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This poem was the first real poem I've ever written. I think it is a great representation of my writing style: lots of imagery that appeals to the reader's senses, consistent rhythm, and lots of imagination.

The Typewriter

Screen_shot_2016-05-21_at_1.42.14_pmby Sierra Ross21 May 2016

The Typewriter
2014

The only sound I hear is the sharp clicking of the keys
My cold fingers puncturing every letter
in a persistent rhythm

click, click, click.

on the typewriter

as I sit in the old library
each click echoing across
the vast dark room
bouncing off the rows of shelves
ricocheting off of every dusty book
wanting to go somewhere else
but unable to escape

on the typewriter

My imagination goes
beyond the library
the colors of my mind
fly around the room
and go where they please
and I am no longer in control

on the typewriter

Suddenly
I’m in a pine forest
with a sharp scent of spice
and every time I drew in
a new breath
I exhaled a misty fog
that would carry on across
the towering mountains
and as I ventured on
every pine needle
in my path
would prick my fingers
Just like every key does

on the typewriter.

Now I stand on the rough sand
which is scratchy in between my toes
on the east Coast
and I smell the salty air
that is also fresh
with a chilly breeze
that bites my skin
with its cold teeth
and that blows my hair
away from my face

as I look at the crashing waves
that feel like ice
and when I touch the them
it sends a chill
up my spine
just like every line does

on the typewriter

over the horizon
where the water meets
the misty sky
I look
and I hear the distant cry
of the lighthouse horn
and a glimmering light
parting the fog
drawing the ships nearer
to the rocky shore
I grip a jagged rock
and throw it into
the broken sea
and it shatters the glass
just like when
I throw away
my crumpled paper
and start fresh

on the typewriter

Finally, I watch
the brilliant yellow sun set
gently touching the farthest golden hill
of grass and wheat
like it is lying down to sleep
and the moon draws nearer to
the center of the black sky
and it pours rays of
white light on the field
and awakens the fireflies
which arise from the shadows
of the green blades
and a multitude of
miniscule yellow twinkling lights
fill the vast space
between me and the galaxy.
the galaxy of endless possibilities
that I could put into words

on the typewriter

click, click, click.