Email Poem

Your IP Address: 52.14.145.78
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
I am a dare-dreamer, a mask wearer
a soul bare-r (but not always my own); a word-weaver. 
I pull at thoughts like strings. Strings of cobwebs
and cirrus, frayed dungarees and threadbare memories 
until I warp and weft worlds of words into poems.
Sometimes I get caught in my own knots—
I cut myself loose of those naughty strings.

I hold onto kite strings… oh, and rainbows strings.
They connect my soles to the realm of my soul,
but at times, I lose sight of my kites in the gale.
Was I irresponsible with responsibility for my strings?
I think thoughts need to get lost in clouds and wind;
lost in clouds and wind to find the eye-of-the-storm
where I rescue kites and make a poetry page my stage

and my arena. I twine strings into a heavyweight rope.
Fasten it to four corners of the contest page. I enter,
incognito, with Apollo imagery and Dionysus metaphor;
a masked “prize”fighter filled with creative pangst.
I grin for wins in poesy masquerade parades
but when I fail, strings break off of my drama mask.
Revealed but unrecognized, am I just a fractured rainbow?
My inner balcony critic reprimands:
“sunlight through raindrops must be flawless
to create flawless strings of prismatic color”!
Alas, lack of refraction left white words non prismatic.
I restring my tragedy mask; the ego sphere of a versateer. 

I create poetry because I love to pluck things;
pluck things like harp strings and heartstrings.
If I no longer make readers cry, will bleat cred be lost?
Don’t think I won’t pluck nightshade petals, fly wings 
and cello strings to make you feel my tormentia!
I’ll quiver the lips of lost-in-loss verse. Coax your soul
to sip the pale ale of sorrow —as scents of strawberries
scald your skin. I’m not unhappy to gratify your senses. 

I loop a maverick string  whirl it and throw—
lasso a funhouse mirror and rein it in.
My imagination not unlike the looney glass gaze. 
I use my muse strings to hang mirrors and I ask;
who’s the puppeteer and who’s the marionette—
the poet or the reader? 




Footnote:

Pangst: the emotional state of combined pain and angst
Versateer: one who blends reality and imagination to create poetry
Tormentia: an internal state of combined torment and fantasia
Bleat cred: acceptance and respect for the creative expression of lamentation
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required