He colors his canvas to capture her soul.
Imperfect oval face framed by fiery red curls.
Pouty lips pale pink slightly showing sorrow.
Freckled by fairy dust like flakes over her fully puffed cheeks
Hazel eyes that hide the horrors
of what this wounded warrior had witnessed.
She sought battles she shouldn't have.
Her scars show that truth upon the flesh of the fairest female.
But beauty does not stop battles.
He dresses her down to the lady like grace
To paint this portrait to put in her place.
One last picture he paints of his princess
His delicate daughter, that even in her death
He will never be without her.
Illusion illuminated instantly
Reality realized… rationally
Nature noticed normally
Vision vitalized vibrantly
Life lived… laudably
Canvas in Creative Colors
Painter Paints to Persuade People;
Sends Surprises to Spectators'Sight,
and Wide-ranging Wonder World Wide;
Like Lighting the Love in one's Life,
Arts in it is an Asset from Above!
Note: I composed this poem because arts is my passion.
Procrastination hurled its clubs
And retrieved all the master plans
In the thought of tomorrow which
Is still young and fresh to emerge.
So you succumbed to its fire blazing fist
And quit to begin the next day.
The day died in tears, rejected and frustrated
Then comes tomorrow in a glorious smiles
Filled with hopes and grace.
It was neglected just like the other tomorrow.
tomorrow died yesterday in tears.
tomorrow died yesterday in pains.
Men labour not but procrastinate.
Fear the unknown and stay day dreaming
Wish the wish which never wish to come in vain
Can a thief steal from a thief?
Procrastination is a thief of time.
What ever you desire to do
Do it now and never wait for tomorrow .
Yesterday and today were just like tomorrow
Which would still die in sorrow if the
Soul is not watered bravely.
so climb the mountains for the treasures.
Go to the river and hook up the fishes and dry them.
Visit the ants for wisdom and understanding.
Sound the drums of bravery
Let the blinds men walk and dance with no one by their side.
Chase away procrastination and welcome effective act,
There is always a smile of faces on the birth of a new day.
Poem by: Mr. Ronald Watson
Sep. 13, 2012
My Poetry on PoetrySoup
Stinking thinking/ it leads to drinking./
What moisten the soul without an inkling?/
Unto making a wild left turn /while the right signal light were blinking./
Within a mild mix of rice, hops, and barley,
Since/ it is too much laugher at a karaoke party./
How Elvis sounds like,/ a broken Bob Marley?/
Now it’s as if,/ inhibitions are lowed/
Frozen in time/ and slipping far out of control./
As intuitions of minds does loathe,/ as such weariness echoes for tomorrow./
Yet,/ a stinking breath that smells just as death/ and it's where all funky asses dwells./
Though/ all hung over /and unjustified to flinging heavy heads into that porcelain king,/
Even this is a sight for red sore eyed Kings!/
It is an aftermath of ravishing through them royal purple cloth bags./
So/ afraid to admit that shallowness slowly drags!/
When,a sense of clarity which will just admit it.
That stinking thinking is difficult to kick, but
One day at a time, it is the only way to shine, or get fixed.
Thank youMy Poetry on PoetrySoup
This night I am sad.
My eyes gaze the gathering galaxy
Seated upon the sky spread
Selfishly seek a shooting star.
I seek it so bad
Such sight my thought asking
My tea cold beside a frigid bread
I moan on the mowed green grass.
I love stars
Shooting star much more
Sparkling sparkles, glittering glitters
A little mighty awe
Twinkling littles lively and true.
For a good night rest
I need it bid me...
And at my voice crest
I started humming
For this nightly night,
Echoes of darkness
The bending light from the headline
As it enters my optic
Resonates from eager
Coursing to my
As the crisp crunch of
Crackles in self
The pungent wisp of fresh
...I can touch
in the empty silence
that cuddled me in
i found answers
written on the wall;
with finger nails
and blood stains.
the darkness kissed my cheek
and wiped my tears away
If we ever meet again
I would have your name
boldly written in the stars and the moons.
Kiss away your pains
And break the broken image of a battered
Beautiful lady in a world of sorrow.
i would take you paradise and buy you the finest designers.
i would love you like my sister
love you like my mother
take you around the world
Then the oceans and the seas would recognize
your presence .
The trees flap their wings in joy
As they smell the freshly fragrance
From a pretty body of an angel.
I would make you a crown of gold
That would brighten up the world.
You would be my baby mama,
the sweetest thing i ever have.
If we ever meet again
I would make you queen of my world
And would adorn all your entire body
Because you're more than a woman to me.
soliloquy of softness saddened
somber sleeping of starlight sound
song of silken sylvan sunset
psalm of satisfaction found
An ailing sound, an orchestra's experiment,
Softly sailing dreadnaught notes, in an opera's environment,
Heart throbbing hardcore chorus' elements,
Penetrating pores defiling my sweat glands' sonorous ornament.
Flexing her fragile fingers upon piano keys
My hearing heart reflex's, reacts with a cute smile like of little albino kids
Harshly hammering my soft soul trapped in the musical matrix, it feels like Keano Reeves
Leaving lungs longing for oxygen as if the last vicious veldfire left no trees
"Let the music play" let lovely Jordin Spark
Let Weather be of May, let the touring Tyson park
My happy heart dances in triumph, lyrical doors have been unlocked
Let love instruments cling to my lonely ears, and play till i find Alicia Keys
the animal called man is the hope
Of the undying world perfected with goodness
Constituted drive to recreate metamorphic beings
Bound profoundly to unmasked the universe of its beauty
Yet with hearts so devilish behind the mask
The animal called man is the noun of the world
With pronoun of change in the home and abroad
Land of hope they feel within the sky clapping
Their smiles a full moon of enduring mercy
yet with hearts as red as the furnace hell
Journey in the beauty of their kind
World crying on their mouth of deeds
No man, no universe but atmosphere
Combating with the cloud and roses
Yet they constitute the nuisance of the world
The man called man is the food
Of the earth when another phase opens
The grasses, insects and feeble ants rejoice
When a six fit is dung to welcome him home
Yet evil dwells mostly in their hearts of gold
The man called man is a special being
With the high spirit of creation with the marker
The world changes form in their dancing hands
second God creators of the beauty of the world
Yet their beauty creations damage their beauties.
Applaud apt act
Leave lazy lack
Lift lively link
Indulge in ink
Tell tender tease
Etch endows ease
Rich risk resigns
Art aims align
Troubles thrust think
Impulse in ink
Only odd one
Now never none
19 August 2014
Alice alligator anxiously awaits for an audience of awkward anteaters.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
I don't want to walk in this lane again
I don't want to be bless with no tale
I cover my soul with hatred but my body blossom
Forty three years i am, childless.
Yesterday, i was forty and a child promised
Yet i have no one to send an errand
My pillow watches my tears swing on it
A house wife tears not so good
Mother, i will be coming home, i've failed
Brother, arrange my unlock hut for me
Sister, search for my lost Bangoes and Jewelries
Father, prepare my dowry to be return to them
I have failed in marriage yet blessed at home
Words unsaid hurt more than an injury
Forty three years of barrenness and pains
Sorrow of a house wife seems too painful
My womb had developed the mind of their own
My utensils question my authority
The doors in my home laugh at me in a scornful way
I see the windows always mocking my moves
I want to move but moving becomes impossible
Sorrow of a house wife in forty three years
I hate to be a woman if this what they face
Tell mother i will be coming home he wants me no more
He had defiled our matrimonial bed and the bed want me no more
He is now a monster playing outside with a mistress
My Chi has forsaken me in dawn after dusk
I will be coming mother perhaps your arms will
Cuddle me and make me better like before .
Tell the world i've failed as a woman
But tell not my house hold for they already known
Courageous move passionately
Mightier than the sword blade
Genius mind always make the best
People of ex-ordinary talent (POet)
Defenders of the voiceless with pen and white paper
They are emerging better now in a countless numbers
watering the pretty human souls to happiness
Like the nightingale of the free forest of freedom
I wished i could be one of them, the penlords
Fighting the war of words without an Ogbunigwe
A war with no cutlass, gun, sword but pretty words
The white paper they feast upon daily with passion
Transporting the undying words to the world like bullet
piecing violately into the human body.
Defender of human race, the penlords
I visited the hearts of their hearts and behold
Perfection in the battle of enlightenment
They are so Go-----ooood like the gods
So swe----eeeet like the testament of their words
So de--li-ci-----ous like the turtle so---oooooop
all hail the beautiful ones
All hail the mountainous brave writers of the
Twenty first century of our time
The intestine of their pens always at work
the salivary gland in their pens always never dry
Writing emotionally to change the loners
who taught them how them how to hold a pen?
They are our deities, the gods of our land
Never die like a snake that passed through the
Rock without leaving any trail behind
They give treasure for generations to generations
Yes they are emerging in twos, threes and fours
To fill the vacuum of our broken thoughts
I wished am on of the penlords so
That i could create my own future with pen
What does the blood owes the vein?
What does food owes the stomach?
The grasses would always be green but
Not in a drought and dry days.
The day owes the night the chance to exist
Among the evil men who dwells in the dark
Planning preciously on how to attack the innocents.
The day owes the night breathing space and the
Longing for approval by the craving moon
Who lies awake in it abode.
The day owes the night a space to
Interact with the lords of the night and
Welcomes the owls to their haunting game
Of human souls which had deviated from the laws.
The day owes the night love and separation
From the time limit of the division of the their works.
The day has to make the lonely night have its rightful
Time allotted to them by nature.
It owes the night the privilege to perform it duties
It owes the night an acknowledgement to welcome him home
During when the east breeze goes to the west to settle its dispute with the sun.
As the sun owes the day so as the moon owes the night
And the night also owes the day when the cock stood
In the rusty thatch hut to welcome the day as the night
Depart to an unknown destination.
We all are debtors, no one is less important in this global village.
Baba Bisi born Bisi before Bisi born a baby
I was born in Babylon
Everyday I want to be alone
I prayed not to get low
Everyday Babylon claim more soul
I just have to go, seek for more show
I grow with no shoes under my foots
Ganger is my food,
Mosquitoes sing the reggae allover my room
Webs block my views, killing my crews
What can I do to survive when am buzz
Where is that place to get crazy?
That place you cannot erase,
That camp with more space,
Where you don’t have to get late
That place where you just want to be free from
“Babylon” Babylon” Babylon…I want to be free
If there is a question, it should be about relation
My action will generate your reaction
Is substitution the way to be free from Babylon?
The game is always ON, grow horns like Capricorn
Cut the vegetables; let’s be able to be stable
The form is not in the list. This form is Ae Freislighe
“There be tales from times not told,
brought back through your lineage,
dreams dredged from dark days of old”
Animate lost Anima
place a new thinking cap on
hang up hero’s panama
parlay phrases till past dawn
Here sit I, laptop clicking
chickens chiding privilege
wrapped in writing, clock ticking
Zesty Zebras Zing
Copyright Cynthia Jones
In the quaint darkness I hear these whispers,
my mood peculiar by the moon...
arcane eyes transcend a flame fluttering there,
near the window pane candle's light burns,
turns my thought to dimensions that dwindle
like a solemn spindler's yarn of silky weaves
of conceived creation by the swindler's hands
that harden by the years of gifting love's deeds,
yet gentled by the reeds of nature's brood...
my mind peculiar by the moon.
The air around breathes life in as breath fades away,
as day becomes the soul of night
and night the fading breath of yesterday...
all the while we play and dance at will
while willing the love we feel to feel
as though breath itself be the only true,
I breathe in you...
my mood peculiar by the moon
I breathe in you
Always about art
Exhibits effect end
The ordinary people we are
The common people of the abandoned street
Homeless not Hopeless in our quest
Looking up to the Forest Lords
We are kicked left and right by them
Helpless not voiceless
We are the dregs of the Society
Seen in every rejected areas in the land
Faceless and clueless of who we really are
The Hoi-polloi lost In pains of the leaders
Our kinds are not better in anything involving the society yet they used us as tout to kill ourselves
The land detest and chase us here and there
Hope we speak each day yet no hope seen
Among our kind In Their daily agenda
We are treated and killed like the funeral ram
But we stitch our heart with smiles
Our laughter clapping in the dawn of their ears
Our stomach may speak harshly to us but
We perservere speaking kindly and warmly
Their eyes despises our existence
Their mouths speak wrath against us
Who shall speak for us----the voiceless?
Where shall the messaih come from Israel or jerusalem?
Mighty men had fallen in Jerico and Gomorahh
Great gladiators had be slaughtered in Rome and Greece but we look close to the dawn in the west
Clothing our already made cupped desires in a beam smiles.
Though our Lives a Bottled Oil in a freezer
Though our drive a playing gesture in our hands
We believe, we dream, we shall be seen among
Men not fallen in The ditch of limited trend but
We tread on the surviving route days to come.
Line upon lovely line
Of poetry roses
Sparked and budded
By inspiration words
Like that of an Ode on a Grecian Urn
Makes my melting heart’s hunger burn
Elevated inspiration spike
From lines like
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty”
This keeps me up at night
Under covers tight
Writing in my head
When I should sleep in bed
My wandering mind faltering
Until alliterations are altering
Mindless mumbo jumbo
Into tailored poetry
That’s when I know it
I am a poet
Never felt so alive!
Or me! I must contrive!
I so suppose
This poem could condense concisely
Onto one linked line nicely
Poetry is me, me poetry
There cool they rule but in some since they are so so cruel.
Black cherry is a flirty sign and a well known seductive sign.
you see them on bracelits you see them on cars you probably would even see them in bars.
Black cherry is not something to mess around with you never know the conflict of The one an only black cherry.
THE GREAT AMERICAN RACIST
I stand my ground and white is what is me
as fair a man as there could ever be
I'll not apologize to anyone
for what the world's dependent on
but love my own, for that's the way I see.
Excuses come from those who ever fail
or educated by their time in jail
and racist it may be
but it's the side of me
who stands by justice, in its final wail;
the die's been cast; and juries set the stage
and let out are the crazies from their cage;
while whites proclaim all guilt from high
and blacks can only live the lie
expecting things to change because of rage;
whose knife has cut the thread that's meant to bind
depriving all the love there is to find?
the greatest tragedy of all
is when our backs are to the wall
that's when our hate clouds every mind.
Stallions stood still in a
stream stocked in between
bounded by radiants rocks,
rocks wrapped with the
awesome aura of autumn,
autumn's audacity avoided
some stones on the surface,
surface stones swept by
the waves of the whirlwind,
whirlwind walking on
waters in company of the
Cowboys cruising carefully,
alas, one stallion is stripped,
stripped off his service, the
stream shows their
shadows so shapeless in
structure sweetly stormed
Packing pallets and paintings
Paints pretty ponies
Cold empty island
Waste of not wants
Quiet and dead
Grey and cold
Older and old
Smelly, like the road
Annoying, yes I am told
Water on either side
And up and down
The way to be English