My Award Winning (cough, cough) Poetry

This blog is going to host all of my poetry, both in draft and final form, as it is being written. I'm going to connect it to my other blogs, too. Also, I'm going to connect it to the International Library of Poetry, where my poetry has won several awards: six Editor's Choice awards, four Best Poet awards, a Who's Who in poetry award, a 2007 Commemorative Poetry Ambassador award, and two Poetry Fellowship awards. I have also won poetry awards through Random House, Noble House, and Reese Tyler publishing.

The Camp that Never Ends

I want to go off to one side for one
moment and see the mountains.
They are there, over above, covered
with snow as they hug themselves.
In my own mind, I am twenty and
built solidly, and I watch the snow
The gray zone of the peaks making a
pattern so beautiful it attracts
People who fear nothing, not Hell
itself, not falling itself, why
People who identify with Satan,
because of falling into chasms,
Down slopes, and how hard you have
to scramble off a cliff, while
You think you know a ghetto Hell; I
think there is a Heaven far worse,
Collect pay, keep working every day,
getting ready for a united hearse.
But as you leave, you have collected
enough pay, and you had friends,
A cup of Starbucks finally arrived,
near the Camp That Never Ends.

Karen Peralta
Copyright ©2009 Karen Peralta

Wrap Up of the Epic Poetry

Children were the eternal answer for those
Who could attain children, by force of mind,
And everything else that is the art of a kind.

However it may be, we don’t all write with sanity.
Comedy writers all pattern ourselves after the
Thing that is in the woods; arrogant laughter.

The sun is now speaking to me through a disguise.
Superman comics have come and gone again.
Comedy is my lunch and my true best meat.

I have been kidding you all along; I am worthy.
I am worthy to live while losing, but not yet.
It is its own dear sweet-hearted childhood pet.

The word “very” connotes virtue too much.
And virtue is almost the thing I cannot touch.
Unfortunately, I have been virtuous.

I was left to gather selfishness all alone by myself.
It is written in the stars that way for all mankind,
That Juliet was Juliet only in her own mind.

I would like to kill Romeo for that alone.
He is my enemy on his purple throne.
But he sent me the loveliest rose-colored photos.

The Phony Promise of Sympathy

You snore when I wheeze and you drool down my pillow
I hear you coming from the television set underneath
The set of dingy bass drums beating a tom tom beat
I can’t listen to your lies anymore; they’re unsized and
If you tell me one more time that you know me but
I don’t know you, I see your whole superstructure
Revolving around your long attempt to put me, one
Ear at a time, one finger at a time, one nipple at a
Time into an ebony locked box with a dead chicken
Revolving around my name, spouting off sympathy.

Logging Timber in the North West Territories

In order to keep following the dictates of your sacred
Working souls in chaos order - keeps the money flow
Through credit banks - and it must go ever forward
As lumber and timber camps are history not always aborted,
The Northwest Territories are new, strange raw lands.
I shake - reflect upon what this - aging peccary thus demands.
I saw someone go up there with fourteen giant rusty chainsaws,
People who take down trees through inebriation of concentration,
And you know, if I could be up above, that is exactly what I'd do.

Logging, logging, and eating food in an unearthly paradise of
Green distraction, constantly chanting, Move Forward, and Cut.
As timber falls down, we hear silver wolves howling on the Horizon,
There is a fallen once snowy mountain, and Dear God, there is it,
The mountains with snow aplenty waiting to be climbed and loved,
By overgrown boys who need pay and work and some few girls,
Driving trucks and taking all the work out from the Mexicans
Who need to be driving oh gosh they're already up there, spewing
Coffee from brown hands and curling around the fingers of time.

I can't do all forms of work, as no one else ever can, too, and I
Still long for the Life of Reilly - camping around the trees line!
There is no more beautiful smell for an instant than Evergreen,
A smell worth the blades runs of crashing timber faster than I;
Keep up with the men and boys and women, and log down dust.
But now I can only craft the ripe fruits of poetry, sap and rust.

I Really am Nobody

I am nobody, and have a lot of experience
Writing; do you see mistakes here fighting?
If you hire me I will work to deserve the money.
Some ghostly Roman Empire dreamed up human
Individuality or something by Jesus; the line,
"No, you're not allowed to be me." Really?

Unfortunately, it was lines transcended, and not
Just by mental patients and people who dress up
Other kinds of people. When you read a book, you
Share souls somewhat with the book's true author;
However, you never really get there from here.
Yes, there is no way to truly be each other.

All such imitations are flattery and nothing else.
I see. I said I’d be them, and you’d not understand.
Yet you are trying something, almost at "my"
Command. You are worried, but as to what you do;
On an errand is what you would seem to have been.
I see through the trees that paper exists, and is

Made out of bark, wood, and also a tree’s piety.
I see death in the woods, and it’s calling to me.
On the other hand, I am a coward unto infinity.
I don't know where the Promised Land was.
It is tantamount to going back home because
There’s no way to go home again – perhaps.

Gathering Selfishness as Needed

I was left to gather selfishness all alone by myself.
It is written in the stars that way for all mankind,
That Juliet was Juliet once again only in her mind.
I felt a little guilt ridden in my own moment you know.
She and I cohabited and made not too many foes.
Charles Dickens knew the sweatshops and so did Remmie
Peralta; they claim up unseen invisible victims who
Are each other? Yes, that's it. Stand down, not you, but
Them, until the whole universe is only one true friend.

Oh KKK, the thing that thinks only white is the
Way to stay your name. I wish I could think so, individuality
Is but only a sport beyond all of my banality? No dice.
I would have liked a world that didn't consist of white mice,
Albinism being poor sport for indoor global warming.
Of all alike groups of people who were all alike
Within their group, and all protected. It would
Have been better to see more such "individuality";
At least enough to make better fun of the concept.