Notes About The Poem
Hey soupers... Sorry, it has been a while. Life has been really hectic. But it has eased. A lot has happened, new job, new home, some great creative projects in the pipeline and most of all peace. After two very difficult years, I am in the best place, I have been and feel absolutely awesome! You never know how toxic people are around you, until you completely distance yourself from them - and find yourself again. Flowers cannont blossom in shadows - they need sunight and a little rain - when you sacrifice so much of yourself, then you lose yourself just to please others. But, I have found myself again :)
This poem is about my love for poetry and how it has been my saviour.
Dear Poetry
Dear Poetry
Yesterday when demons descended,
you poured hope through ascending angels.
You appeared when bitter ones disappeared,
taught me how to glorify unwritten ink,
conversed with me in free verse
and in the crime of a toxic rhyme,
when some tried to poison my mind,
you were the remedy,
illuminating the flames,
of an imprisoned soul -
finally set free.
In the melancholy of grief,
a moonbeam muse became my nemesis,
reflecting veiled vulnerabilities
like a mirror revealing chronicled
secrets of suppression,
where vocative vowels
connected consistent consonants,
alliterating my soul in a
plethora of persimmon
and periwinkle petals.
Sometimes you fade,
but always return like an intimate scent.
You shelter me on rainy days,
make peace with the past,
soothe in times of sorrow,
wrapping around me like a scarf
when the page becomes too bare.
When deviants sabotage
song sheets of harmonious chords,
you personify serenity through
the simplicity of a haiku -
together we become nature.
I have always been a poet,
unable to let go of expression,
so no poem is forgotten,
even those unspoken
and covered in dust.
In times of betrayal,
our verses remain sacred,
despite selfish syllables and
multi layered metaphors,
forming monotone moods.
Hoping those obsessed with obscurity,
find themselves in the stars.
Our odes to the wilderness,
revealed goldfinches at dawn,
singing under a static scarlet sunrise,
slowly shading into tiffany blue,
signifying poetry, brushstrokes
the colours we envision.
In the stillness of silence,
we drift in idyllic meadows,
where our thoughts roam,
away from sly shadows,
hindering the blossoming
of our handwritten reveries.
Under my skin,
you urge me to find romance,
but sonnets of love
are a restriction of words,
cursed by iambic pentameter,
so I only yearn for the one
whose ballad portrays the
consonance to my assonance.
My beloved poetry,
you do not define me,
unless our words are seeds,
which bloom with sincerity
and promise me,
upon our last breath,
you will engrave one
last love letter on
my tombstone of solitude.
SIMPLE MUSING
27.08.26
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