Poetry of the Soul

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. ~Thomas Gray

A series of small poems April 24, 2011

Filed under: poetry — laurenmichelleotheim @ 1:51 am


Blinking is such a small decision

often it is not even a thought

But that momentary lapse in vision

would have been one less view of you

that I’d have caught.


The trip seemed to take an hour

across the room I nearly ran instead of walk

You stood there tall as if a tower

watching as I sweated and fretted

and spilt my wine upon the clock.


Are hard to come by in a hurry

stumbling and stuttering is best

For when they left in such a scurry

I found the words you guessed

less messed.

(c) Lauren Otheim – 2011


The perfect place April 17, 2011

Filed under: poetry — laurenmichelleotheim @ 4:48 pm

Many of you may have discovered my new favorite hobby long before I did. I have recently discovered that I love to stumble.  This past week I have been in bed with viral bronchitis (no worries, I’m almost recovered) so I have spent a particularly large amount of my time stumbling around the internet.  Today I came across the most poetic house I have ever seen and it is now my dream to live in it.

To read about and see the rest of the house click here.


Obscure April 11, 2011

Filed under: poetry — laurenmichelleotheim @ 6:58 pm

There are no more life shaping lessons from the often over-looked objects of desire. The obscure hero is gone. You are left to muse over the logic of the heart. How do you feel about the episodes of your life? It can all change in an instant with six little words: “Spells and Charms of Dragon Origin.” You may use these to bring on nervous affections of the brain, to round out the men of good intentions. But be warned, hero-hood will lead to loneliness and heartbreak. Yes, you will have adventures. They will be in search of simple keys and arcane women in distress. If you want to be rich, don’t buy this book.

(c) Lauren Otheim – 2011
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wingtips April 1, 2011

Filed under: poetry — laurenmichelleotheim @ 2:03 pm

Wingtips frayed from beating air

Invisible strength

Buoyed up I can see what I wish

I had already known

Junkyards stacked like Jenga

Filled with must-haves

Triple-jointed wishes

Bent away from intents

Trunks with holidays and families

Stuffed inside


Floating, I can see treetops

And sunlight before it’s filtered.

Flowers are polka dots for toddlers

And romantic walks that end in tragedy.

Someone has to do die.

What comes in between?


Rushing wind brings energy

Above the graveyard

Lives growing downward

Planting roots

Shoots sent sideways

Intertwining vitality

Gifts lay on grass as if we could

Reach through the tangle

Time is lost being sorry

For a history

(c) Lauren Otheim – 2011
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