This is my most recent poem, not my best, but here it is:

Two Ponds

This spring, there were turtles everywhere.

From palm-sized babies to giant alligator snappers,

the two slimy, murky ponds had every size.

We caught a baby and kept it over-night, and 

this was the first of many that spent several 

hours in the big plastic planter. I imagined my mother

and her two sisters catching turtles years ago

from the same ponds, keeping the babies in 

empty cool-whip containers, passing around 

the bigger ones so that all could stroke its dripping brown shell.

I can picture my Mom wading in the larger of the two ponds, 

flicking water onto her younger sisters and daring them to 

go swimming in the realm of the alligator snappers. Back when 

the old wooden diving board was intact, they probably

would dive from it one after the other in swimsuits

and cut-off jean shorts. Maybe they would catch

worms and spear them onto a fishing pole,

dangling their legs in the water from a favorite perch,

swinging the pole back and slowly watching the red

and white ball float back to them, covered in algae,

just like we do now, except we can never actually 

catch a fish. My brothers, myself, and various cousins

explore the water just like our mothers; splashing 

and sharing legends about the giant alligator snappers,

catching all the turtles that come within our reach,

and watching their bobbing heads duck into 

the brown-green shadows when we pass. 

And here is one that was really fun to write:

Transmitters of Thought

Finger joints bent at the knuckle,

jagged oval nails clacking unevenly,

skin pressing in a way only described

by the black squares gently clicked

two at a time, excitedly, restlessly

then pausing, tentatively hoping for more,

tremulous, as the blood circulates under

the rough skin, marred by scratches,

the criss-cross lines spread open

like the veins of a leaf, extending

with every grasp of the curled

fingers, working in wrinkles,

writing in riddles, catching phrases,

however random, and harvesting

every word they create, scratching

themselves, tapping in aimless rhythm,

forever moving in energy yet indescribable

flattening, and inhaling, sharp ends 

picking forgotten shreds of nail-polish,

until at a single command, they slow,

stretching, lying across the words they

have fingered, scribbled, re-traced, now alive.

SC... That was AMAZING. 

Imaginary Friend (it's not the best but whateva)

I'm not leaving you

you'll never see me again

this is not goodbye

you're not leaving me

I'll never see you again

but I can't ask why

the word spins too fast

I grew up much to quickly

way to late to try

imaginary

they say you're not even real

but I won't take sides