Samuel Frost Poetry

I am a freshly baked Boston Cream doughnut

Warm and inviting, but I don’t have cream

I am a spongy twinkle in the hands of a child

Who cries because I am empty



I am a tire without air

Unable to continue my journey

I am a school without children

No joyful sounds will I emit



I am a soul without purpose

Wandering aimlessly in the world

I am a hollow man.

A vessel without essence.



SFP

1/29/25

WAGING WAR

The enemies advancement is relentless
But they are met by force every time
This see-saw conflict seems endless
Each sides tactics seem sublime

The enemies fatigues are emerald and azure
The color of their caps are white
Their combatants hearts are righteous and pure
Their tawny uniforms menacing to the sight

You can hear the battle cry of the waves
As they search for a weakness on the bank
But the sand holds and the beaches are saved
Hopes, like pirate ships, have all sank

Wave after wave attacks the shore
While the spongy sand holds its ground
This battle will rage forever more
With neither sides advantage to be found

SPF
5/22/23

Time
Saturday, November 5, 2022

If life is but the seasons, doesn’t it stand to reason
That in youth, you think you have time.
But summer replaces spring whilst troubadours sing.
You search, finding words that rhyme.
You grab your paper and pen, and you try to begin
Writing prose others will find sublime.

There are weddings to be had and soon you’re Mom or Dad
Responsibility weighs you down.
Your words carry more weight, as your time grows late.
You can see the frost of Winter bearing down.
So, you arrange your thoughts like children on the sand lot
And spew them out before you drown.

I'm finally at that stage where my thoughts like to rage
At the injustices that I find.
As I have grown older, my ideas have grown colder
As they flit around my mind.
But I haven't time to think nor enough alcohol to drink
So my words can seem unkind.

I must express my thoughts, or it will all be for naught
As I sit, ready to write.
The words begin to spill, and the pages begin to fill.
Soon morning becomes night.
Inevitably the words end, so I put down my pen
And head to the kitchen for a bite

SFP
8/11/23