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Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

Where Poetry Lives

 His  poems live deep down in the wood
down in an olde hunting lodge
They are brown as the bears head that 
hangs on the wall
brown as the dark leaves that fall
silently hiding the salt lick
from fawns who come in
the twilight to call
His poetry growls and grumbles and purrs
like a cougar alone on the rim
of the canyon above the olde
hunting grounds
where he writes all his lines
like a hymn
His poems stretch out on the furs
by the fire
and tell of the storms and the waves
that tested the strength of the words
that inspire
and sent many songs to their graves
for brave are the sagas
the odes that survive
the trek through the woods to the town
and as we go home we gather them up
scattered like leaves on the ground.
Brown,yellow,red ,a few of them green
His poems are places and things we have seen
but not from the view that the truth hunter gives
deep down in the woods ,where  poetry lives

Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

Simple Words for Simple People

If I had those pretentious brains which act faster than this heart

maybe then I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse

maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words

maybe then I would scrutinize my each and every coma,dot and exclamationmark!

But I would never let that happen,I'd rather go away.

Writing with my mind and not my heart leads only to asylum within the being of myself.

Poetry is my voice,my life,my escape,my each emotion stored,processed in a yesterday

breathing softly  in fresh air,wanting to explode in death, love,passion and romance.

Each verse, a thought I'm able to scribe of yet unable to express through spoken words.

Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by ,tread your footstep on my verse

but maybe in a today,a broken-hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world

Maybe a prisoner, an insane man,a tramp ,or any outcast to society 

would pick these shattered pieces and gather them as whole

and maybe through this scribbled cross-word puzzle finds God'love once again.

Maybe a little child who understands only little words

would turn the pages of silly rhymes i penned

rhymes which speak of moon and stars,angels,dreams and faries

and maybe He would smile, maybe He would laugh 

Maybe he would dream ,the way i used to dream

and maybe He would write the most eloquent sonnet

or maybe just simple words about blossoming flowers

And maybe then,my mission is accomplished,and  maybe I feel blessed.


Charma



Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

Exposure: Part II

(cont'd)

"Yes, then I am filled with hate," she replied.

"You need to let it go. I know....I used to be filled with cold hatred.
Let it go. People can violate your body,
but it doesn't mean your soul is also violated -
not always.
Your body is only on loan anyway.
The soul is truly yours."

We moved even further away from the music and lights,
until we eventually found ourselves outside.
The sleet had stopped falling,
and amongst a crowd of pigeons sitting on a wire,
a Raven was perched on a buzzing halogen lamp.

Clouds broke apart, exposing a crescent moon hanging from a winking star
like a Christmas ornament, or an earring of night herself.
Not fixed, but dangling,
always moving and changing.

-changing-


"Breathe in deeply. Focus in on the star,
pretend that you are casting your eyes up to the moon like a fishing line.
Begin reeling in your mind."

"Seems like a silly game to me."

"Please try it."

The Raven was watching us from its perch.
I breathed in and out deeply,
opening up my lungs and heart to the sky.

I turned to her and asked, 
"Do you feel hate coming from the Raven perched over there?"

"No, not that I can tell."

"Remember. You can still become someone's Queen.
People can violate your body, but your soul can stay intact.
Even if you doubt it right now."

She pulled out some napkins from her purse,
handed them to me, and asked, "Will you write it down for me?"


-And so I did-







January 1st, 2012

Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

Duck and Cover

                                           I place a hand grenade
                                              into a box of words
                                             and pull the pen out
                                 I hold a pad in front of my my face
                                   and call the resulting destruction
                                                      Poetry

Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

Who Am I

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
Judge that

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



Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

I Am But a Dreamer

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
loving everyday
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

Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

From My Treasure Trove

My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine. 
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.

My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.

Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.

Once, later on in my own life, 
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in  my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . . 
and found that even those less valuable could shine!

A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted 
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade, 
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen! 

The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.

Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

FEELINGS

FEELINGS


Feelings,
Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions

Burning fire you are 
Consuming my whole 
Being:
My heart
My mind 
My soul
My spirit,  
As you relentlessly
Demand: 
To be conceived
To be formulated 
To be understood
To be expressed!

A Herculean task it is,
I swear, 
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained 
And mold you into:
Phonemes
Syllables
Words
Phrases
Sentences 
And still retain 
Your explosive 
Dynamism?
 
No language exists,
So vast
So deep
So accurate
So supple 
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!

Thus, having no
Alternative, 
I turn to the only language
There is,
The one that the 
Cosmos speaks,
And
The universe alone
Comprehends:
The language of 
Harmony,
That we humans 
POETRY name
BUT 
Even then 
To describe you
I AM UNABLE!



©Demetrios Trifiatis
   28 January 2013

 

Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

Reflections from a Toiling Sonneteer

One’s poetry not always will unfold beneath its author’s pen as some suppose. And poetry one is to yet behold might slowly bloom before one plucks that rose. At times the lines come breech, the labor hard. A trial of thought; a repositioning of words emerging, offspring of the bard! And then at last, the poet’s heart will sing. The poet must write always, lest his mind grow barren, for not always can he know his muse will be there. She’s not always kind, but oh, the joy, when verses want to flow! 1/8/13 For Russell Sivey's Poetry About Poetry Contest

Details | On Writing And Words Poem | |

If The Spirit Moves Me

 
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)

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