As the waves forever kiss the shore
One shot leaves you wanting more
My heart and soul, strong and true
With all the love they hold for you
Sometimes my life leaves me bored
Like a swordsman with no sword
These are the times that I write
Memories can be hard to fight
I write out my heart and soul
Controlling my mind is my goal
Each new word released by my pen
Is another spiritual battle I win
The war rages on day by day
Through the poem prayers I pray
It's a war that I will forever win
Long as there is ink up in my pen
In prison I had quite a collection
Each one held it's own reflection
I saved them after they ran dry
Baptized with the tears I cry
I just couldn't seem to let them go
Little memories of my heart and soul
Sometimes I like to take them out
Little memories of what I'm about
What I'm about angel on my shoulder
Making this world a little less colder
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2007
Trickling over my mind
Came scampering the question
This dilemma of a heart
Come running into my embrace
Stricken with fright
It asked me
Father, why do we write
And so I dipped my feather in the darkness of my mind
And brought forth my answer
I wrote of fear and the love that comes at a dreadful cost
Of meaning and of the fight for knowledge
I wrote for voices unheard
I cried for emotions long forgotten
And the answer came to me as the tears wrote their own tale
Painted in pain was the image of a long forgotten glory
Of emotions left unstirred
Come to see what these words have conspired
Come to see how these words have called them from their sleep
To ensue in them an undaunted hunger
Well my dear son
Here comes my answer to you
I write not for you
Nor for me
I write for what is within you
What has bubbled forth within me
I write to stir the masses
Willful subjects of our being
They huddle in wait
The towering limestones of their cave grow eon by eon
As they rot away, moment by moment
I write for them
We write for the grim
The unnoticed prestige
We write for what you have neglected to see
To bring it forth before your eyes
To fix your head with an iron collar
To make you a slave of our direction
We write to be your masters, when you need one most
We write to fix your gaze on what you have never lost
We write to drag forth from the depths of your inky heart
We are the harbingers of emotion
Be it hate or lust
The unseen veil of ignorance, or to shatter the blinding globe of pride
We are the harbingers of sight
With our binding collars, our guiding feathers, dripping the black sweat of our labored toil
You will come to see
What has not been seen before
Fathers of a relationship sown by words, sealed by the dawning of the sun, the dawning of
Your feathers, to your wings or to your ink
And feathers will flutter
Bearing you into the frigid embrace of the skies
And when the winds will them no more
We will descend upon the ground
And speak to the earth as we are reclaimed in its rough embrace
We will write to the trees, when we cannot write to the birds, the sun, and the sky
And through the trees we will see the stars
And to them we will write about the shade
© Samir Georges
Edited for Deb's Free Verse Contest on why we write.
Copyright © Samir Georges | Year Posted 2010
The last few weeks have been real hard
You see the "dealer of life" deals the cards
As the trials and blessings come and go
It's true we must reap what we sow
At times the trials are many and the blessings are few
Just let the light of your soul shine on through
Yesterday I walked to the bridge over the creek
By the time I got there I was tired and weak
As I sat on the bridge taking a break
Questioning "how much more can I take"
A speeding drunk driver lost control
I watched it unfold nice and slow
Sometimes the blessings are clear to see
They crashed into the rail right next to me
My guardian angel said soft as could be
I'll never give up on you don't give up on me
These last few weeks I have felt rather low
With a deep down emptiness up in my soul
So regardless of the pain or length of the fight
I reckon it's once again time for me to write
For my pen is the tool that I use to see
The power of the Lord working in me
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2007
Hounds from Hell take their toll on your soul
as you walk the mainstreet of mainstream
and watch Saturn and Neptune dance to a simple tone
of silence in the outer space.
As you sit in the middle of the world
free yourself from the sense of hopelessness,
only see yourself in the mirror of deception
as your reflection laughs at you and looks right through you,
and doesn't have remorse for what it says or does to you.
Hounds from Hell take your soul,
chock you, cut of your air,
the smog and fog blind you in the city of ash.
Hear the hounds from hell howl for your soul,
go now, barracade your soul behind sins and temptation,
Alone, listening to your soul die away,
watch love go away from you, with suitcase in hand,
picture frames broken and collect dust through the sands of time.
Till the cleaning lady comes on Monday, to clean the mess
that you left behind.
You are gone, without a trace of ever returning.
Looks of the Hounds of Hell came for you and stole you from
comfort and warmth,
till the sorrowed heart cracks and pain spills out
and you look at it all spill out over the floor.
The Hounds from Hell have paid a consumable harmage to you,
and your rich soul of sorrowness burns away... slowly.
Fear darkens souls,
innocent souls burn with a new day,
a slumber that has no end
with nightmares haunting every light of hope
there is left in this desolate Wasteland.
Fear and darkness tears a hole in the darkened universe
and we all go to hell to see the Hounds,
who come for us all.
The graveyards fill,
and death guards the tombstones of the dead,
and the flowers burn away on the feet of the dead.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
As I place the pen
my soul beings
upon the pages
my secret longings
hopes and dreams
of which I hope to be,
how I want to reflect me
transpire into the universe
within my poetic lyricism
the warm sweet smoke
of my vega blunt
swirls about me, flickers
in and out of motion
as the vanilla candle nearby
fights the shadows in my room
the cool summer breeze
from my window
carries dancing sinsemilla
fog around me, allowing
to adventure elsewhere
into the nights abyss
of minutes, turned to hours
pages, of words
scribbling my life, struggles
Bob Marley and Lauryn Hills
“turn your lights down low”
beat inspirational peacefulness
on my eardrums
my small hands delicately pluck
my imaginary guitar strings
as I join her in a solo, Miss Hill's
magical voice cracks
with emotion, and my soul
tingles with excitement
For creativity flows
within my veins
I breath real music, such as
she, as soon as daylight opens
thine dark brown eyes to see
The poetic flowetry, carries me
and speaks to me
the notes capture my inner
disturbance and desires
until the soundtrack of my day
takes me into Summers night
thoughts of my dreams
of being a published poet
into my sight
Then, I sit
as I place my pen
upon the paper
black and white turn to one
and my soul bleeds
into an early sun
Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010
She wakes to scrub the walk with brine
as endless tales pile in her thoughts.
This, shy young maid named Caroline,
she fears labors will be her lot.
Reprieve, a pen is her best friend;
wearisome work, few hours to lend
for frivolous pursuits and cares.
Alone, flowing words wash her bare.
Late night, find her by candlelight.
She writes until her fingers bleed.
A writer born, her words alight
with blazing pen, an innate need.
She scrubs clothes in the stream each morn,
admiring roses, pricked by thorns.
The struggles she cannot foresee,
will one day make for great stories.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
My Muse, I So Abuse
My muse crying loudly, please write this way
I replied laughing, that will be the day
She storms off in a most indignant huff
I shouting at her, damn isn't that tough?
No fear, she always runs as she returns
she my heart so loves, as my mind she burns
I, that often sit on cold bed of stones
She, poetic judge that often breaks bones!
Dead of night she cuddles up to me near
utters words, sweet nothings and a cold fear
I inquire, but my heart you love so dear
She shouts, that was a folly from last year!
My muse and I play wicked cat and mouse
She may be the roof but I am the House!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-26- 2014
note: My muse is a vindictive little tramp
she makes me kneel humbly before she lights the lamp!
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012
‘ Language Lesson Learned … ’ 59th Senryu
I Don’t ‘ Speak ’ Evil
I Don’t ‘ Understand ’ Wicked
Translation … Ended
Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010
Man is an excellent work of God---
His visual poetry or art, out of mud.
Being one of God’s many creations;
Man must not forget his obligations.
Thou, man know God’s everywhere;
And yet, he does not bother to care.
Either man lives by God’s command,
Or, he will not live in a promise land.
Man must take this into consideration,
If indeed his heart craves for salvation.
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2007
Communities have a pillar
Carol is this ones name
Our Poet Laureate
Who demands no fame
Called Mrs Brown
Is more like a mother
In Poetry's Soups town
She cradles and welcomes
Us poets anew
To this amazing website
A community so true
She's now back in the fold
Where she loves to be
To read what she can
Of you and thee
So Mrs Carol Brown
For your kind comments and words
The Honor given to you
" For Mrs Carol Brown "
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009
That's what I am
A Servant To Poetry
I'm dominated by passion
with Muses spreading their light
I've sacrificed myself
freed myself to be ruled
my total being possessed
by forces that overpower
my actions, thoughts
It's as if I am
alienated from reality
in my own domain
in the zone of an empire
that transcends actualization
as desires are perplexed
by this controlling force
that drives me to performances
delivering unquestioned joy
Copyright © Frank Sheehan | Year Posted 2017
I wrote this poem upon my lovers face,
So she would know that my love could never be erased,
I wrote this poem upon my lover's neck,
So she'd know,
Its her mind and soul I love,
Her thoughts and ideas I respect.
I wrote this poem upon my lover's breast,
To be sure that I had a place to sleep
after my night of conquest.
I continued pass her ribs down to her belly,
And with careful attention
And the best penmanship
To seal thy love
I wrote upon her hips.
From her hips down to her thighs,
I wrote the many special things
So she would never have to ask why,
From where does my love spring,
I wrote this poem upon my lover's spine.
To unveil the riches and treasures she'd once twined.
I wrote this poem upon my lover's arms,
To remind her I'll hold her and protect her from harm.
I wrote this poem upon my lover's inner thighs.
So I could recite this, after traveling her
In this age of tattoos, I broke the rules,
Like a child with a pen....
Stands on couch and stool,
I wrote all over the walls of her heart,
While substance and meaning seeped in.
Her skin sustained the ink like ancient hieroglyphics.
I wrote this poem upon my lover's back,
My eyes, witness to these erotic facts.
With lover's ink, across her smooth skin,
I wrote of the honey dripping from her pours,
Of how the ink that runneth,
And love that cometh blends.
I wrote upon my lover, with perminate ink,
from head to toe,
Heavan knows I had more to say,
But I wrote as far as the ink persisted to flow.
Copyright © Brandon Barnette | Year Posted 2006
The words you share, they touch the heart
Coming from yours then, a natural thing
The thoughts, the care, the love you impart
Make me just read so, again and again
I take each write, so penned by you all
Take them, consume them, live them, I do
Within the words I become enthralled
To live vicariously, making all true
Sometimes I read them more than one time
For the words are so lovely, I simply must
I fall in love with the stories and rhyme
I swim in the ink, of this you can trust
I enjoy all the words to get lost in the read
Let the poet’s ink write, the poet’s heart bleed
Copyright © Michael Degenhardt | Year Posted 2008
You spoke of a love you
seem to know so well.
An innocent declaration
that burns in my memory still...
smoldering in the corners of my heart.
A quiet blossom of love with tender petals
that cascade into a deep scarlet pool of affection.
Beneath a silver moon, I swam in those words,
saturated to my very soul.
Can you tell me now, with a solemn heart,
that you knew not of the things you shared?
Your soul cries for truth & I know it is there.
Because I touched it
Immersed myself in it
in your love.
Copyright © Stephanie Cawthon | Year Posted 2007
Grasping my soul into its mystery,
Leaving me motionless, breathless,
Wanting to breathe more of its
Aroma, its sensation, its
Mystified, encrypted feelings…
It’s my devotion,
It’s my colorful ocean,
It’s the web of my emotions…
Smiling, as I meditate
My uncontrolled enthusiasm…
My beautiful fervor, my passion…
A-h-h! As its hymns play,
Harmoniously, its words begin to say
All the things in which I want to hear,
Words that draw my manifestation…
Between the hazy mists I sit,
Watching tiny droplets of water
Condense with tenderness on my skin...
Slithering, as new worlds of words
Begin to form within…
Dreamy haze in which I feel alive,
Take me into thee,
Where no one can revive
Me from this ecstasy, from
My life’s fantasy…
Everything in me, and
Everything destined to be…
Copyright © farah chamma | Year Posted 2007
Once again as my pen fails the page
In a humble but sincere effort
To honor my loving sage
As I ponder and attempt to deduce
In a low, soft chuckle, “more than words”
My rhetorical excuse
By function; words exact, color and define
And with Webster’s sword levied I chase
Definition of you into the sublime
Concept, newly born of insight and ash
Presents no attempt at justice
So its fate is sealed to trash
And alas, as a thousand times tense
I seek to corral feelings
By pen within paper fence
For moment’s sake, suppose these words I cannot cage
I humbly offer in place of love song
The feelings that surround this page
Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them
Copyright © Green Trees | Year Posted 2012
Burn upon my heart
Your words of venom
Lash upon my soul
Your thoughts of ice
Stab upon my mind
Your emotions of chaos
My pen flows from chaos
Controlled ink of the heart
My parchment sliced from my mind
Untouchable by mortal venom
My warmth to thaw your ice
Thick and bound to your soul
Yet my soul
Consumed in all chaos
Not a hint of ice
In any corner of my heart
Veins flow free from venom
Unleashing the will of my mind
Unbreakable is my mind
Beauty is my soul
Unchanged by your venom
Grace in the chaos
Which surrounds my heart
Guarding from you ice
My hate for your ice
May sometimes blind my mind
Your bitter heart
Your empty soul
Crashing in chaos
And dripping in venom
How you drown in venom
How you suffocate in ice
Swallowed whole in chaos
Darkness engulfed mind
Blindness endangered soul
And emptiness in place of you heart
My words of chaos, flowing from my soul
Untouched by your venom, and lonely heart
They will melt the ice, which controls your mind
Copyright © Jillian Veitenheimer | Year Posted 2012
This moment I've been awaiting for a number of years
To see ones heroes live see them crunching their gears
I'm on my way to Glasgow with workmates and friends
To finally see live their fantastic tracks they have penned
Anticipation now flows into the concert arena we await
It's the buzz, the hungered wishing, terrific time trait
The moments now close for the lights start to dim
For this three piece on song a most wonderful vim
Strobe lights, Bass intro, my awaiting now starts
To us fans they're our hymns soon singing our hearts
Shouting cheering hearing the first vocals now voiced
To the chorus now reached such incredible rejoice
Mellow chords to lead guitar which slice through the air
Decibels so loud for we simply sing and just stare
Drum solo so immense it's orchestral to our ears
So energetic melodic sublime, to magnificent tier
Thanks, plaudits are shared, encore after encore
It's not just their lyrics, it's their quite beautiful scores
This moment I've been awaiting for a number of year's
To see ones heroes live, I have to admit there were tears
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2015
To Commemorate My 300th Poem Here On The Soup
300 Tales Done
300 Threads Spun
Only 700 More, GOD
and Wherever YOU Beam Me
10,000 More, Gleam Me
- - - - - - - - - -
… I Have Lost 200 Poems
But Here Are 300
Because I Open My Arms
To Inspiration Undaunted …
“ Pancakes, Preserves, Poached-Egg & Pork
Maple-Syrup, Milk and Sun-Motes In The Morn
Calling My Name, Just Like Flapjacks To A Fork
Psyche Is Picking Up Poems, Like Babies Just Born “
- - - - - - - - - -
A Childhood Poem Remembered …
I See The Moon
and The Moon Sees Me
GOD Bless The Moon
and GOD Bless Me
… and Long Live, The Love Of Poetry …
Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2010
heart flutters bearing the news
appointed poet laureate
bows comrades honoring name
gift gabble raising thy brows
expectations of nil
inspirations for others
Tribute To Poetry
And To All The Wonderful Poets
Here In The Soup Bowl
I Bow To Each
Also Entry For
Poet Laureate Contest
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2009
I feel as though time is slipping away,
And more is gone each passing day…
Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2012
I will start with using my hand as a guide
And in the end I will open my eyes that I will decide
I consider to do this with one thing in mind
I will close my eyes and will imagine it blind
With no colors or fractionation of the light
Just plain me and a vision with my hand as my sight
My hair is very coarse and some what fine
What I just described is so benign
I twirl my hair and make it bend
And I will say its very clean not oily on the ends
As I press on my forehead I simply feel a distinct part
I notice from hair to skin it is very different from the start
The simple partings from hair not like skin
I am going to feel with my other hand and begin
The smoothness of my skin like years of water eroding a rough rock surface smooth
Not just that my skin is like home to years of stories like scars and attitude
And when I raise my eyebrows the wrinkles it makes is more so for expression
I did not notice it with certain ideas, thoughts, and emotions
I run my hands down to my eyelids I feel movement of my eyes trying to peek
Eyelids that I have, vibrates with some kind of fear, Why?, that I will seek
Just now as I thought about it a sensation ran through my brain
My eyes is the world to me and that is true and not insane
Myself portrait of me is through my touch for now
But to finish it I will have to open my eyes soon and how
I been in a trance full of so many ideas just with my eyes closed
I run my hand on my nose and lips and I smile who could apposed
The feelings in the tip of my fingers rub on my chin and jaw with care
I do notice roughness of unshaved velcro gripping hair
I skip my ears so I will sneak a feel with my fingers I chose
I notice it is like my nose with cartilage, so I don't suppose
I will now open my eyes that I will use a mirror to see myself
My head is oval shape and my neck is like a stump, please help
My skin is very tan and my eyes are brown with my eyes I see
With all the description with my hands, one sure thing is the same and key
It is the description of measurements that is what my hands and eyes can see me
With a smile I am looking into the mirror and I can describe that I am happy
Myself portrait of me is such a way to get to know myself once more
I will never think it was a waste of time or a bore
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013
As I sat and wrote this poem,
I was grateful for my cozy home.
I started praying on my knees,
And suddenly I could write with ease.
I am sure, that if you pray,
He’ll be there for you each day.
He’ll show you your talents and your calling,
And when you are down, He’ll catch you from falling.
When I’m praying on my knees,
I know it’s Him I’m going to please.
By writing these poems and spreading the Word,
He knows when they’re read,
His voice will be heard!
I hope He makes you smile today!
I know it happens if you pray!
Copyright © Michelle DeGironemo | Year Posted 2010
I am a heart full of love
that shook the pilars that held her colussium up
her heart filled with sorrow,
I swing such fury toward her heart and soul
she cowards away from me,
in fear of falling in love and not knowing what is in black
and not searching what is in the light of pure white.
I am a heart full of love,
she runs and takes the long dirt road,
through the raging mountains of the quiet countryside,
as the meadows of lilacs slowly die when Spring comes,
the blooming of the rose,
like the blooming of my heart,
a blossom on a cherry tree fall and harbour in the wintertime.
I swing toward her, she falls in fear of wanting attention and love.
Lost in the midnight twilight,
the flaming torch guides her through the dark holes of meaningless souls.
and like a frightened hummingbird,
she flees away from the secrets of falling in love.
A heart full of love ready to love,
it is diffcult to feel and to show,
but as if a rose that blooms in Springtime
my love is ready to bloom.
Pettles lay along a darkened atmosphere
lit up only with four wax candles
a portrait of a woman hung over a mantel piece
in honour of my one true love.
As the twilight shine though my bedroom window,
I show a heart full of love,
to take and to hold for eternity.
And as she slowly moves forward,
she takes me home with her,
and opens her chest and shows me her heart
with a glass of red wine and charming cigarette.
She sheads tears of pain and sorrow on my broud shoulder,
I curise her hair, silk laced hair,
shining against the twilight and the moonlit sky.
My heart full of love,
so divine, so original
a one of a kind.
We make love in the midst of the twilight,
as my dream girl is now reality and my pain is no more,
her pain is no more.
Too show such love makes a man feel free
and his soul lighter.
She holds him there,
as the sun rises over the mountains.
The birds sing a tune of cheerfulness,
and they talk about everything beautiful and kind,
that is still left in this cruel and empty hearted world.
Romance and love shared
with a heart full of love,
smile and kiss upon smooth lips,
feel me against your tight body,
and love me till the morning
when Blue eyed Death is staring us in the face.
and we go with him,
and play a game of risk,
and together forever,
onto a diffrent world
we shall love each other forever,
for you and I both have a heart full of love.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
I once was like a catipiller young,naive,and new
Always living from my heart not knowing what
else to do.Easy to take advantage of, that is
just the case, people would walk over me
like I was their dirty used up suitcase.
Now I feel a newness coming, like a light
shining from the sky, colors fill my world
and I know I am blooming into a butterfly.
Purple,Pink, Blue and Green I can feel them
flowing through. Colors of the rainbow raising
me into full bloom. Wise and strong I am becoming
My faith leads me where I need to go giving me
insight and wiseness for only me to know.
I have not done this on my own you see
I have been guided by God and Angels
on this Earth. Wise words the wisdom at
it's best comes from a wise lady who
seems to know me best. Lucky, I am
to have her in my life, she always shoots
it straight and tells me like it is, knowing
her words touch my heart and gives me tons of faith..
I feel like flying through the sky or climbing
a tree way up high. I feel like observing the
world just like a brand new butterfly so as I
Bloom I become Anew something unlike the past
Smart and wise beautiful on the inside and outside
a touch of color here a touch of color there
makes me glow and become a beautiful blooming butterfly...
Written By: Christina A McCullouch
Copyright © Christina McCullouch | Year Posted 2013
Words are the quintessential mystical fabric and common medium of all poetry.
Words often portray what the poet sees, senses, feels, imagines, and even dreams.
The very magic of poetry comes to life from a deliberate woven process
Of words enveloped into thoughts, metaphors, beliefs, situations, and emotions.
There is a saying in the original Latin: “Verba sunt indices animi,”
Which when rendered in English is: “Words are the indices of the mind.”
Words, in the poetic sense, form the ethereal undergirding for these indices
And beckon all poets to think deeply and precisely—and to challenge their thoughts.
As poets develop and expand the precious word treasures of their minds,
They begin to see and sense over time a deeper understanding of the human psyche,
And a greater appreciation for the complex circumstances and interactions of people
Which drive the human endeavor—good, bad, happy, sad, glad or indifferent.
Words then form the very symbolic arrows in the poet’s quiver to be employed
With thoughtful care and meaning, enraptured intent, and an enchanted vision.
We as poets should strive for nothing less as we reflect on our poetic visions,
For these can be always visualized in: “Words are the indices of the ‘poetic’ mind."
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (September 23, 2014)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation
of words cascading from a nebulous eye
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto
a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,
and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly
sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry
fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,
Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion
itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever
careering from caustic career path to another new low,
Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s
counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the
fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp
Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent
with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond
farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering
Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and
gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed
existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a
Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding
gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels
in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love.
Praise no other; I am poetry.
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013