathed before,
Society has stifled you since your birth.

So, listen to Mother Nature’s call,
To be at peace,
And, for once, be one with all.

And when your life at last ends,
You will return to this heaven,
Planted by where the river bends.

- Kyle Krym (2006)

Mister Two-Wrongs

I've been writing a lot of different types of poems and have been listening intently to rhythm and rhyme. This poem was a practice in repetition.
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My love took to flight, But now love's a swan song,
I'm not Mister Right, But I am Mister Two-Wrongs.

My love ran on trust, But you said I was blameful,
I'm not Mister Just, But I am Mister Shameful.

My love it was blind, But not so delightful,
I'm not Mister Kind, But I am Mister Spiteful.

My love ran along, But love wasn't agile,
I'm not Mister Strong, But I am Mister Fragile.

My love's now obscured, But I still can't forget,
I'm not Mister Cured, But I am Mister Regret.

My love, wish I could, But I can't change the sad,
I'm not Mister Good, But I am Mister Too Bad.

A Professor's Lament

My Global History II class is so boring it is impressive, but I can't help but feel bad for the professor. I wrote this poem in class and the drawing on the side is of my friend John who was taking a nap.
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The old man behind the podium speaks
- Does anybody listen?
He tries to talk loudly, waving his arms
- His old, tired eyes glisten
My distracted friend is playing tetris
- But still the old man goes on
The girl behind me is surfing the web
- Stopping only for a yawn
The tall boy in front of me is asleep
- I see the desk meeting chin
And I? I stopped listening long ago
- But the old man won't give in

Pen Marks (stream of consciousness)

Hey, I just finished this poem two minutes ago in my Global History II class. Shhhhh, don't tell the professor!
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This poem is unlike any other poem
Because unlike the me of other poems
The me of this poem is different
The difference is not in the poems
But in the mes behind the poems
Because the differences in the poems
Don't matter if you don't know
Any of the differences within me
And you don't know me like I know me
But how could you if I don't let you
These poems aren't emotions, but words -
Pen marks on a paper, color vs. no color
A study in contrast, devoid of life
But I keep putting the marks on the paper
Because of a desperate hope that one day
These pen marks find you and tell you
What I cannot tell you in this poem
Or in any other poem.

I love you.

Forget Me Not

Forget me not little flower, forget me not

And never will you leave my thoughts
Our love stems from the deepest roots
And bears the fruits of eternity
But while we're apart, please little flower
forget me not.

The Forget-Me-Not is my favorite flower - small and simple, yet beautiful. It is easy to forget its existence, but every time I see it I am reminded of the beauty of life.