I wrote this poem today and thought I would share it… Tell me what you think it’s about….

I’m down here!
They buried me alive in a stone tomb
The walls are cold as ice
Oh. There’s a shovel in my hand
A hole?
A hole.
A hole beneath my feet.
The sides are deep.
And there’s a shovel in my hand.
Can you hear me?
My voice is lost in the labyrinth inside me.
Hear me through my eyes.
Is that a window?
No. Just a hole to the less dark dark above me.
Less dark dark is still not freckled with stars.
Less dark dark is still not outside.
Was that?
That was just a scream.
A very
Little scream.
Who screamed?
I know.
I screamed.
I screamed.
Did you hear?




I haven’t written in a loooong while so I thought I’d post this poem that I wrote the other day. It’s a poem about war, I literally cannot think of anything else to say but I hope you like it….. 🙂

Came the cry and over side you fell
Tripping as you ran
Dodging bomb and shell.
Gone is happy song and cheer of yesterday,
Gone are meadows sweet in which the children play.
Boys are playing now but the games are far too rough
Don’t want your white feather?
Then you cannot scream “ENOUGH”
Sleep, silent wonder
Life’s not yours to own
Never reach your native shore
Never get back home
Beautiful fatality
Thrown down.
True morality?
Caught up by mortality
Choked in men’s brutality.
Drown in lost tomorrows
Of boys but never men
Send out more and more and more
Time and time again.
Crushed under foot
Untended sorrel
Is this courage good?
Will it win my laurel?
Hark now, hear it
“Come” the angels call
They do not speak to you and me
But take our rescuers all.

Limits- A poem

Can anyone really have a concept of time?

I don’t think time can be caught,

But slips, ever elusive, just out of reach.

We have put bounds on time,

As we do to anything we cannot comprehend.

Hemming it in.

Giving it a border.

An end, and a beginning.

Really, we have only seen,

A blade in the field of grass.



But as we are,

With death,

And life.

We believe all things have a cut-off point.

The end of the line.

How long is a piece of string?

When does pi end?

What is Infinity?

Even as we give it a name,

We confine it.


8 letters long.


4 letters.

Held in by our inability to see the big picture.

The infinite picture.

That stretches limitless,

Past all human comprehension.

And into the unknown.

The Yellow Dress.

This is a poem that I wrote about losing childhood. When I was about 9, I had (as I describe) a yellow dress. It had pink flowers on it and was, in all opinions aside from my own, very ugly. So for about a summer of my life I walked around looking rather like a battenberg. This poem started off being about another dress I owned, it was a huge, heavy, denim dress with massive pockets perfect for holding notebooks or a small teddy bear, but I changed it to be about my Yellow Dress. Anyway, I hope you like it!

The Yellow Dress.

By H. Evans

When I was younger,

I wore a dress.

A yellow dress.

I mock myself now.

But then,

The ugly material was as beautiful to me

As silk or satin is now.

I laugh.

But really,

I cry.

Missing my yellow dress.

And the girl in it.

Now I stand

For hours.

Sifting through my clothes.

Searching for a yellow dress.

That can’t be found.

Gone like the girl who wore it.

My memory hates the yellow dress.

But loves the girl who went with it.

Who grinned at the way the yellow stuff

Caught the sun.

And turned to gold.

My sister scorned the dress.

When it didn’t fit me anymore.

I tried to make her wear it.

But love,

Like anything,

Cannot be forced.

And even as the soft cloth slips through my fingers.

So the girl.



Glancing back over her shoulder,

At me.

Tied down with more beautiful dresses,

That make me feel small.

Flying in her yellow dress.


With the sheer exhilaration of life.

Painted against my memory,

A patch of yellow in my past.