Oh! What a journey
We have walked through fields of gold
And stood beneath starry nights
Moon dust in our eyes
specks still glowing on our tongues
And in our folds and creases
Do you remember?
The gardens at Montmartre
And those courtyards where we stayed
Oh! The memories
The Seashore near Saints Maries
I can almost feel her breeze
Do you remember?
The flower beds in Holland
A quilt of many colors
And the poppy fields
Swaying in a summer breeze
Under cloudy canopy
We have seen the world
You and I – through Vincent’s eyes
Etched forever in our souls
Now we come to rest
Here! at the end of the road
The shoes of Vincent Van Gogh
Author: Elaine George
Inspired by: The Van Gogh Painting entitled: The Shoes of Vincent Van gogh
And, Abe Lopez
Contest Name: Van Gogh's Van Goghs
Awarded: First Place
Awared: First place
Mesmerizing flutters and flourishes
gracefully blow on the wind
drifting, creeping and crawling up and down my back door
I see you hit the pane
slide a little to the left and kiss another
slipping together as your mass melds - swaying as one
As if on dancing on ice
Together you perform
As the crowd thickens
or winds abate
Tired from your escapade together you settle
On the purest white bed
Where tomorrows warmth will warm your juices
Melting you and allowing you to slip away
almost unnoticed you make your exit
if i wanted to kiss you
would you stand still
if i wanted to be with you
could we both time kill
if i held your hand
would you understand
or carress your cheek
would you be meek
if i whispered in your ear
would you hear
if i look into your eyes
would they lie
and tell me something else
that my heart is saying
if i wanted to love you
with all my heart
would that be smart
if i made you my reason to live
would it be worth everything i give
and if i said i love you
would you hold those words above you
forsaking all others as the preacher said
being mine and to no others lead
then my heart belongs to you
remember, to no other will i be true
with this poem i make this pact
and with my hopes i hope you act
fill in all the love that i lack
and as for doubts
we could fill up the cracks
It is raining leafs'
They are pouring down
If you half listen
They barely make a sound..
The birds' they do sing,
They doth' fly south
The tinny tinkling
Taste of morning dew
Is so prevalent...
I can taste it in my mouth
Creating and recreating
Shapes of desire
A cunning way to rest
My tired brain, painting
Coloured to aspire
A curve to be hugged
A corner to be embraced.
Murmuring song of
Mind ravaged in situ.
Energising the hand
To ask for spirit’s favour
Setting up an arrangement
To trap myself aflame
Within a creative frame.
A weary sky settles
low on a bed of soft sand,
and drifts in dreams
of agile hands –
hands birthed from
rising and falling
like a breath
from the ages,
beating aloud like the pulse
of man’s muse –
sculpting, painting, inventing
an artist’s sanctuary.
A sparkling sky witnesses,
with eyes wide,
beauty and imagination
birthed from inspired minds,
and wakes from dreams
of agile hands creating
an original portrait,
a unique expression.
With a wink from
the eccentric and
a communal museum,
comes to life -
a labor of love
shrouded by sky
on a bed of soft sand.
for Roy Jerden's East Jesus Poetry Contest, 12/15/14
Just to touch the untouchable touches of reality’s toughest fingers prints
Touching the untouchable weakness in multiple personal splashes
The year has been a nightmare with no blankets
Birds get shot down with no mercy mistaken for nightmares
Rulers of rules hidden in hells’ only passage
Smelling power armpits
Coordinators of exposed blood suckers in gallons
Chaos now rule confusions
Slam you slam the slammers
The holder of telephonic microphones for decades
I am your seed nevertheless you hardly eat my healthy streams
Can i slam your slams slamming all forgotten slams
The chimney in my neck is about to explode dark smoke
The only soap washing illegal sniffer dogs
Nostrils that sniff private conversations
Wrap it and send it to majority of non-gifted slammers planting fast paced maturity
Drag the slam down your throat like murdered lyrics choked on purity
The sickest abandoned words spraying choir practice effects
Lyrical birds slam pages flipping wings waving brave slammers
Sheltered in the nest of fame chasers
Apologies packed in jeans
Truth compete on fashion parades
Lies are rated the greatest fashion ever designed
Models dress in scams and sexy metaphors spitting rudeness by force
Conscious is tattooed and spared for black days
Spoken word my shampoo
The only soap cleaning dirty secrets
Life’s only barefooted spoken words typing injured bangs
Reports glorify honesty
Speaking prophecy prophesy corrections of spoken slams
The road rage winner awarded for speeding corrections
Just to trace the untraceable touches of reality’s complicated fingers prints
Moving the untouchable weakness in multiple personal splashes
A drop of a burning smile heals a heart broken angel
I salute as you slam doors on spoken corrections
Letters turn into words.....While words turn into understanding with meaning,some
you've never heard....
Sentences turn into stories....As stories fill our hearts and mind...slowly...
seducing thoughts letter by letter, word by word, line by line...
Words floating around in my head it's like they just won't quit...
I find meaning in everything, from the very first letter that any word has in it....
So for me writing is like my souls transformation into words...
Into a personal sense of freedom and levels of self expression in ways yet to be
It's so beautiful to me...That when I open my eyes I am able to see....
That life forms all type of letters into words into sentences into stories into my mind
into my being into my heart into me...
Chapters of love, pain, passion, lose ,success,pleasure, deceit, and envy....
The effects are astonishing and I've been blessed to see, The world's soul
transformed into words into life into POETRY....
Contempt of ability in it-self
Is that which is
Of its' own creation
And is a consort
Which requires' conciliation
... From God,
My inhibited nature does' wane
And in thus, further my Heart
And there are so many reasons'
Why that I should pray
Fore I do sing the repartition
Deep in my own Heart
Things' will still remain
Just the same...
Fore it has been that way
From the very start
The butterfly went to a party last night all through the evening. It was the drunken butterfly and he saw all different butterflies through the night at the party. Both of them were drunk in front of the butterfly that evening. He woke up the next morning and he didn't remember who gave him drinks. It was different butterflies passing for everyone at the party. His friend found out that there was another butterfly drunk that evening. After that night, one was over and he began to face it with. One of the drunk butterfly at that evening. When he went up to all the butterfly were drunk at the party. Then that night, he went home to get straight from that night all day. Then he looked back to the party to find out who gave him drinks that evening.
Softer than snow flurries
Slicker than cigarette smoke
Sizzling than bouncy bubbles in an open soda can
Ticklish like a patient soul after a rouch day
Sweeter like a loving tongue
Curious like a dog's muzzle sniffing and living
Foggy like a neglected sleep
Love like cold and grey
Introverted like a deck of cards
Playdough like mud, like words in poetry, like soles and souls of poetry.
They call him the artist.
People think he is crazy making up beautiful stories of life.
He takes pictures and draws reality and tells exactly what it is.
He speaks and we get truth from the love of his words.
He always has a way of timing just the right moment to click.
He loves the rush of surviving the risk and winning the statues.
The young can’t wait for his stories which paint the photos.
He takes the mic and makes all heads move on any direction.
His lyrics in his songs will make you dance for that reason.
Take crap in and out of create a beautiful sculpture.
Roll out industry’s fabric to fashion up everyone who seen it.
He can open up a brain and see what to mind then close w-hole.
He can get into the ring and fight seriously but look like dancing.
He can read the patterns of color and follow them to paradise.
He manipulates Chemicals wittingly for the benefit of the community.
Takes up his ride 2500miles and lands it half way around the world.
His work is recognized wherever he goes for his unique way of painting reality.
All can be artists in their own way .
Long live ART.
You are More than a Friend!
From the first time I knew you - From the first time I met you
Your words, joy, laughter, and peace, were so factual beyond my apprehending
Your inner man, inner beauty and placidness are always out spoken
Your friendship over the years enlighten up my soul, heart and life
Each jiffy I have an opportunity to be in your presence, talk to you, touch your hands
I often do not leave your presence the same-your tender heart often embraces my sorrows
Truly and honestly-You are More than a Friend
People say, friends come and go-For me, true friendship is forever
You have shared your mutual and frank friendship in my life
Despite the distance, silence and absence of your physical being or presences
Your voice and words always whispers in my inner most being
Deeds and words we shared, have built inside our subconscious as eternal memories
Although phantoms self-insecurities have kept us apart all this well,
Just Remember that-You are More than a Friend
Allow me to confess, acknowledge and admit-that fear and doubt
Often hinders us to express our feelings and to share our interior gifts with people we love
But I also highly appreciate your genuineness-your true nature and expression of love
Loving you, being by side and receiving form your deepest inner being is my utmost delight
I will always treasure and cherish our friendship-Because You are More than a Friend
I could not find appropriate way to articulate and convey my feelings and gratitude
But rather than speaking from my heart and through this medium
From my heart-through my talent-means using everything from within
Dearest Friend, I mean everything I said-And said what I mean
Frankly and candidly-You are More than a Friend
Soft spring winds, or a harsh winter's freeze
we all write in our version of simplicity
an artist makes passionate love to his canvas
a musician strikes cords in longing hearts
With this moment of our very being
we give birth to what is hiding
the mixture of people and their dreams
with an artist's heart we see them clearly
Every minute of every single day one cries
look at me, see who I am, create my destiny
through eyes that see in every color, we dare to dream
giving birth to that part of our personality
Our thoughts are alive, begging for sweet release
no one understands who we are, or all those who live inside
but an artist's soul can be bestowed in imagery
some of us kill them, stab them with our quill, or brush
Some make love to them for extended lengths of time
as creating a bust out of clay, removing the hate
we add, we take away, but in the end it breathes
and each of us knows of that work, we call a dear friend
We go where no feet dare to tread, our very souls bleed
the parts that are kind, evil, sexy, smart, ignorant, or unheard of
this is the stuff life is made of to us
the many personalities that live within
delivered by the artists who dare to dream
the UN thought of...
My gold dream,
So out competing it's.
Sighted by a crowd.
Embraced by few.
Outrank on screen it's.
I love journalism!
Sounds of rockets in netherworld,
Not about to transfix a journalist,
But only sought-after,
I love journalism!
It's a dream in me,
A dream of gold and my cheese!
I want to fit in the press shoes,
Now I got to write, report and broadcast.
Journalism don't gravity me!
All Rights Reserved
© T.m.T scripts
white on blue
tears wave to
pain on cue"
~JSLambert © 2012 Poet TreeZ Publishing
Most of the day,
Alone on this wall we stay;
When the doors open wide
Shy colleagues ,behind curtains hide;
On view for all for free see
Our lives, on show for all to see;
On the seat ,over there,they sit
Often bored,only their kids will admit;
Silence is the rule in our home,
Our photos and bios well catalogued;
Up close into my face they peer
Often my expression can bring a tear;
Yes,admiration we do adore,
Silent hedonism,can be a bore;
At night with the alarm turned on
Some of us burst into song;
We long for freedom,to be alone,
In a family,not on our own
Listen to me read this poem on youtube under the name ichthyschiro
Mother Nature took her paint brush,
and eloquently tipped each petal
With a multitude of glorious colors.
She awoke the morning sun and coaxed
the pedals to greet the morning rays.
She dropped, droplets of morning dew,
watching the moss green carpet
stretch to catch each drop.
She painted nature's floral bouquet,
and they happily, danced in the breeze.
Her landscape, soon became a work of art.
A scenic wonder, that soon brought the bees,
Who busily, flew from flower to flower
tasting each, nectar filled blossom.
They happily flew to the hive and back,
Bringing excitement over the floral find.
The flowers continued to flourish under,
the fine painters hand.
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”
The words in my head are beautiful.
They are dancing cheek to cheek
with Southern legato or London staccato
with Chinese tunes and Xhosa clicks,
with native Dutch, straight from the heart.
The words in my head are reluctant
to stand in line. They like
to dance and play. They like
to echo inside the skull, infinite
Ping-Pong straight from the heart.
The words in my head come alive,
naked at the stroke of a key.
Ribbons of red and green show
who’s been good and who’s been bad.
Dots on the screen, straight from the heart.
The words in my head are ready
to face the world. I comb their hair
and clean their nose and wave goodbye
until they disappear around the bend.
One day they will be back, straight to the heart
(WHAT ABOUT US)
Physically free, but most of us are still mentally incapacitated
We all cheer on 21 March
No chains on our arms – no shackles on our ankles
Independence a pre-conceived idea of freedom
To fight for the true cause-for the causers are the true enemies
Physically free, but now questioning the mental status and spiritual levels
Never mind, let us all cheer and shout – freedom!!!
What about us!
Time to look back and merry collectively
Yet success and awards are individual
Only boobs will sit idly and blame the government
Desensitizing, Demolition Dependent mind sets
Cause Communion with slave masters lead to neo-colonization
Failure to conceive this hidden agenda, it will cause a man to stubble
What about us!
The born free nothing is for free
Doomed condemned juveniles
Demanding privileges for their pre-requisite failure
Excuses escorting many country and women to their graves
Blood dripping like a virgin giving up her innocence for the man she loves
So that you and me could enjoy the fruit of his/her blood-freedom
Self-sacrifice was and still is the price for freedom
Forefathers and mothers blood was shade for freedom
What about us!
We are the people; we are the government – time to take reasonability
What about us!
(Tony The Poet@2014)
Note: This is a game for all seasons'... The End Game
The Lords' Arch Angel stood
At First Base
As the Angels'
Took the Field
It was just after supper
The crowd's just have had
Their ' LAST ' Meal
Jesus was at Short Stop
Usually He takes' the Field
Where God had gave
Gift's of everything
Fore this was Thy Will be done
As the Angles' sang
They suddenly took the field
Their was total silence
As the Angles' began
Fore at hand was a Prayer
I could really feel
As I Looked at Home PLATE
I thought that it must
Have been a big mistake
Fore all over the park
I clearly saw that
The 'PARK' was Dark
Yet, their was light
All over the PARK
Then I could hear the
Sound of the HARPS'
I knew that it was for
This I could tell from the Glory
And by the Holy LIGHT
The the LORD was with us
With all of His Glory
******TO BE CONTINUED******
A pen rests unreservedly in my lips
Another embraced behind my ear
A ream of paper at peace on my lap
And ink smudges consume my fingers
My perception beyond physicality
Mystical enchanters in chorus
Momentaneous fantasies in flesh
And the artistry streams
In a foxtrot my pen whirls
Across the ballroom of parchment
Virginal ink smears
And the gala commences
Unbeknownst of my environs
Enveloped passionately within my illusions
Adventures given essence
And pressed into a colloquy
Not infamous is my name
Nor are my narrations published
But a dream I live for
And a tale to be told
Why is a dream...?
So much better than
- Reality -
Because it doe's
The same thing
Only with low...
Too young to remember , remembering is all I can do , stories told , may different , not never knowing the truth , a scar for life , not knowing the story behind it all , feeling like a leap and a frog , alone always and forever , standing strong on my own tow feet with no support , about this time I still have tears in my eyes, hurting and weeping from all the pain thats inside, feeling abandoned at a young age, my heart filled with hurt and emotion , like a boat on a ocean , screams and fights , something that I didn't like , it never excites me , it just makes me wanna go far way , running way all the time was getting old and leaving me out in the cold with no place to go , house to house , different rules , different place , different race and different pace. Ive been through hell and back again. 7:00 , lying on the floor , stomach growling , tears falling , left alone , hurting inside , just about to cry , flooding my face , with a salty taste , forgetting my race , forgetting my struggles , going blank with no trace , comes to comfort me , I pull away , with a lot of force , not wanting to be loved by someone who hurts me the most , running away thinking its a better place more hurt occurs , not giving no one a chance , to dance in my present , but finally I give in to something special to me , he who sees the best in me , he who takes me for myself , he who loves me more than ill ever know, he that stunts but deep down he's feelings truly shows , he that I love with all my heart , he that I don't want to leave , he is something like my everything , he is so much like me , he you wouldn't understand , he is my man , I could keep going on and on forever but Ill just end it here this time....
Is a Woman
Unique by design
- Fore -
She is the Arbor
- And -
In the Opuses'
Quality TIME-Quality LIFE
I say time is money
I say time is life
I say time is death
I say time is precious
I say time is meaning
I say time is season
I say time is diamond
I say time is gold
How you use time determines the quality of life
I say how you use time measures your value
I say how you use time measures your impact
I say how you use time measures your life quality
I say how you use time measures your family quality
I say how you use time measure your love quality
I say how you use time measure your originality
I say how you use time measure your services quality
I say how you use time measure your product’s quality
I say how you use time measure your ministry quality
How you use time determines the quality of life
I say lack of purpose leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of vision leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of commitment leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of consistence leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of discipline leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of integrity leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of character leads to mismanagement of time
I say lack of Christ leads to lead mismanagement of time
How you use time determines the quality of life
The Timer is time, He controls time, Life is time, He control life
He is the first and the last-beginning and the end
He is eternity meaning time without measure-He is timeless
An Hour to Him is one year – a year to Him is an Hour
If you have the Timer, you will have all the time you need in the world
I sat there all alone,
After many visitors
Have come and gone.
Then I met an artist,
Who graced me with his presence;
A peculiar man I must insist.
He asked to paint my portrait,
An offer I couldn’t protest,
So I sat there feeling irate.
Now I’m cemented in history,
Through one man’s passion for art,
Each painting a truelove story.
So, to the man with orange hair,
I’ll always value our friendship;
I am known as “Vincent’s Chair.”
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi’s
The Chairs Tale contest and
The Painting “Vincent’s Chair”
By Vincent Van Gogh-1888
the number of the bygone era in the history utter failure
as an old bread from a shoplifter
that love had as herbs antlers
and the benefits were buffed around the choir
the dangling of the seas fog bring back the fire in the shadow of the skin
or maybe we are overwhelmed by the thunder in the light of hell
under the dunes of lions
princes and the size is now full
belittled the flight of the past must now do penance
I was so wrong about the way your innocence tormented in the
each child has his worldly consideration
music is more than an obsession its magic
no room in my heart for another thing
Why does the devil talk to me and i listen to it
feel like i gave myself away a conscript
who wont listen to his parents
a young rebel not caring
but i don't have a selfish center im always sharing
so let me give this back to you what you gave to me world
so much blood hate anger 2 vipers inter twineing and twirling
the black depths of my mind is swirling
the passion i used to have is running low so follow me
No remorse im nothing more than a modern day force
evil sittin on my horse swinging my sword twords
your vocal cords as my hordes of minions claim im insane
as they dancein short shorts take a bat to your porsche
stomp down all your fortes join me im no demon
im just a evil genius alwase scheming about reaping
anyone stupid enough to close there eyes for sleeping
im fiending on feeding you to my inner beast whos dreaming
Of a day i wake up without screaming