A few more poems written in my high school creative writing class.  The premise of this series was explained here and today’s installment contains more “imitative poetry” including two somewhat less sarcastic poems I wrote on the subject of some of my friends who were taking the class.

A poem based off of “The Black Beast,” by an author I can no longer remember nor find on the internet.


Running around the corner, I catch a glimpse of it.
Or does it catch a glimpse of me?
Fangs glistening, it chases me.
Demanding sustenance, demanding my lifeblood.
Chanting confusing words with no meaning
Is it calling its cohorts to the hunt?
Or declaring me its sole prey?
I’ll soon be broke
But this long night will be over
I’ll be acquitted of this evil.
For out of the shadows here it comes
To devour me alive, with a cry of
Posturing, grinning malevolently, my fate is pronounced.
Here are its twelve associates now,
To watch me be devoured.
Consume alive by the

The Phantom Lawyer.

Ms. Cirimele: Can’t you ever be serious about anything, Mike?


There is a poem somewhere called "Ten Ways to look at ____" and though I can't remember what it was about I can picture its layout, which is what we were supposed to imitate here, in my mind.  And yes, I know there are thirteen stanzas.

Ten Ways to Look at Joey

A thick shaft of dark brown hair
Tinted red and glinting in the sun
Tops off Joey

Sitting outside
Or inside,
It’s all the same to Joey.

Stubble, five days old
Shadows Joey’s chin
Rugged and unkempt

Eyes to match his hair
Dark and wild
Joey’s stares are lethal.

Did you see Joey?
Running off to play
Or just running off to run
Joey likes to run.

Joey has a mother
And a father
And a sister
And a brother
But he’s still Joey.

Shorts that are plaid
Shoes that are orange
Many pairs of shorts
Many pairs of shoes

I know Joey well
He’s good at video games
All except Dance Dance

Joey has three red cars
One of them’s a Jeep
Two of them are not.
Joey’s family likes red cars

Sometimes when I wake up
I rub the sleep out of my eyes
But all I see is joey.

In the spring
The flowers bloom
And Joey stays indoors
“It’s getting too hot.”

Sometimes at night
I talk to Joey.
His name is blue.

Now Joey’s sitting next to me.
I could reach out
And poke his arm
But he’d get mad
So I won’t.


Another poem where the imitation was in the formatting.

Sold Car Blues

Hunter finds his car
The one he sold, six years ago.
Clutching the $1200,
He walks down the boulevard
Under the glaring parking lights.
Walks into the store
Now frequented by his Explorer.

Hunter has no place to flee except
To the bus stop, no ride unless
He finds his old bus pass.
He and a crazy old man sit in a single awkward moment,
On the too-small bench.
Here comes the diesel bus
Through a cloud of ashen soot
Wild faces pressed against the
Window.  Faces unknown.

He walks up the steps.
We see him deposit fifty cents,
Smiling at the bus driver; the families.
The bus lurches; on to the next stop.
Only the cloud of blackened
Smog remains.