Goodbye my favorite forever
Eternal fragments lost in abstract soup de jour
Our handshakes full of tremors
When the memories rain it's sore
My heart in freefall, falling up and out, forever's too soon
The paragraph on the backs of pictures stabs the point home
Skeletal strangers with nothing left to prove
The distance signals in real time leaving the breadcrumbs of
jarred hearts, painted candied hearts and Pacman ghosts in slow pursuit
The light of pumpkin eyes, rhymical in pursuit of boyish daydreams
Girlish looks of starving hearts depreciated, are less than pennies now
Parting words circled in funny papers still shaking with regret
When you see me in the folded memories
Just know you're not alone
Your light smiling on in the hollows of my eyes
Smiling in hindsight begging you to come home
Begging me to be brave
Goodbye my favorite forever
You're my long way out
In fading and in passing
Set me a long way down
No one is home.
The address is returned to sender.
The user you desire to speak is no longer available.
To send a numeric page please press five now.
Ferment in the waiting room of life.
The catacombs of the mind are empty.
From the grave they will not rise.
The life you once knew is now fleeted.
You're out of time.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.
False memory is not gospel.
Queue the piano, and bring in some coffee to go.
Crack a smile.
Adjust your tie.
Goodbye.
Dreary, for a thought-posture!
Bearing not up to reason
Falls in on itself.
That wall of hatred, defies
Beauty, its source. Hence to crush
In spirit, the self.
You turned on to your left side
There painted before me was your contour,
the resplendent lines of an hourglass
The rule of thirds composing the view
Your thick raven hair against the
pale linens in the morning twilight.
Strong movement from the back of your arm
Flowing, going down to the palm
and climaxing at the finger tips
With an aura of delicate benevolence
There was a single spaghetti strap laying lazily,
aimlessly over your olive skin, pretending to support
one of your breasts, Invisible to me
I wanted to run my finger along it but did not
The whole scene fittingly arranged
As if a great work was about to be born
A pose struck like a Waterhouse goddess
I wish I was he lying in this bed
This view has been within the artist scope
since the dawn of aesthetic sight
Yet it is to this beholder of beauty
as belonging to the one to whom I retreat
that becomes this morning's single tear
Let my feelings for you in this moment
be rendered upon this canvas
in the pensive hues and lines of my love
Let it be duly hung In the Museum of Reverie
from this day until there are no more lovers
Hot summers dry up the land
The dirt crumbles under the heaviness of disrespect
Fresh flowers adorn the land
Covering the uneven burial grounds
Overshadowed by privilege
What better way to claim superiority
By soiling the plantation they stand on
Ignorance crowds the air
Cast aside by vows of love
Tainting history with a wedding
The stories of black labour whitewashed into a picture of a bride in white
Covering the truths in a veil of fragility
Ironic how they use the innocence of a white wedding
To ink over history
A picture is worth a thousand words
A simple picture of a now conjoined family
Haunted by secrets of ownership
How the brides grandmother was once a girl
Who stood on this same plantation
Watching her parents become slave owners
A simple picture
Once innocent becomes a sinister backstory
A history haunted by the darkness of whiteness
Flower petals spread across the venue of black bones
Not to pay respect to those buried
But to honour love consummated on the grounds of black history
Smiling in pictures with a tainted memory
Plastered in magazines profiting off of slavery
But hey at least they gained popularity
Your eyes?
They're like midnight — not stars, just... midnight.
Dark, full of something I can't name.
I get lost there. I always do.
It’s frustrating, kind of thrilling too.
Your smile? Trouble.
The kind I’d trip over twice and still chase.
It hangs in the air after you leave —
Like perfume or a half-finished thought.
I hate how much I replay it.
Your lips —
They look like they keep too many secrets.
And somehow, even silence looks good on you.
When you pout, it’s ridiculous.
Seriously, stop that. (Don’t.)
That cheek of yours,
pressed against your palm like the day got too heavy —
and I swear I felt the world slow down.
You weren't posing. That’s the worst part.
You just are.
Every glance, every pause —
you’ve got this... poetry thing,
like you don’t even know you’re writing it.
You don’t try. You just... happen.
And I keep wishing you’d happen to me.
L-etters
I-n
T-his
A-rrangement
©bfa041525
Monocrostic (Birthday of Lita G. Ebueng)
We often communicate to the people
We use edited phrase to frank them
One of the most important asset is
To be by yourself, express who you are
Show yourself with beauty, genuine
No exaggerated aspiration, real you
No photoshopped soul, feel yourself
Doing the most wonderful unique you.
A silver platter,
It is my sudden clutter,
To spread my bread with butter,
I even use the cutter,
By posting a letter,
I find something better,
I would set my dessert later,
I don't let it into a gutter,
I am not a chatter,
I am like a trader,
I am not a sitter,
I'm in a jitter,
For a more beautiful flower,
Not something as sour,
Turn into an hour,
I am on the floor,
I'm trying to open the door,
I'm running away from a lair,
That does not want to be fair,
I could not even could not stand the stairs,
I will arrange the chairs,
I fashioned myself with Marie Claire,
I put on a gear,
Do not put me in tears,
Celebrate me with all the cheers,
For that, I salute those in Sears,
As I am the voice,
Uphold by the glitz,
Of hit and glam,
I put the media on the slam,
To remember my jam.
It is nonsense,
Because it does not make sense.
Not because there is no sense,
But because you are unversed
And cannot make sense of it.
Because it is esnesnon,
It is nonsense,
And above your intuition.
It does not make sense.
It is nonsense,
Because it lacks sense
And has no substance;
Conceived from a debased instinct,
Of a delirious, senile and manic concept,
From a senseless conception.
This is nonsense!
And you lack a sense of the concept,
Because you do not have enough sense
To comprehend the senselessness of the nonsense.
This piece is nonsense,
Because it does not make sense—
Because subsidy is gone,
And it does not make sense.
Aesthetic expectations, quomodocunquize,
An exasperating farrago of marketing lies,
Conning client desires,
While promising celestial skies.
In the "Selfie Era," so condescending,
Filters sculpting phantasmagoria, never-ending—
Painting a majestic illusion,
Regality of beauty, a fleeting delusion.
"Ageless," a dream that transcends all streams,
Flustering the mind’s membranes, it seems;
Cajoling artists, ripping through pockets,
A glamour tornado that ceaselessly rockets.
Embrace imperfections with pride,
Challenging the conventional tide.
Luminance flows from deep within,
"Mirror, Mirror, let self reflection begin".
Soft and feathery and illusive
Each word a woven world of fantasy
An artistic lair for the lunacy of emotion
Musical, distant and serene
Aesthetic shelters like seashells
Cast by the angst of the ocean
In lunar dreams, the selenophile soars,
Bathed in silver beams, a celestial dance,
With a heart that yearns for enchanted shores.
Beneath the night's veil, in a trance,
The selenophile wanders, embracing the night,
Bathed in silver beams, a celestial dance.
Moonlit whispers guide their soul's flight,
As they seek solace in the lunar glow,
The selenophile wanders, embracing the night.
They find solace where moonflowers grow,
Their spirit entwined with the stars above,
As they seek solace in the lunar glow.
In lunar phases, they find endless love,
A cosmic romance, a celestial flame,
Their spirit entwined with the stars above.
The moon's allure, their heart cannot tame,
A selenophile's yearning, forever intense,
A cosmic romance, a celestial flame.
They bathe in moonbeams, divinely immense,
In lunar dreams, the selenophile soars,
A selenophile's yearning, forever intense,
With a heart that yearns for enchanted shores.
Dewdrops on petals,
Nature's morning symphony,
Whispers of beauty.
She wanders through the town in the morning light, the firemaker's daughter, with her brilliant eyes. Her hair is wild and blazing red, and her steps are light as she walk, she treads.
She carries the flame magic, her father's gift that bears his name. She keeps the fires burning hot and bold, and her stories are fascinating and never get old.
The firemaker's daughter, with a lovely heart, she gives her warmth, her refined soul. Her excitement is unbounded as she dances in the flames, and her laughter echoes, warm and tidal.
In the blackness of the night, she is a beacon of light, her flames alight, a guiding sight. The firemaker's daughter is a force to be reckoned with. Her spirit was fiery, and her story was unknown.
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