The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
A new photograph floats to the surface
Playfully dressing up as the world around me
Hat, striped socks and all
Tiptoeing at the top for one last sweet moment
Before sinking back into my ocean mind.
One after another they arrive
Steeping my eyes in the world
As the minds shutter, ever fluttering
Strings together this conscious stream I play in.
My photographs fade in time’s wrinkled arms.
Joining their brothers and sisters at the ocean floor,
They hold hands and try to answer the question that is always asking itself:
Who am I?
Peering through plate glass at a puzzling view,
In the midst of hot coffee’s morning ritual brew.
Staring out with amazement and wonderfully struck,
By our Cherry Tree’s overnight sensation run amuck!
By nature’s own standard, cruel joke she has played,
Million blossoms wide open one February day.
This juvenile sapling knows not what it feels,
Sprouting vivid Pink colors, the show it now steals.
From those all around laying dormant in state,
Expecting nature’s cue to blossom their own petals awake.
And by then poor young cherry will have muted her splash,
Replaced by green leaves summer storms will soon thrash.
But alas all this splendor making warm visual sense,
In the short time required for fresh java to dispense.
Tomorrow I’ll once again observe through plate glass,
The wonders waiting just beyond cold winter’s Rye Grass.
Submitted to Giorgio A. V. Contest themed: Impress me with a small poem II!
1) user name: wedge
2) choice of motif: nature
Their petals are falling as their colors change
It wasn’t this way before but is it strange?
These roses are dying in delicate sweet sorrow
Will their love shed too? Or will it see tomorrow?
Petals and love falling slow like soft snowflakes
A little change in season is all it takes,
But will these roses bloom again in a new morn?
Will their love come back to greatly adorn?
Will their beauty be gone forever once it fades away?
Or will it come back to make everything okay?
For what will the roses be worth if their beauty dies forever?
Will the image and value from them permanently sever?
Will the light in their eyes suddenly become dark?
As their splendor and significance steadily grow stark?
Or will they rise like light at the beginning of dawn?
And be reborn more beautiful than a swan?
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Who am I?
W-eaned from tender
age,in noble family of ten.
H-urt by the demise of
the tube that brought
me into this theater of
struggles and pains.
O-rdered about by the
whimps of this
world,facing the hurdles
of life daily from
cradle,never giving up
A-fine young man of 28
I am,who has the
experience and wisdom
of the aged.
M-astering the arts of
life-learning from lessons
of life's victims and
didactic poems 'cos man
of fame I intend to be for
I bear the name Bob.
I-lost my poetic gift at a
stage but recovered it in
poetrysoup for invisible
entities say a
lesser being I shall be,but
another encourages me
to move on,for great is
one who comes out of
the shackles of life
undeterred for this is who
Name: Ifeanyi Bob
i could sit here. day in and day out
thinking of the most proper way
to let the ink in the pen spill out
but as of late im feeling prehistoric
so much weight on my shoulders
and i dont know where to go
resuscitate my soul
look back up and head to the goal
so much evil around. i feel like the devils workin double shifts just to bring me down.
on the road to redemption
you can take a seat up in the front section
just so you can feel the emotions
in this electric notion
i've done a lot of things that hide the halo
let it all collaborate when i medicate
now look at me, mind workin like plato
formulate a new path to take so i can
maneuver through all the mistakes
we all know we cant change what we've already made
but we can change the next thing we create
startin to sound like a serenity prayer
5 steps till im thirty
and the twenty four before i was never a player
found out when the lights came back on im strictly a lover
its the strongest drink for your soul, when its thirsty
so careful how much you intake or be left hungover
even worse be the one she ran over
i dont mean to come off like im too deep
but the obstacles made there way through just to scrape through
and leave me suffocating
just for me to re-invent a new way to breathe, re-decorating
is your life so complicated
you rather wet up your pillows and revoke from the life you live
just think of your kids mourning
theyll never see that pretty face in the morning any more
cheer your self up
you got a lot to live for
your a gem and im that friend
trynna appraise the value
that you dont see inside of you
just another day for him
searchin wonderin what his purpose is
running in circles
till he found a way through all the turbulence
I float effortlessly alongside you
Tied by a silken string
To an outstretched hand
Once buoyant, light and full of hope
My exterior begins to shrink
Around my deflating soul
My pale skin once shiny and taught
Now loose and greying
Drifting slowly to the floor
The silken thread released
Loosely falling behind
With my sagging soul to the ground
The willow tree
I am joy and I am sorrow
I am unmoving but free
I am what everyone is
But what few people can be
I have lived through many days and many years
And I have gained much wisdom and peace just by listening
I have witnessed much laughter and heartbreak
In the flat, flowering field that I stand in
I have had many children swing and tug on my vines
And have felt love and joy as if they were mine
But just because I am wise and old
Does not mean I am not strong
For many years I have withstood raging rains and wicked winds
Like a concrete wall
With my love of life to help me along
So when my time comes to an end
When my curtain is starting to close
I will be tired and spent
But peaceful and content
With the great knowledge that:
The willow tree
I was joy and I was sorrow
I was unmoving but free
I was what everyone is
But what few people can be
I was alive.
When He breaks you
It is to re-make you.
If given the choice
To give destiny your voice
You would undoubtedly have picked this state
Such is the irony of fate
He breaks you now
So you later see the how -
How the pieces of your journey come to be
A slow but eventual solving of this mystery
He makes you work work work – then fail
So that you realize your means are of no avail
Without His will -
But feel His mercy fill -
Even through the aches still
He punctures your bubble of hope
To teach you the meaning of struggling to cope
To avoid you saying ‘this was all from me’
Which you might say if it always did come so easy
He lets you fall
So that when you stand
It’s straight and tall
Your past sorrows
Not letting you drown
Without your ego
Weighing you down
Even while the road appears smooth
He lets you trip and trip again
So that you might stumble upon hidden treasures
From the dirt, which you may otherwise not gain
He knows Best
The perfect Teacher
Who puts the perfect test
He breaks you
To re-make you…
Basking in moonlight,
Old birds remember the nest.
Ruffles my feathers.
My belly aint nearly full
Cause what I got I spend on this
I **** my brains all day
I find peace
If you want my peace
The days are water
dripping, dropping globules
falling from somewhere high,
past the clouds,
past the trees,
past the hands of the thirsty
trembling on their knees.
Chaining my brain is not my game/
My writing keeps chaining lyrical strings to proof my poetry can be my bible/
We keep chaining verses in this poetry but this chains never passes the preaching to the right ears/
The disciples of this poetry are never here/
They chain politics to question the church of poetry/
They drink chains that bleeds poetry/
The crucifixion gave birth to hypocrites/
Poetry died for us who sin because we love not being poetic/
We play with words to chain chains that blesses the congregation with sounds like so and so/
But the eye that crucified poetry is the eye that gave birth to this chains of poetry
Hopeful doesn’t mean stupid
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t stupid
I was in a state and messed up
Simple as that.
I could dramatize
Spill all the stars from my eyes and mouth and cry out for answers but,
My spirit can dance alone.
A lapse in judgement will not throw it off beat because it dances to a cosmic drum. My heartbeat and no one else’s.
Dropped my shield
Set myself on fire
Burned up a daft dream
And fell to ashes.
I’ve proven to relate to the phoenix
Both of us know what it’s like to die a quick death and come back stronger
Time and time again
Our ashes swirl into the manifestation of our desires and in that I find my comfort.
Hard topped, granite counters
Tough as nails kid
But kid is man or at least he pretends to be.
Smart phones aren’t so smart but, I’m writing this on one
Sedatives and sad, country music mood swims through my veins.
Excuse me, while I go have a drink with that phoenix.
Red light, Green light, cigarette buds
Red means stop,
green means go,
cigarette buds punched out in an dirty ash tray
means death is coming for you
and love has run out,
just as the man trying to blow through
the intersection we all know as 'life'
smoking his cigarette clouding his car
with ash and smoke
till the eighteen wheeler rams him off the road
and he turns into fire and ash
like his blackened lungs from all the cigarette buds
that were punched out in the ashtray we all call 'reality'
Red the symbol for blood, which flows from his open wounds
green for his greed for rushing through life
and the cigarette buds that littered his so-called 'great life'
His fingers left blood on the strings
but, come time to walk away he hadn’t really learned anything.
Course and dried brushes sit atop the rubbish,
His mind held a perfection too delicate for his clumsy hands to create.
He opened his mouth to sing like a jay but, instead of notes it was rust that fell out. Part of the wear and tear of early adulthood.
But then, this same boy picked up a pen and found some paper. The pen in his hand felt as natural his own bones and he began to write.
He wrote every tear
He scribed every star
He built towers from mountains with every line
High enough that the angel’s just might hear them.
He made pages for chapters of his life that could make those seraphim weep sapphire tears.
He could write the wind blowing across the nape of your neck in Autumn
And make you feel the chill on your skin.
He could articulate the sad beauty of a lover’s quarrel that ends in tears
If they cry, it makes it all more real.
He documents the history of a war inside himself that will never end.
The loss and the gain,
But not those of monetary nature.
When life begins to scream around him
All he must do to silence it is to put it in a stanza.
The boy’s tongue can pave the way for good intentions, and we all know those can fall South. He finds strength. And with this Strength a power.
Finally the boy knew his gift. But how is he meant to use it and who will truly listen to the personal strands of his soul he ties together with punctuation?
And now that he has tasted the pleasure of his power, will that be enough?
My 86th Birthday
Another Birthday…another year
They seem to be coming
Much faster I fear!
The Sands of time are flowing
Spring and Summer have run their course
Fall has shed her brilliant leaves
Winter’s fury has no remorse
The years fly by so quickly
The Bird of Youth has flown away
Our springs were squandered blithely
As have our summer’s play
Autumn’s sun is fading
A little more each day
An early frost reminds us
Winter is on the way
Winter is upon us
Ledgers to be read
How can we rewrite the wrongs
And repair them before we’re dead?
Will we look back upon our seasons
Spent with nary a thought
Or know that we were mindful
Of the lessons we were taught
The winter of our birthdays
Should be cherished all the more
For we never know how many
We might have in store
The hands of time keep ticking
Always softly…never bold
One day the bells will ring
Will we be ready when they toll?
Copyright©2014 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
Descending into a mega-mall, the fluorescence blemishes my skin.
There is a twinge in my temples as I approach the makeup counter,
meeting eyes with a woman whose shoes pierce my gait
and whose artificially white teeth flash like EMP bombs.
But I must not be blinded; there is something behind those calcium shutters,
illuminating inside her vessel and peaking through each crack ... I wonder.
Is her exoskeleton painted so pristinely to brighten the day?
Who owns the day she, in every meticulous gesture, labors for?
But every question is drowned in a clanging,
a clamoring of those persistent teeth trying to make a sale.
Rattling around like new tap shoes, sheening ivory.
White noise, white noise.
Every coherent thought blurred, humming viciously
as done in the shadows of the perfect women in chromatic ads.
But she is not perfect; I can see her pores.
They are weeping the regrets of thick foundation.
Those streaks of saline wet speak gallons and shimmer
as they slide, revealing pockets of uneven flesh tones,
subtle bruises from the hot-lipped sun,
every mar a testament to resistance in midst of the Tyrants.
Gravity, Matter and Time; how admirably this body has battled them,
unaware of its own striking animal; a masterwork of sinew and bone,
of neurons and cartilage, of mucus and moles.
Each electron hums in its proud, puffed little chest.
In earnest I wonder, does the sales lady know every outline,
every wrinkle of her beige, waterproof suit?
Does she wear it in precious stride, beaming just bright enough so as to share
her whole self, lovely-garish, yet never glaring the keenest lens?
There is no answer.
I only nod slightly, appreciating her mottled gem eyes,
politely severing our feeble connection, departing, contemplating them,
that such dazzling blue could exist immersed in milky pools
disrupted by long-legged channels of blood.
The fall comes early to frost covered souls
bound in damp, worn wool blankets
over cold birch branches, sticks,
crack covered ground
thorns, thistles, briars
scratch, pierce the skin
tug at the coverings
the naked heart
to face the hollow cold
only a ceaseless longing
I do not know?
I'm really tired.
Sorry that my creative juices are not flowing today.
Today is not the day.
I'm just ready to hit the hay.
Days upon days, it seems that I lag to say: Have a good day!
Perhaps tomorrow will be a different kind of day,
where we sing songs about how Love Is Here To Stay?
We should all be thankful how we live an ordinary life, almost every single day.
Not counting the extra hours of sleep, especially on a holiday.
What day is it today?
Do you remember the phrases, quotes, lyrics, and cute things we say?
I know I'm asking much, but please hear the words I'm about to say:
Will you be the one for me, the one who will love me on that special day?
Be my amor on Valentine's Day? Spend the rest of your life with me almost everyday?
Experience all the joy and sadness whatever comes our way?
Come What May? Or do you want to change the date to May?
But here you lay. In the Stone Garden I always pray, that we will soon meet, together, forever, celebrating A New Day.
I found a place
in the middle of the trees
with a thin asphalt egress
that made it easy
to cycle to the village.
I was surrounded by
the aliens of the earth
with their secret languages
and concentrated lives.
I truly lived among strangers,
not those wanting to know me
or able to know me.
It was like the world
before I opened my eyes.
It was here and far away.
I stayed there, for too long
in the cruel arms of a sunset
that had forgotten I was there.
Its wink slowly cast an itchy
blanket over the hope I had found
in blue skies; My skin reached upward,
blistered by the groan of mortality’s tick.
There is little time to waste.
The turn, once again left me in the dark,
grappling with solitude among the masses.
And so I waited for starlight’s touch to
calm the sandstorm in my bones.
Waited for the battle between light
and dark, so I could paint my eyes
with the blood of a new vision
for tomorrow and be ready to perceive
everything that I had once, let slip away.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Rhapsody In Gray
my soul shamelessly spilled
cascading into a dry riverbed…
thirsting waters of love long gone
with the misty winds of time.
In the moment,
we sailed teasing tides teeming
with primed ecstasy;
and what was once thought
a swan song sung
became a melodic rhapsody.
In the toss and turn of youth
When night is lives away--
One child chases butterflies
While others jump and play.
I would speak to them of aging
Though perhaps they need not know--
Let children bask in wonderment
And in the morning's glow!
looking at the
wobbling hula girl on the dash.
But his hands
cling to the wheel.
Good buddy good buddy
comes through his lips.
The growth on his face
makes his character clear.
And the road is narrow,
but his hands are firm.
He smiles, alone in the cab.
And the road lined with rocks
and chasms is narrow.
but only a few miles remain.
Peddled up the hill of life
Intent on coasting down
Discovered much to my chagrin
No place to turn around
Age and time turn dust to ash,
and fly away on breezes past,
a silent word or unseen smile,
die again in timeless while.
Silence echoes deep within,
as shadows press upon her heart,
and haunting feelings bring the pen,
to etch upon the parchment fading.
Does time decay the steel store,
as it did the metal clay?
Or tears erode the solitude
and all the pain cease to display?
All time and childhood expire-
in lifeless breath a silence deep,
her aching soul her only friend,
yet that too is a lonely crier,
begging for the breaking dawn
all glorious in array.
An endless sphere of powerful beauty,
marching steadfast ever on-
transfixed on his effortless duty,
yet to her eyes the evil one.
Simply, softly, quickly, on-
blind and watchful, silently speaking,
mutely wise in ancient glory.
Yet he too will end.
Until that day of questions black-
never will he cease his motions,
never listening to her cries,
never straying from the tracks-
the greatest strength of ages past,
the future of all nations rising,
power, glory, beauty, wealth-
approaches Time in silent stealth.
old goat's on the mountain trail
up and down, o'er hill and dale
dodging bumps and grinding minds
smashing memories with each step
reinventing his reality
washing all his sins away
on the peak or in the valley
arriving at a time and place
with figurative finality
old goat's on the homeward leg