I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
I am but a dreamer
and in my dreams I play
where I live so happily
writing them my way
inside my illusions
where I know I belong
whistling a joyful tune
as I go along
Like a little spirit
I venture on the breeze
skipping in the gentle wind
doing what I please
with the rising sun I dance
wrapped inside his charms
across the golden morning sky
twirling in his arms
I can climb a mountain
or live among the trees
sail in a silver sailboat
on the seven seas
I can draw a moonlit night
ride on a bright moonbeam
and swim among the diamonds
in a velvet stream
I am but a dreamer
there's nothing in my way
living in the place I love
maybe it's a fairytale
but that's all right by me
I'm the master of my dreams
where I wander free
No one there can tell me
what is wrong or right
following what's in my heart
I live in the light
happy in my dream world
that's where I choose to stay
in the world where I belong
writing dreams my way
If the spirit moves me I will speak
I will share words
that no-one wants to hear
I will speak them
I will speak them loud and clear
If the spirit moves me
If the spirit moves me I will see
I will see Beauty
that no-one else can see
I will see it far and near
around me and in all things
If the spirit moves me
If the spirit moves me I will hear
I will hear things
no-one else can hear
I will hear the universe
speaking to me and I will hear
If the spirit moves me
If the spirit moves me
I will feel
I will feel the pain of others
I will feel their happiness too
I will be able to empathize
If the spirit moves me
If the spirit moves me
I will taste joy and laughter
I will live my life in peace
I will find love
I will live on in the ever-after
If the spirit moves me
© Christine A Kysely All Rights Reserved
(October 25, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin USA)
Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions
Burning fire you are
Consuming my whole
As you relentlessly
To be conceived
To be formulated
To be understood
To be expressed!
A Herculean task it is,
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained
And mold you into:
And still retain
No language exists,
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!
Thus, having no
I turn to the only language
The one that the
The universe alone
The language of
That we humans
To describe you
I AM UNABLE!
28 January 2013
The word’s speaker and listener would hear
Not from one another,
But from a burning Sixo;
They would feel
A noose was choking
Before they could even tell
Themselves to “rest in peace”;
They would see
Into the bodies of intelligent black heroes and heroines;
They would taste
That could have filled all the courtrooms
Where racist murderers were not convicted;
They would smell
Waste of those treated like human waste –
A stench strong enough to make some jump
Ship just for a breath of fresh air,
Before the waters
Then enslaved them ….
These effects may sound
But are they any more
Than our current
Usage of the “n”- word?
Many of us would say nothing
If a black friend declared,
“A ______ will never become the President of the United States of America ….”
To be honest,
I even agree
With the essence of this statement.
For only a full black man or woman
That still leaves all black people in the running.
I do not know?
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty
about what tomorrows
pain may bring
They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best
Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide
Ready to Receive
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine
He told me to write a poem
About beauty, wind blowing
Hair tossing , dream making stunning
Gorgeousness of living
Beauty addicts and blind ambitions
Movie stars and historical happenings
Formal dresses, women in high heels with
Faces meant to smile
That’s what poems should be about, he says,
Your good at that kind of thing, just spit it out
“Shawty, write a poem about beauty, that’s real poetry”
“Everything is beautiful, baby…”
“But what is beautiful to you?”
Births and rebirths
Phoenix Red celestial torching of the hearts
Interlocking fingers in twilight
Kisses, Death, sorrow, crocodile tears
Laughter, Ecstasy , black
White, brown, yellow, silver crimson
Skin on skin, chest to chest, on and on, soft
Hard City light heaving, breathing against the Ebony sky
Natural Twinkle of diamond shadows,
Cosmos, Atoms, Hydrogen bonds, Electrons
Nucleus, matter, anti-matter
Smash together, slither mutually
To create harmony.
Everything is beautiful.
“Just write about that then..”
"Not everything has to be written, somtimes you just have to
live it out.."
"What's the point then?? What's the point of writing about butterflies
and waterfalls? I just don't see it? Why do you have to doll everything up and
make it more then what it is? Not everything has to be picked apart and analyzed."
"Mmm, I suppose."
"What's real poetry to you?"
"I don't understand."
I recline and rest my head on his chest
Tracing lines of thought on the ceiling
Helping him dismantle the universe and put it back together
In his own way
Enjoying lyrical symphonies of life
Breath by breath…
"This, baby, This is real Poetry.."
I don’t care if you have a degree
or that your self-published textbook
is a decree to take a closer look
at time-tested, armor plated antiquities.
I don’t care if you know your stuff,
fluffing your sleek, interlocked lines
and keeping things just so, just so
in ascot wearing, dandy rhymes.
I don’t care if you can recite
the Mikado in its entirety,
as you pose in the spotlight,
Yum-Yum for all posterity.
I care about the longing
that I found in the verse
of a friend, words filled with whys
that scattered a soft, rainy season
to the oblivious winds.
I care about the heart
that became a puzzle, tiny pieces,
a thousand tiny pieces calling
out for me to reassemble,
winged things both soaring
then suddenly falling like
art that almost trembled
in gentle riddles crafted to tease.
I care about the grip
that held the pen and how the paper
became damp and creased
as thoughts played in short stanzas,
tethered to honesty,
such a rare and noble quality,
even on the pages of poetry.
I care that caring is vanishing
like stone angels in cemeteries,
conversations on park benches or
the respect for ones peers:
those that dot their teary i’s,
those that shiver in life's trenches,
those that scry with ink, language seers.
They ask so little in return,
Only the freedom to search for truth,
in their own voice, in their own time,
and safety from condemnation,
ruthless lies and snobbery.
I care about a forgotten virtue.
I care about decency.
Sometimes when I’m alone --
I start to think ---
Had I not been an addict ---
What could I have been?
What kind of life could I have given my children?
Of course these are questions not yet answered ---
A work in progress so to speak
Not a day goes by ---
That I don’t think about doing a shot ---
To release myself from this pain, shame and guilt
Because when I’m high I don’t think about any of that
I think only of myself ---
What I want and how I’m going to get it
I thank the Lord ---
For delivering me ---
From that way of thinking ---
I thank him for the gift ---
That gives me the chance ---
To reach out to others ---
Almost every poem I write ---
Comes from the bottom of my heart ---
And the very depths of my soul ---
Very seldom do I allow myself
The pleasures of writing a simple poem --
That doesn’t carry with it a very profound message
See, I’m just like Jake and Elwood Blue’s
--- I am on a mission from God ---
God has transformed me into a poet teacher
The only way I can make any sense out of my life
Is by doing what I’m doing right now
Which of course is ---
Nothing less than ---
---Owning up to my own mistakes ---
For the world to see
Thus allowing me to answer
--- The responsibility of my own pen ---
‘The Power Of A Poet’ 32nd Senryu
Look How Devoted
The Power of A Poet
See How Words Spoke It
This Poem is My Tribute to:
Carolyn Devonshire (The Dove)
and James (The Highlander) Fraser
for your Powerful collaboration on:
Mother Nature's Revenge
It Was Truly Awesome
Erase a word
Mundane and wrought
Of indifferent thought
Pluck a phrase
Wild and untamed
Of random flame
Sing a verse
Naked and free
Of crashing seas
Tell a tale
Endearing and true
Of life’s muse
Ask a heartbeat
Women and men
100 shards of pen
you tempt me with beautiful words from nowhere,
convincing me they are my own.
In the corner of my eye, a Muse
& suddenly anything is possible.
You haunt me;
sending visions of dark ink
flowing from poised finger tips.
Finally, i give in,
relenting under high expectations
& promises of genius.
Reluctantly, i put pen to paper
& find that you've moved on.
My attention span is short. Yet, my pen’s is still shorter
It looks absent only after a few words… a few lines
Though ink in its intestines and subject to furnishing hands
It never finishes what it begins. At least, what I want it to finish
So, I hold it’s face with both hands, as we share eyes
“Write, will you. Do not stop until I give consent.”
“Ok” she says, “I will focus”…as her eyes are carried on a light wind
I presume that’s why my poetry is never more than a few lines… a few
I never knew I'd be in heaven
In the autumn of my years,
Or that I'd be immerged
In the brilliant art of words,
Or float above operatic notes,
Or view ballet through
My elated tears.
I never thought I'd meet
Inspiration face to face,
Or feel it rise within me
With a poet's surrendering grace.
I just know that I'm contented
As profound love keeps flowing
From my impassioned heart.
This is the gift that artists
Of this world yearn to impart.
© Connie Marcum Wong
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.
I do not know?
As I place the pen
my soul beings
upon the pages
my secret longings
hopes and dreams
of which I hope to be,
how I want to reflect me
transpire into the universe
within my poetic lyricism
the warm sweet smoke
of my vega blunt
swirls about me, flickers
in and out of motion
as the vanilla candle nearby
fights the shadows in my room
the cool summer breeze
from my window
carries dancing sinsemilla
fog around me, allowing
to adventure elsewhere
into the nights abyss
of minutes, turned to hours
pages, of words
scribbling my life, struggles
Bob Marley and Lauryn Hills
“turn your lights down low”
beat inspirational peacefulness
on my eardrums
my small hands delicately pluck
my imaginary guitar strings
as I join her in a solo, Miss Hill's
magical voice cracks
with emotion, and my soul
tingles with excitement
For creativity flows
within my veins
I breath real music, such as
she, as soon as daylight opens
thine dark brown eyes to see
The poetic flowetry, carries me
and speaks to me
the notes capture my inner
disturbance and desires
until the soundtrack of my day
takes me into Summers night
thoughts of my dreams
of being a published poet
into my sight
Then, I sit
as I place my pen
upon the paper
black and white turn to one
and my soul bleeds
into an early sun
A coffee bar with orange paint --
Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
A neon sign hangs by the door.
I come here sometimes just to write.
A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
I do not see it as a taint.
Tonight an artist's work is hung
Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
Allows her dreams to have their say.
I like the color in these walls --
A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
A coffee bar with orange paint.
I reached out for you once again
after eons of pretence, snobbish disregard
and plain neglect.
Yes I reached out, not with strong steady arms
that usually attend others
but with emasculated courage and battered pride.
Yes indeed I sought you.
I summoned you dear one
from the far far seas where to sail I had cast you
and had briskly walked away
to find solace in another's arms.
So now I sought a vantage point
from whence I could peer
into the darkening horizon
to see your approaching mast.
Yes I did indeed summon you, indeed I did.
Yes I called out for you
to attend me from the depths I had banished you
when life to me had smiled like the morning dew.
Yes indeed I called you,
to serve me in rhythm and imagery
to fill my plate with tone and hue
and soothe me with your rhyms in rhythm.
Yes call you I did, I really did.
So now I lie in the warmth of your words
like a lover cuddled in embrace
as you stroke my erstwhile desolate state
with the stroke of your flowing stanza's
and my heart you've now lulled to a soothing calm
with the rhythm of your crafted lines.
Yes indeed I reached out for you,
for I missed you.
Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust
for things start to be.
Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)
Metaphysical Moment …
… Nature’s Mysteries
This Haiku is for:
The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))
‘ Language Lesson Learned … ’ 59th Senryu
I Don’t ‘ Speak ’ Evil
I Don’t ‘ Understand ’ Wicked
Translation … Ended
The night falls down around me in this poet's reverie.
Words stick to my moon-parched throat until I set them free.
Images of life and love are painted on my heart.
Stars outside my window have their knowledge to impart.
The world I travel forth in has experience to give.
My eyes have seen the glory of this place I choose to live.
And now the daylight beckons from the unforgiving skies.
My mind is full and restless as my pen to paper flies.
Night has flown away but still I'm left with thoughts profound.
This song of life I've written here is making such a sound.
Dawn has broken and I thank God for every given word.
I'm grateful for this chance I have to reach out and be heard.
images pour erratically
falling on eyelashes
tears fueling my pen
always the sadness
finds me waiting
twisting my heart
in a vice grip
can't stop the images
from driving me insane
raped and murdered eyes
pleading for children
it's the emptiness
that I write
I don't write love
for it lies
can't find happiness
to send to my pen
for it lays behind
a tired whore
spent and overused
with too much hype
can't even pen security
never found that either
under blankets or kisses
not even in hardened urges
that deflate just as quickly
conveying only want and need
no I write of sadness
I return there
a drunk to cheap wine
guzzling my addiction
it holds me safe
for it is familiar
I live it
I see it
it knows my name
and I know its
we are intimate
sadness and I
in some grotesque
culiminating in orgasm
with my depressed pen
To make a word mean something new,
With some uniqueness -
O what genius!
These words are washed of all their color
Black and white, lo, gray
So what’s left to write about,
When words mean nothing more today
Than they did one thousand yesterdays,
Where lyrics sung like gentle sparrows
Lifted on a feathered wing
To heights I dare not envy -
O such jealousy I carry!
What utterance can be invented
That will strike a brand new language in me?
Woe, to have just one new word
To write across the clearest sky…
Mark, until it breaks through mundane clouds,
I call upon a devil’s darn to sew my lips -
Until righteous words rain down from heaven
Where I shall taste sweet nectar of fresh letters
Falling into gorgeous arrangements
On crisp white sheets.
‘ Raul Moreno, Poet- Sen•sei … ’ 56th Senryu
Like Marco Polo
Haiku Master, Moreno
Explores Nature’s Show
From Magnanimous Me (he! he!) (LOL)
Love Your Poetry,
Your Poet-Pal, MoonBee
YOU’RE THE WEAK ONE
You’re the weak one, you’re a bully. The weak one is definitely
The bully is always the weak one, but your weakness you can’t
seem to see.
So, I’m going to try to shed a little light on your weak and inappropriate ways.
Your weakness began on your first bullying day.
Your false sense of power is not strength at all; it is a cry for help desperately trying to break through.
I actually feel a little sorry for you.
Weak kids like you always seek to find other kids they can dominate.
Bullies do this with vicious words, inappropriate actions, and misguided hate.
Is being a weak bully the banner you want to carry for the rest of your life?
Get rid of the bully banner forever; take up a banner that shows respect,
understanding, and tolerance for others, and always hold that one very high.
I do not know?
So thoughtfully busily going to the tomb
Were you enamored with words from the womb
Verbally gurgling did you succumb
Or did it come later in life
Likened to lightning spelling you under
Suddenly there before hearing the thunder
Rapidly vapidly words in your head
Were ringing and clamoring yet to be said
At work in your garden editing hedge
Trimming unwanted excess
It smacks of sedition this growing ambition
To put plants in orderly rowed inhibition
Sun reaching in silent distress
The beauty of discipline held up to view
In close captivated submission
In ranks and in rows uniformly disposed
Earthbound and holding attention
Yet openly Stubbornly free
They continue to grow.
To Flander's field poppies
And crosses akin
They are harvests of memory to reap
Promises planted to keep
Meaning, ever bending, never ending-ly open to changing it's mind and opinions,
by moving around words and pulling and pushing in different directions,
until everything changes, rearranges pages in history
just for the mystery to begin again
with new songs, new players and these layers and layers
of summits and new beginnings.
Of openings back to where we came in.
New meanings are foaming and forming
within the fatted belly of doing and screwing until done.
Come watch a new one get sprung.
A new shape to take place of the old, behold
and believe in your prayers.
They keep coming these layers and layers
and faces of women and men.
Turn around just to begin again.
Writing is my challenge each day
But it's not the words or what to say.
It is the connection with other writers here
Because I feel I'm not worthy or equal I fear.
The talent expressed by so many others
Often makes me want to hide under the covers.
The gems that are written and ones that I read
Are so inspired, personal, and give me a need.
That's why I come here every time
To see what others have put in their rhyme.
Carolyn always has a message for me to ponder
And others write things that make me wonder.
I often race to the "New Poems" just to see
If by some chance there's one by which P.D has destroyed me.
And Carol, Bob, Nick, Emily, Wilma, and "the Sweetheart"
Write things that sometimes I just can't pull apart.
The Doc has written so many things
I am amazed sometimes at the thoughts he brings.
Others are here who write so well
Their words do me so oft compel.
For like unto them I want to be
Writing words that have meaning for others to see.
Will they be worthy I say when I'm done
Or will they be read by others, as I've intentioned.
You know I feel so many emotions just now
Because of all these writers, I just don't know how.
For they are a driving force for me
And part of my challenge each day is to make them see.
That because of them I have to write
Sometimes into the wee hours of the night.
To pick a favorite writer is...well a difficult choice
So I pick them all, because they shout with one voice.
"Write, you fool, then write some more"
Words I hear and cannot ignore.
So I choose them all...all here in this group
The ones who have made me hungry for Soup.
There, I've said it...and you know that's not in haste
The Soupers that are here are the best of all to taste.
Man of words, strange creature of fiery intention,
Amplifying pictures with that restless imagination,
Great are the images spurting forth from your pen,
Nothing holds you down, working alone in the den;
Unto the night you toil, pushed by an alien power,
Mastering some inner demons, taming your fear.
Oh how you search for truths floating up in the air,
Producing tremors with the raging force they stir,
Until at last your labors come to a perfect ending,
Shaking humanity with the hard lessons they bring.