"Mine all Mine!"
A thief I long to be
Your eyes original like the moon and sea
A lover in the world............
An Anthology, you walk and talk like the word "AMOR."
The words you send, I nicely tuck under my pillow
Every note every line you left behind
I memorized till they became all mine
Unauthorized I scrape the concrete calluses off the tongue
Pirating the perfect dramatic monolog look,
Basking through the passage around your Bio,
Lost in the musky scent -around the sonnet of your aura light
Epic enough, I reach inside to feel every idyllic rhyme
A strong iambic meter curse, conjuring up the perfect verse
In you I lift a copy paste from your lips,
No need to credit the sources in your bliss
The sweetest undamaged sensual memorandum book
A moment I stole and sealed without copyright proof
My dearest Poet,
When you move across the room
I see a thousand arrows that follow from behind,
Indulged when you speak and point out a verse per verse
I am a victim pampered by your words,
Sponging every line, adding them to my crib notes
Improved wordplay that infringed my everyday diary
A haiku so tangible, it sets the perfect images in my dream,
Hypnotize after I read your first love poem
A printed feeling--
Borrowed from the sun
-A poet in heat-
Ink carries its own tale,
When moonshine intoxicates your pen
Bottles of ink fill your mind
Composing symphonies on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails
This part of you
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The tough skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger plus anger "GIVE ME MORE!"
You have a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet: "Ink Never Lies."
Pretty pink acrostic ink when she's nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sung under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Ode's of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propagandas
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
((Only this, and nothing more))
Writing is like giving birth
Inspired by the write of you
creamed through a paper sieve to cup
with both hands the leavings that you trail
the write of you
like the chewed edge of hand pressed paper
like the apostrophe of lash on the cheeky page
I ogle the syncopated semen-antic drop of
the write of you
how often does the wonder of you flash
across the film of my eyes unable reach
for I am so enchanted with the coffee-au-lait
write of you
Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.
And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.
I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.
I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave,
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.
"What does hate feel like?"
"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."
I write each letter by hand in careful cursive.
I want every sentence to be pretty,
to look feminine and delicate -
to soften the ugliness you face everyday.
After each line, I let the ink dry.
You don't deserve smudges.
You don't deserve any of this.
My words are foolish,
full of meaningless descriptions
of meaningless events.
But I can't sit here at this polished desk -
in this cozy room in this quiet house
on this peaceful street
and write what I'm really thinking.
I can't be selfish.
So I keep writing my careful cursive
on my pretty stationary.
I keep sending my meaningless letters
into the ugly world - to wherever you are.
And no matter how many times
I open the mailbox, I'm never prepared
for that hideous stamp,
that heartless phrase:
"Return to Sender."
For Michael's "Boomerang" contest
I write a poem that will entertain the world.
A poem that will fade someone's fear.
The one that will inspire you to smile.
Something that can make you out of mind.
I write a poem for lovers and friends,
To describe the feelings, how is love moves the earth.
A poem that encourages deads to live.
To keep the sun shines over the fields.
I write a poem that makes the whole world read.
A sentimental of a heart from lover who left.
The adventure of a man who travelled the lands and seas.
The agony of a woman who lost her baby.
I write a poem....
Until my ink gets dried.
Until the sun meets the horizon.
'til there's no tears fall in my eyes.
I write a poem...
To fall in love once more.
To hold the hand of a new lover,
To see the stars, the moon in full bloom.
I write a poem....
Until the last leaf falls in tree.
Then my life fades in the shadow of eve.
And every memories be left in dreams.
I write a poem....
Please care to comment and sealed with a kiss.
Choose one or two to be your favourites.
And dont forget, fave the author of masterpiece. =D
** 2nd Place Winner in Poet Destroyer aka Linda's Contest: Any Poem #28 **
I think it’s time I write
Write you OUT
Of the coming pages of my life
On every page
that's ever been
Keeping the plot a disguise
My heart's demise
Slowly but surely
By your unseen hand
I reread chapters
You were in my yesterday
You haunt my today
I don’t want you in my tomorrow
Not when you only bring me pain
I’m going to write you out
Cause I couldn’t write off
The debt of pain
I STILL OWE
To your oh so exacting heart...
I can't write it off
I’ll do the next best thing
I'll write you OUT
Out of the next scintillating sizzling sexy sentence
Out of the next dreamy dreamscape
Out of the next contentment compartment
Out of the next feminine fruition fantasy
For you've written only fragments
Sentence fragments of the greater picture me
I’m going to write you OUT
Of MY book
The book of ME
Oh, it could have been
The best seller of your LIFE
But now you'll never know
Cause the coming pages are clean
for some beautiful soul
Some expert author
With the plot of pleasure
Bursting from his heart
I'll LET HIM
Scribble his lines
Those glorious curves and dots
all over my body and mind
all over me...
Yes....spill his passion inked words
I'm going to write IN
Oh...so deep and gloriously...IN
The book of ME
If I was to write of love, then from my
nib your heart would flow. Dreams
would be the parchment on which I
scribe, and your fragrance the sentence
formed. A desire and passion would
flood my page, with intermittent kisses
instead of punctuation. Chapters of
grace would fill your eyes, the contents
feelings spill your soul. The ink from
deep and pulsing veins, would secrete
the validity of my emotions. I see and
do not see, for with your absence my
page is blank, yet in your thought reams
I write. Let this page be a blanket on
which those eyes could sleep, and
realize my love is not a dream, but
reality in reaching words.
It will hurt like a tattoo guns sting
as the ink infiltrates your skin.
Your first love will be like a tattoo on your heart,
always remembering the blessings and pain he gave you.
Be with a person who fills you with fluttering hummingbirds
even after the first and second and tenth kiss
who drinks the nectar of your demons and sucks them lifeless.
There will be men who you think will carry you forever
but after so long of holding
your feet above the water
they will throw you down.
They will not reach out a hand to pick you back up.
They will turn cheek,
kissless and forgotton.
You will stand with dirt palms
and fall back into his inferno.
There will be loves like this,
who convince you to prick yourself with safety pins,
the ones who carry guns on their backs
but never shoot to protect,
only to hurt.
The ones who drink all the water,
leave you parched in the desert of his mistakes
telling you that they are your own.
The ones who shoot arrows in your lungs
and you lye bleeding
believing that the color of your blood is true love for him.
The hour hand will spin around the clock
too many times before you leave him.
It will hurt.
You thought it was true,
but after the death of it
you will realize you deserve someone so much sweeter
than a bitter apple.
Love the one who doesn’t cheat you blind,
but instead comes to you with truths in his wretched palms
and waits for you to
but never gives up and never stops wishing that the past could rewind
that he could change the things wrong that he did to you.
Love the one who feeds your heart warm apple pie,
who cries in front of your children,
who drives them to school and hugs them when they get home.
Be with someone who doesn’t ask for you to change
but instead loves your mistakes
cradles them within his fabric lungs
breathes them in with a grin.
Love is an interesting thing.
You will be thrown out of a moving car to the side of the road.
Some will come running back to you.
Don’t jump back in the front seat,
until you find someone who buckles the seat belt for you.
Drives five under the speed limit,
takes things slowly and waits for you to be ready to accelerate.
I am here for you.
Remember me, the one who loved you first,
the one who will never stop loving you.
Come to me after he breaks up with you.
You can cry on my shoulder,
and ill wipe your tears with my sleeve.
Find a love who loves you the way
that your father and I love you,
the way that your grandmother loves you.
Find a love who already considers you family.
Who meets you
and looks into your ocean eyes
and drowns peacefully into your heart.
I never learned how to pray
because often times the silence preaches louder than the sermon,
and the bullets of my heart don’t bleed like you think they should
instead they melt
melt like icecream set out in the summer sun,
like the mountain snow run off into the streams,
like ice clamped together between my fist,
my fists that stop bullets from protruding my skin,
my fists that explode and scream louder than a sermon.
God, don’t look at me like that.
Your pupils look like firing bullets,
knocking us out one by one by one,
saying you can’t come in
because you never learned how to pray.
God, don’t look at me like that.
Your iris’s look like vortexs of instability
rolling our ground like an earthquake
telling us to do more,
or we can’t come in.
My fists stop the bullets and together our fists make boulders,
knocking down our insecurities
one by one by one.
If we don’t make it in
then that is okay
because our fists will turn into butterflies
and our hearts will turn into lions
and our bones will turn into the infrastructure of hell
because that is what my preacher told me.
Preacher, don’t look at me like that,
don’t shake your head at my appearance
just because I have ink on my arm doesn’t make me less of a person,
just because I have color on my eyelids,
just because my skirts above my knee,
just because my fists don’t unwind and interlock doesn’t make me less of a person.
I never learned how to pray
because often times the silence preaches louder than the sermon.
God, don’t look at me like that.
I carry our friendship in my mind
And like a “Welcome Home” banner
It warms my heart.
When I see flowers in bloom
I think of your poetry;
How your words paint such colorful,
Even on the greyest of days
They brighten my world,
Shed light on my emotions,
Lift my spirits, and give comfort to my soul.
We are kindred spirits in our love of nature,
The gift of children and the wonder of the
Animal kingdom, how it nurtures us in love,
Inspires us to want to share through
Poetry the beauty of this planet.
When you write of waterfalls
I feel the cool mist on my face.
When you write of trees
I see their lovely trunks and limbs
And how closely they resemble people.
When you write about the wayward wind
An awesome chill cloaks my body.
As you relate the power of the moon
I feel her tug at my emotions and
Her authority as she reigns over the seas.
The contrast of serenity and excitement
Abound when you speak of the sparkling
Stars, their soft glow or burst of beauty as they
Burn a bright light through a cobalt sky.
Tears of joy stream down my smiling face
As you describe the sunrise and sunset
In a rainbow of hues from silver to scarlet.
It leaves me breathless in awed elation.
Each season offers a new delight in what you write
And our friendship grows deeper and more
Meaningful with each creation.
When you write of love, I feel loved.
You are a blessing and a joy in my life.
I carry our friendship in my mind.
© 2011 Connie Marcum Wong
I write all kinds of things, about my husband.
He does not have a clue, to what it means.
If he was to sit and write.
I wonder what he would write about me.
Thanks GOD for poetry.
A language that not every body get.
Let me write you a poem.
A poem so great Bukowski would give me a hats off-
And hand me a beer.
A poem so well-written, John Mayer would play me a
Tribute song with his guitar.
Let me bring Shakespeare to shame-
Let me write you sonnets one and two,
Three, Four and maybe
Let the only alliteration be that of our laughter,
As we exchange puns and stories.
Let the words “I love you” be an understatement.
Let us be the Paradox – and let the popcorn munching crowd watch us with awe.
Let the touching of our lips write Concrete poems.
Let your embraces warm me with Haikus.
Chase me through Couplets where we are the only couple.
Let the only Dramatic Monologue be that within my palpitating heart.
Wrap me with imagery-
Shower me with smiles and similes.
Be the Free Verse,
Be the Epic poem,
Be the Ghazal poetry drunkards wrote to their loved ones…
Be the hero in my Heroic couplets,
Be the one.
Just let me write you a poem-
Where your name is the only repeated term.
Where the only irony is the twist of fate that brought us together.
Where the only onomatopoeia is the ROAR of your rusty car’s engine.
Where we stand like Oxymorons- contradictory but side by side.
Just let me write you a poem.
Or a novel
Or a play
Or a song-
Let me write you something.
It’s okay to leave the dishes in the sink,
to wash your hands with sanitizer instead of soap.
Your mother will joke
about how it doesn’t get your hands clean enough
but when was the last time you listened to her anyway.
It’s okay to cry today,
to use your sleeve instead of tissues.
It’s okay to take that thing that hurt you
and throw it out of the moving car,
just don’t go back to pick it up,
it’s not lost luggage,
it’s buried tumors.
It’s okay to hate God today,
to change his name to yours,
to grab the headstone with your mitten covered hands
and try to knock it over.
Throw the snow at it,
the roses have died.
It has been too long since the passing,
but I give you permission to hate God today.
It’s okay to break into the liquor cabinet
and medicate peacefully,
to drink too much sometimes
and not know where you’ve been
because you’ll eventually find yourself.
It’s okay to walk alone sometimes,
sort your thoughts,
to clear the air with air,
and dry the wounds with salt.
It’s okay to climb into bed early
and stare at the ceiling,
to just tell yourself that it’s okay.
Bold lines are taken from the poem Letter From My Heart to My Brain by Rachel McKibbens
Some madness banter of insanity
is pulling at my thoughts
in giant verbs and huge marching nouns
collecting snippets as it walks
stomping on flowers
and mushing liquid the paints of images
with great toed boots
I can hear it coming
a hefty heavy steady stamp
and I am almost afraid that it might rack me
hit me hard
and demand some elucidated expression from me
I would shudder
but excitement won't let me
Instead it sets me to a creaking ball points
and tiny alphabets that strain my eyes
while spelling out its diffident request
Write it says
Write, while some half cold sickness grip my stomach
and I wretch on grammar
and thus the great feathers quill
dips in the ink of my soul
and so ineptly scribbles epilepsy
explanation, image, wordage, spillage of sensory lobotomy
partridge in a god-damn pear tree
Curl about my finger
and reek havoc through those dictionary brain cells
yer! smash them brain cells
mush, mash and squeeze the last drip
find expression in the gooey lumps that are left
WRITE ! god dam it !
Be succinct, be poetic
surpassing idiom and useless language
for Christ sake just WRITE it !
Pilloried on my own sheets of paper
by my own pen
because it never catches enough
as it twist this origami of words
I want to express
To etch with you
A moment of perfection
I need your voices
I need to hear you sing my poets
I need these scratching and scathing claws
and I need your delicate dance
I need something to end this misery
and I need this piquant
this ever enlightened soul search of words
to wrap up this bundle of love
And toss me nonchalant into eternity
Lest some madness of bantered insanity
Takes hold of me
Write a poem for me
from the bottom of your heart,
look for the words still there waiting,
waiting for your nod
to bloom into flowers
like the roses of your garden,
give them a chance,
place them one by one carelessly
stitch a poem with those flowers to be.
Write a poem for me,
listen to the words
deeply embedded in your heart,
their desire to become a stream
and dance down a mountain's lap
to drench you,to drench me.
Write a poem for me
carelessly picking up those words
may be with some mistakes
I like as they are
I will touch them and watch
how they bloom into flowers,
and everyday among those words
my undestined walk
to reach to a stream
and wait under a mountain's lap
to get drenched.
Trickling over my mind
Came scampering the question
This dilemma of a heart
Come running into my embrace
Stricken with fright
It asked me
Father, why do we write
And so I dipped my feather in the darkness of my mind
And brought forth my answer
I wrote of fear and the love that comes at a dreadful cost
Of meaning and of the fight for knowledge
I wrote for voices unheard
I cried for emotions long forgotten
And the answer came to me as the tears wrote their own tale
Painted in pain was the image of a long forgotten glory
Of emotions left unstirred
Come to see what these words have conspired
Come to see how these words have called them from their sleep
To ensue in them an undaunted hunger
Well my dear son
Here comes my answer to you
I write not for you
Nor for me
I write for what is within you
What has bubbled forth within me
I write to stir the masses
Willful subjects of our being
They huddle in wait
The towering limestones of their cave grow eon by eon
As they rot away, moment by moment
I write for them
We write for the grim
The unnoticed prestige
We write for what you have neglected to see
To bring it forth before your eyes
To fix your head with an iron collar
To make you a slave of our direction
We write to be your masters, when you need one most
We write to fix your gaze on what you have never lost
We write to drag forth from the depths of your inky heart
We are the harbingers of emotion
Be it hate or lust
The unseen veil of ignorance, or to shatter the blinding globe of pride
We are the harbingers of sight
With our binding collars, our guiding feathers, dripping the black sweat of our labored toil
You will come to see
What has not been seen before
Fathers of a relationship sown by words, sealed by the dawning of the sun, the dawning of
Your feathers, to your wings or to your ink
And feathers will flutter
Bearing you into the frigid embrace of the skies
And when the winds will them no more
We will descend upon the ground
And speak to the earth as we are reclaimed in its rough embrace
We will write to the trees, when we cannot write to the birds, the sun, and the sky
And through the trees we will see the stars
And to them we will write about the shade
© Samir Georges
Edited for Deb's Free Verse Contest on why we write.
a pocketful of rice
a handful of millet
a roll of the dice
put it in a tin can
wrap it up with tape
tie on a wooden spoon
to shake it for a price
I never thought I'd miss the clickety-clack,
like a tap dancing minstrel, hour on hour
the carriage would incessantly slide,
only to pause for a cigarette and more
as smoke ribboned you would write again
in its foggy veil and I would nod off
leaving you - a misty aberration.
I cherish that now, and the earring
in my breast pocket, golden, like your memory
and my promise to return it to you
will be kept, no matter.
Your novels used to be of love,
of plane tickets to romantic beaches,
instead, you write now of beaches
where young men die and lovers cry.
My strength lies in your embrace
and thoughts that still hold you.
Be safe, and write of love once more.
Inspired by those separated by WWII, their sacrifice and the brothers and sisters that are now joining those that they lost so young, so many years ago.
I have entered a room filled with handshakes and friendship
Sharing hugs here and there, there's a buzz in the air
Soupers queued, center stage, with a rhyme and a theme
One is reading a poem with applause from the wings
There is laughter, and sharing......and a microphone blaring
A few poems being read, but no one is hearing,
since the chatter is loud, and the crowd's having fun!
I'm checking who's here, are they cool, are they new?
Is she who I had dreamed behind her avatar screen?
Is he who he had seemed as his poetry deemed?
How great is this chance, to catch a real glance
and see all those faces, my computer just beamed
I look for a friend, who has traveled quite far
Taking trains, or a plane, in a bus or a car
I'm happy to say, they are nicer by far
than I'd ever expected.......these Poetry Stars!
10/31/13 ......for Yasmin's Contest: Meeting the Soupers
I regret not writing you down,
You swam through my mind
Linking words and thoughts
With gossamer chains
That glistened with meaning,
But the kitchen can was calling my name
Using the voice of my wife.
There were skinned knees to be kissed,
Equations to be sorted out,
House rules to be followed.
Has the opportunity passed?
Have you flown, like a caged bird
Through a conveniently open window?
Are you even now winging toward
Another poet, a different writer?
I have the scraps, the fragments,
The word-pieces I had intended
To build you from.
I will try to arrange them so,
In hopes they cast the same shadow.
Like my grandmother’s smile
You linger just behind my eye,
Waiting for me,
Wanting to be released
In just the ‘write’ form.
Write me something,
From the depths of the dark,
Like you've pushed me hard against the wall,
And your fingers are splayed out over my skin,
Carassing the color into it.
Heart pounding hard,
Your hand cupping my juicy mound,
Rubbing me into dizzy circles.
I want the passion of your tongue,
Dancing with mine,
Swirling down over the cream of my throat,
To find its tender spot.
I want you suckling hard on the taunt,
Sensitive rosebuds of my breast.
Your hands roaming my curves,
and sliding through my folds,
To sweet warm juices.
I want your lips to travel,
Down the sides of my belly,
Till they nip at my hips,
And for you to gently lick my glistening bud.
Flick it with your tongue,
Circle around it again and again,
And then - plunge in.
Tongue burried deep inside me,
I want you to rock your face against my hips,
Suck every drop of juice from me.
Pump your fingers into my warmth,
Glistening with my wetness,
Make me cry out your name,
Hands thick in your hair,
Bring me to explosion,
Anf then gently kiss the fire away,
Rising the tempature again,
Bringing that thrum to pound in my core,
Slide that thick, throbing cock,
Deep past my lips, and fill me.
Darling, write me something,
Make love to me with words.
In a world where we are constantly told how we should do this and that,
we must learn to thank them for their opinions…but, to listen to our own
hearts and THINK for ourselves.
There is a difference between guidance & being told what to do; where
opinions are sometimes, sadly, just glorified pre-judgments in hiding. In this
world today, more than ever, we must stand our ground and water our seeds
with our own heartbeats.
Because in the time one could spend listening to loud/louder/loudest opinions
of why one should or shouldn’t do it someone else's way, one could have
already done it their own way. Always move in the direction of time:
Another herd of evaporated soliloquies
Flashing warning signs of good-will
Unto the lost
The righteously blind
They simply ask for a sip of strenuous cognac
To lighten regurgitated burdens
Yet, throats become condensed with
Under a cratered moon, afflicted with two-faced vertigo
How can one stand in the face of adversity
When our legs are kicked from the same foundations
That opinion’s high court built
How can I be told to write with syllabic serenity
When a rambunctious rhyme
Would be the socialized death of me
“Guided” by educated parchments, recycled without signatures
If poetry is freedom,
Why do critics scream in beer-battered rings of opulent contradictions?
If poetry is freedom,
How is one frowned upon for speaking the word of Life, the word of God
The same God who told us to speak upon epiphanies’ climactic pain
Towards the same “heaven”,
They’ll arrive at.
©Drake J. Eszes
A solitary piece the diamond
precious rare gem most treasured
by those lucky enough to hold
Once in possession it is rarely out of grasp
Like the gemstone the mother
requires very specific conditions
in holding fast her (family/) childrens love
Treasured forever in her heart
she will go out of her way
to preen and protect them
holding them dear to her
deep within her maternal safe – the heart
closely guarded by the mind
Her infatuation of all treasures to her
are totally understandable
especially when you think to the complexity
of structure and process taken in creation
Just as from the ‘unbreakable’ in ancient greek
this alletrope of carbon
with strength of bonding between atoms
is representative of that strong love
between mum and child
The maternal being could be compared
to the superlative physical qualities of the stone
Even the characteristic luster
of this gem so prevaient from its ability
to disperse light and colour
compared to the many strengths, roles and qualities
of the mother
seen by the many she deals with daily
A most high pressured job
versus the high pressured temperature
within the Earths mantle
that forms the delightful rock it gives birth to
Infants delight and ignite the forbearer
just as the jewel would dazzle the room
a mother’s love encaptures the magical luster
of those she’s birthed and nothing
stands inbetween this richest of cargo’s
I suck at dying poems
Chemo poems, Metastatic Cancer poems,
Hair falling out in the shower poems
And I told a half truth
When I told you I could write you one
In less than six months (It's been eight)
I apologize for being so late
I wanted your poem to be pink and graceful
Like those ribbons
I see all over the internet
Filled with cheesy generic rhymes
That read like a Hallmark audition
But already my metaphors are melting
And my similes are getting soft
I guarantee you the rhyme meter will be off
When I went to Google
And the typed in the word 'happy'
Three billion links came up
Not a single inference to
Breast cancer, hair loss
No redirects to mastectomies
Yahoo wasn't any kinder
The only thing research could teach me
Is that a good day on chemo
Is when your stool doesn't come out tar Black
And has no blood in it
Or when your urine
Smells better on Wednesday
Than it did on Tuesday
Sleeping less than 12 hours
When 24 would be better
America has more poets
Than it does alcoholics
And Pot smokers combined
And you chose me to be
Your Breast Cancer
Trusting me to write a poem
About the biggest battle in your life
So I refuse to finish this poem
Without something bright and hopeful
And don't think
I didn't notice your Facebook activity
Had decreased by 88%
In the last three months
And you aren't really
Coming to any more of my poetry shows
Ever again. Are you??
But we still have March, April
But even if you had one breast
Or no breast
Or if you had less hair than I do
I promise to look only in your eyes
And never ever even notice
Or even think about it
And never for a moment
Would I feel sorry for you
Yes I suck at lying too...
But I don't suck at loving you
Or at hoping you wake up tomorrow morning
With no Cancer at all
And that The Eiffel Tower will be right outside
Your bedroom window...
And I would be right there with you
Holding your hand while we look down on Paris
And you can impress me with your French again
And if I ever make it
To the Pulitzer Poetry board
I might lose a thousand points
Just for this poem alone
And my hopes for the prize will be smitten
And some old person
With white hair will say
That was the worst love poem ever written
We`re on our way
Visiting good old friends from Norway
Now living in Turkey
Its the smiling country
We got everything we need..and more so
Romantic evenings with candlelights on the table
Eating out everyday,and watching the perfect sunset
The scenery is beyond spectacular
Not so nice sceneries comes sneaking into my thoughts
TV news shows an infant,shot to death..right through her chest
Another infant penetrated by grenade splints,now laying dead on a table
Her father screams in pure anger,anxiety and endless grief
More than 200 innocent civilians found,sliced to death by the army
Schools..hospitals are being used as canon targets
Civilians being forced to walk infront of tanks..defenceless kids most of them
Just in case resistance groups should make any attempt to stop these heavily armed forces
They are used as living targets
All within the hour from a holiday paradise in Turkey
Tears are shed for you..brothers and sisters
Your life is bleeding out of you..but your spirit will fight `til the bitter end
How cruel..How unfair it all is in this world
My thoughts and prayers are with you Syria
April 4th 2012
And I love you
Like a dog’s first date
With a fire hydrant
No, that’s not right.
I worship you
As if you were a wine collection owned by Jesus
Minus the prerequisites
Wait, it’s you again, my yesterday.
Why are your eyes seducing my stanzas?
You linger in my mist
Equivalent to a bipolar lighthouse
Blinking rapidly for hope to notice your sadness
While your light bulb remains cracked
Ok, back to it.
No longer do I need careless whispers.
I just want to hold your hand
Swinging life away from skeletons’ demeanor
Be my sun, as I rise
I’ll be your sun, as we set
Damn it, I smell your unwashed lyric again!
Why do your illiterate, colored eyes remain atop my mountain?!
I tossed your heart off my peak
That humidified night in June
When God’s tornado told me to stay away from your fallacy!
You’ve become a rejected stranger, stranger.
Sigh, ok, one last try.
You want me to be your diamond
On platinum band
But, I just want to be an “I miss you”, tomorrow.
I can ask no more than this.
To be a chorus in your daily songs,
You continue glazing my thoughts
Hang gliding your way through my handsome vernacular
You were an exclamation point
Turned into closure’s period
Now, my fortitude shall delete your dialect
With whimsical laughter compiled
From shattered dreams of old
An illuminated solstice
To onyx, cotton puffs in my Ionosphere
My Angel, I’m sorry I drifted against my sea of distant memories.
Love does not frighten me.
But, it tries.
I can only be certain of today.
I will sacrifice my pride
To become a pauper in your royal presence
If it means our eyes can become a correlated breath
Be my tomorrow
These stanzas were only ever gifted for you
Be my tomorrow
For I’ve dishonorably discharged my yesterdays
©Drake J. Eszes
I wanted to thank each of you personally,but there are to many
of you so I am writing this to all who have been willing to put up
with my sad and dark poems and all the kind comments you have
made.I have been overwhelmed with friendship since I joined the soup.
I never knew there were people like all of you out there,but I have
discovered that there is.I have struggled all my life with depression,
and other mental illnesses.My outlook on life is said through
my poems.I don't know myself when I will decide I can't take the pain
anymore.It is a day to day struggle for me.HG,you asked me how could
you write a suicide poem and not die?I can't answer that question,
and Douglas Ace you asked what our friendship means to me?That I
can answer.It means more than anything to me and your kind and
gentle words are all taken to heart.Linda Marie has also helped through
my trying times.Jeralynn Clark,and James Fraser, wrote a poem for me,
which I appreciate more than words can say.I wanted to write this to
everyone and I hope you all get everything you ask for.I can't keep
fighting the feelings that I feel about ending it all.It is a day after day
feeling and I am tired.I will watch over all of you.I just can't hold on
to the future when all I think about is the past.You all think I need
help and I agree ,but have yet to find the help that is going to change
the way I feel.Please read my poem Is There A Heaven.When I find
out you all will be the first to know.I must go now and I hope you
all can understand why.Thank you I know isn't enough but I don't know
what else to say to show how much you all meant to me.Peace and
Love to all of you.Pray for me.
YOUR SOUPER FRIEND,
Colleen Marie Bono
Soggy skies clouds the gray of
dingy white clothes on laundry day
Rain drips a leaky faucet gathering slowly
in cupped leaves forming quivering puddles
A crow’s ebony feathers shine as if freshly oiled
Wet foliage glistens in early morning flashes of lightning
There is nothing to inspire me today
Tomorrow I will write a poem
The leak intensifies clouds darkening from gray to black
shifting and stacking on themselves
The pipes burst a deluge slapping the window panes
Wind driven branches scrape the roof
Flowers bend double shield petals with long leaves
Thunder rolls like a sack of marbles spilling
onto a wooden porch drowning out my thoughts
Tomorrow I will write a poem
I arose this morning raging against a dry spell
anticipating being inspired by a walk in the meadow
hoping the beauty of a late summer day would bring
the words tumbling from my pen
Instead I watch the world slide gently from sun to shadow
see thirsty grass being pummeled by pellets of rain
As I watch the dry earth becomes greener
There are only so many ways to describe green or wet
Tomorrow I will write a poem
The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.
I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.
And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.
But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,
As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.
And here I am, pouncing at ground before me,
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.