I'm the vessel of your verses
The voice of your vice
The product of the dream you nurture
The nature you hide
I'm the vessel of your verses
For better or worse as
I killed as much as I healed
For your own selfish causes
Though like I
Sprinkled in time – a wrinkle in time
Distort this course of pattered patterns
As we try to advise
I come from a plight your voice invites
Yet through that noise my choice is mine
I'll rhyme with vice from time to time
But rhyme my course through what is mine
To frame my words:
Picture my verse reversing a curse and nursing a hearse
Purging the urge to merge with the merchant of murder or worse
Piercing the person that persecuted my pride
Piercing the Plight that worsens the worth of the words I write
Purging my urges, the grudges held from the judgment of hurt
Purging my hypocrisy, when it gave you hurt much worse
The stanzas alliterate to reflect the repetition
The verse of illiterate veterans on a mission
To verse you in their permanent "medicating" religion
Most mean love, while most only deliver what's given
Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance,
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres,
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.
Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.
In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes
or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?
I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.
I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.
There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.
Her heart was
whirling,
swirling,
twirling
inside the eye
of a
whirlwind,
so I
weaved words
to calm her rage,
because,
like an empathic eagle,
a poet is a
storm chaser,
unafraid of
human hurricanes.
A wordsmith word weaves
against windstorms,
decorating nebulous skies
with rainbow bridges,
kissing the warm balmy
neon glow of the sun,
softly soothing,
vivid vexations
through
intimate intrinsic artistry,
because,
a cloudless day
is a bandage wrapped...
Too tight.
Only a bard can
affectionately alliterate
the grip of grief,
as poetry can be the cure
to calm tempested trauma.
Ink is the mistress
to butterfly sentiments.
I will not stop the moths
from devouring you,
as long as they feed
on toxic thoughts.
I have made a home on the moon,
where stardust scribbles carry us to freedom.
alliterate
emagi
clerihew
broken -monoku
bursts of
creativity
colourful
caberets
crafting
sensibilities
compositions
....incarnate
Algernon Charles Swinburne
with intricate poetry did earn
He loved to alliterate
& lyrical verse to create
Hours nibble at a back strain.
Tenuous strings were tugged
lifting water bottles.
You wonder how weak and fragile
you are. How vulnerable to
those ancient red tides within
that can bend your iron like plasticine,
turn you into a crooked question mark.
Quartered by straining horses,
neural fibers alliterate a thrumming fugue
upon a desiccated elastic band;
one now stretched far too taut.
To head rhymes or alliterate,
to find a word for its mate,
perhaps a rhyme to please the eye,
peut'etre French,I'll give a try;
Then vary it with a rime riche
and harmonize to find a niche;
One of the identical kind ?
internal ryhme is on my mind,
slang or,royal for this rhymist
perhaps a trophy emoji,if I persist !
repost from 2010
Why waste words when a haiku will do.
When rhyme and limerick make music redundant.
When meaning and message mean more to you
than twaddle and tripe, and rants arrant.
Words we love, for their sounds and spirit.
Cogent sticky words that you can't not notice
can't ignore for their goodly taste and merit.
Words we alliterate and masticate into necklace
strung like beads, worn to adorn and elicit
tantalizing chimes, clangs and gongs in interface
between writer and reader, bound close-knit
with pithy, pungent, poignant, didactic lace.
Common sense, succinctly stated, with just a dash of whit.
Acrostic dream
Watch happy stream
A mosaic rhyme
Watch collage chimes
A lyric trance
Watch feelings dance
A sonnet flash
Watch thoughts now dash
A pregnant ode
Watch deeper mode
A couplet dwells
Watch vibrant tell
A sensuous rhyme
Watch sexy times
A haiku deep
Watch fragment leap
A quatrain stretch
Watch mindful match
A rhyme now chimes
Watch moments mime
A poignant stay
Watch fond wordplay
Alliterate
Watch feel face fate
Leon Enriquez
20 September 2017
Singapore
I, GOT A RHYME
To head rhymes or alliterate,
to find a word for its mate,
perhaps a rhyme to please the eye,
peut'etre French,I'll give a try;
Then vary it with a rime riche
and harmonize to find a niche;
One of the identical kind ?
internal ryhme is on my mind,
slang or,royal for this rhymist
a knighthood bring,if I persist !
re-post inspired by Eve contest
To alliterate
or not
it all began
then
to rhyme
perchance
in time
to find
a cinquain
vignette
peut-etre
cinqku
or crystalline
monoku
broken
of course
in two
half-cinquain
(lanterne)
to you
Ekphrasis
new
betwixt
a perfect
six
plus
crosswise
spaces
into
the mix
'til
my cartoon
art
plays its
unique
part
upon
my stage
with
footle wit
'til now
free verse
at ease
I
knit
re-post inspired by John's contest
To head rhymes or alliterate,
to find a word for its mate,
perhaps a rhyme to please the eye,
peut'etre French,I'll give a try;
Then vary it with a rime riche
and harmonize to find a niche;
One of the identical kind ?
internal ryhme is on my mind,
slang or,royal for this rhymist
perhaps a trophy emoji,if I persist !
I feel a nauseating revulsion to see scraps of prose
Bundled together in a neatened pile in the name of poetry,
And prizes being awarded for such otiose verbiage
And praises being heaped for such boring coquetry.
Poetry, my dear uninitiated impostors,
Is the language of the mute solemn gods.
You ought to choose your nifty title well
And thus commence your verse against the odds.
Avoid Soyinka’s worn-out style of incompetent blank verse,
Instead, give it the rhyme scheme of the unbeatable Yeats;
The superior verse that one Tom Mboya has never read,
The taste that a Kenyan editor will haul over the rooftop sheets.
Line after line beg the company of some higher Muse
So that you may pen the will of the gods and not your own;
Alliterate here and there though you must not make it your aim,
Then lunge into deeper thought with a deity-like melancholy tone.
And never seek fame for your sacred poetic tasks.
Leave the young to sing your lyrics centuries upon your death,
And remember a great weaver of rhymes long deceased
And pray and wish you immortal blissful health.
To alliterate
or not
it all began
then
to rhyme
perchance
in time
to find
a cinquain
vignette
peut-etre
cinqku
or crystalline
monoku
broken
of course
in two
half-cinquain
(lanterne)
to you
Ekphrasis
new
betwixt
a perfect
six
plus
crosswise
spaces
into
the mix
'til
my cartoon
art
plays its
unique
part
upon
my stage
with
footle wit
'til now
free verse
at ease
I
knit
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