It’s an awful feeling to be wrong
Like a fish thrown back and having to explain the trick to others
Or a child at the chalkboard
Walking back to his desk
After the equation was wrong
And how it didn’t equal just right
Or mostly in work when we’re wrong
At the big meeting table
Beginning the lie
And lying to be right
Or massively in marriage
Singing the wrong song
To our lovely spouse
Playing ping-pong
And running like a mouse
And how we watch the news
Which is never wrong to us
And which we must discuss.
And how a very young rock at the bottom of the Grand Canyon was thrown by some tourist and settled in a basin of abject agelessness.
The rock felt shame.
But being wrong is right.
Like the ocean waves that fall back again
And the erosion of the beach
And your tears
And how they stop and go on your cheek.
Being wrong is right
Without our petty spite
Being wrong on earth
Is a barn with mirth.
Pure Magic
Rain laden storm clouds nurture mangroves
Inside man or beast live symbiotic microbes
Deceptions entraps the devout and fanatical
Believers defy agnostics depose the rational
Invisible waves illuminate dark cosmic space
Migrating essences and agelessness embrace
Life harboring galaxies astoundingly hypnotic
The universe is a manifestation of pure magic
Penned: 11/11/13
3:43 a.m.
Aboard cruise ship: Splendour Of the Seas
Speak of us as wonderful beings
Whose uniqueness respects no race
Made to shine and made to stand out
Epitomizing the beauty that nature holds
With blond hair on pale silver skin
Pure hazel eyes expressing class
The secrets in our dancing eyes
Attracts the fancy of every onlooker
With every stride we command heads
To turn and marvel at our looks
Rare is our kind, inferior to none
Born to lead and born to conquer
For the agelessness of our essence
Crowns us a show of pure elegance
BY: Adams Elizabeth Oyarese
*Lizdiamond Poetry World*
Alliteration
As I wonder past myself I ponder my openness
As I wonder medieval self I meditate my openness
medieval sinner, saved now ponder for meditate salvationists
Mercies grace, was the witness now I’m open up to blessedness
As I wonder past myself I ponder my openness
As I wonder past myself I ponder my openness
As I wonder ancient self I ponder my agelessness
swapping past for ancient
As I wonder past myself I ponder my openness
As I wonder old myself I ponder my openness
medieval sinner, saved now ponder for meditate isolationists
Mercies grace, was the witness now I’m open up to blessedness
as I wonder past myself I ponder my openness
8/8/19
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Life
Deep into that darkness learning
Life is for everyone
The incentive seemed happy spurning
Everyone is for life
I crave the unswayed, unimpressed upbringing
My aliveness, I could not awaken
Life is for everyone
Everyone is for life
And the agelessness never debating
Life
I remember I was acquiescing, remembering
I crave the instructional, inviting impermanence, temporary
Ah, distinctly I was condoning, remembering
But in the fact that it was dripping, temporary
It was slipping, ripping, gripping!
Reneging and reneging with my virtuousness
Nowness - nowness - nowness!
That moment my soul grew lonely
Life is for everyone
The abandoned auteurism acquiring
Back into my memories moralizing
All my soul within me inspiring
Life is for everyone
The sleepless school sermonizing
Everyone is for life
Life is for everyone, life
4/11/19
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heros in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on his head,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble,
his fingers work, so resolute,
to fabricate this work of art,
fingers, limbs and face in perfect symmetry,
they become eternal,his reward a wreath,
the crowning glory!
Author's Note
...inspired by the poetry of Seamus Heaney.
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heros in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on his head,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble,
his fingers work, so resolute,
to fabricate this work of art,
fingers, limbs and face in perfect symmetry,
they become eternal,his reward a wreath,
the crowning glory!
Last Modified: July 18, 2015 at 09:05 am
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved
Author Notes
...inspired by the poetry of Seamus Heaney.
...inspired by 'An Artist' by Seamus Heaney
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heroes in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on their heads,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble.
His fingers can't work fast enough
to realize this masterpiece,
fingers, limbs and face
in perfect form become eternal,
the promise of a wreath, the crowning glory.
Underneath the calm exterior
quietly weeps a frightened child.
But beyond the reckoning here
lies agelessness and mystery .
Past the well-traveled soul searcher
rises a distinctly brave woman.
All these daunting memories
have not undone her nor
brought her to her knees.
In the dawn you will find her
scrawling names in the sand.
Those who fed her-sated her thirst
Those who offered all sorts of balms.
There are ones who inflicted
power and pain with such ease.
Yet through all this light and shadow
her life bloomed on and so did she.
Just a wave tossed in the ocean
she has learned the beauty of hope.
for Debbie Guzzi's contest "Words of Wisdom"
I chose the topic " the great flower of our lives" because throughout life there is much to be
reckoned with yet you can bloom above it all-rise up and shine on if you so choose... I feel
that's what I have done myself...
...inspired by 'An Artist' by Seamus Heaney
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heros in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on their heads,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble.
His fingers can't work fast enough
to realize this masterpiece,
fingers, limbs and face
in perfect form become eternal,
the promise of a wreath, the crowning glory.
The fragments of the future
Live with the charm of contemporary
they are glorious in their agelessness and style
...inspired by 'An Artist' by Seamus Heaney
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heros in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on their heads,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble,
his fingers can't work fast enough
to exorcize this deity,
fingers, limbs and face in perfect symmetry,
they become eternal,
the suggestion of a wreath their crowning glory!
Us, we yearn forever hence,
Prostituted souls recognizing her piety,
Though only sold to proper appeal,
Told to those with substance.
Us, we ravage apathy,
His iron bedded helplessness within,
Suppresses volumes of passion,
Oppressive tolerant atrocity.
Us, we enjoy agony,
Her wretched smirk engulfs,
A saddened tiresome reality,
****** of dramatic agelessness.
Us, we acknowledge Dream,
His snatched optimism from worn Was,
Bestowed upon eager Is,
With timed versatility.
Us, the youth
Scream our definition
To Her undefined self,
The World.
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