Poems written in my spare time

I write poetry very rarely. Usually once a year, and often less. I don't write it with any intention of publication and am admittedly ignorant regarding its rules, forms, and history. I create poems solely to enjoy reading them and hope that others may enjoy reading them as well.
Below are four of my favourite original poems as well as my two most successful "mashed" poems. Mashed poetry is a practice I began as a means of inspiration, where I take a line or two from well-known quotes and use them as the start of a poem. I own no part of any quotes I've used in mashed poetry and have named the poems after their source.

An Ending

I watch my end completing
As if it were not mine,
As if I were but sleeping
Awash in all my lies.
So soon my heart stops beating;
So soon my eyes fog blind;
A part of me is grieving,
But mostly I don't mind.

Until the darkened shadows
Come seeking my demise;
Each one a faded memory,
A waste of precious time.
They whisper ever softly,
Remind me as I die,
That all my life is darkness,
That all their faults are mine.

They count my laboured breathing,
And tell me of my crimes,
Each one a moment fleeting,
An evil left behind.
I feel my own soul leave me;
I hear my final sigh;
My dying thoughts deceive me;
There's no one left to cry.

Running Water

The withered flowers lose their hue.
The colours fade; the fragrance, too.
And though the sky's still brilliant blue,
The river's cold and grey.

Watching its motions, secret oceans,
There comes to me a subtle notion,
Wondered sweetly,
How completely happy it must be?

But fog descends, the river bends,
And in its winding path,
I sense a fear;
A storm is near,
The tempest's stubborn wrath.

Softly called by wind and shadows,
Crawling to that river's shallows,
Leave behind the fields and fallows;
Fall into the water.

Before too long there comes the song
Of raindrops on the shore.
The ripples grow, the rivers flow,
And I am gone once more.


The sunrise tolling has begun
Like every day
For every sun
Reminding when to eat, to sleep
That dawn has come
What time to keep
There and then and never after
Hoping seconds don't tick faster
Instinct hardly seems to matter
Clock hands shifting are our master
Controlling, holding
Every way
The tolling of the day.

The Turning

I never cried when you fell ill.
I never tried to keep you still.
You never died; you never will.
You're violet blooms; you're daffodil.

And though winds cry of winter's chill,
Though birds leave shy your windowsill,
Until I die I'll see you still
As violet blooms and daffodil.

Mashed Poetry

My Enemies Surround My Soul*
Sir Thomas Wyatt

"These bloody days have broke[n] my heart;
My lust, my youth, did them depart"

And in their stead a fear, a dread
Has conquered, smothered, crushed, and shred
My life to naught but pain and strife,
A grief that cuts me as a knife
Until my head
Is rightly bled
Of all that's happened, all that's said
And I am left with not a thread
Of nothing

Macbeth IV, i, 85-86
William Shakespeare

"That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,
And sleep in spite of thunder."

With lullabies of sheltered lives
And worlds still full of wonder,
Where if I dared I might be spared
The truth, the shame, the plunder
My past in light, my sins, my spite,
My whole life torn asunder
Can there still be a calm for me
In dreams and hopes of slumber?
Or is such peace for now deceased,
Reserved for those still younger?