Best Expertly Poems
Your words,
are projectiles
dripping with Arsenic
and aimed at my heart
spitting out darts and swords
that expertly find their mark
and draw blood
Your words,
when aimed at others
are carried by Pixies
and sprinkled
with honey and sugar coatings
that melt in their ears
and taste of confection
Your words,
cloak me in pain and guilt
for undone atrocities
and imagined factors
as your blame
riddles my soul
causing it to
prune, wither, and crust
Your words,
accusing, spiteful, degrading, malicious
paintings of what I once thought
was an indestructible bond of Love
that no one
should be able to destroy
and yet
you do so
with your words.
I've no soul left
no appetite for your touch
no desire to want for anything
except
to become deaf
so I will no longer
have to listen to
your words
I am to him a Stradivarius, a treasured violin
His bow expertly caresses my supple strings
My body moans when tucked beneath his chin
Revving to his rhythmic pulse, my heart sings
I am the delicate ivory he strokes on his keyboard
his adventurous fingers roam over me in staccato
Those romantic interludes he's adeptly scored
accompanies intimacy to the point of crescendo
I am the mouthpiece on his golden saxophone
Our blues brings about passion and lustful desire
From a distance I hear the pitch of a lone trombone
Emotions build with the heat of a roaring wildfire
Across the well worn bridge of his idle acoustic guitar
I yearn for the virtuoso's touch to strum my chords
But there's no harmony, although we've come so far
No gliding glissandos found at the tips of drawn swords
Now he plays mournful melodies on a native Hopi flute
Reflecting our lives in every wistful and somber note
We're both lost, wandering like phantoms in pursuit
of lost love. We're adrift without oars or sail for our boat
With each wave a tear falls as I lay sheltered in the bow
He sits astern listening to music whistled by the wind
staring at the far horizon with worry etched on his brow
Is this, I wonder, punishment for those who have sinned
Strobe lights loud music
silver glitter balls
reflective tiny stars
dot the dance floor hall.
She was grinding and pumping
body toned tight and fast
she was the centre of attention
her choice her last dance.
She expertly glided
up and down the polished pole
her red satin outfit
simply amplified the show.
As she flawlessly moved
to the chants of the men
drawing into herself
shone a dazzling grin.
Becoming one with the pole
giving it her very all
this was her last song
head high standing tall.
As she smiled and waved
searching deep within her core
for this one final bow
were loud whistles and roars.
She quickly grabbed her outfit
running to the door backstage
in the comfort of her robe
kissed a picture daughter Paige.
I did this for you
my sweet baby girl
for college bound you are
with the money I have earned.
The men cheered loudly
she reached her last goal
turning from the mirror
freely flew her soul.
reworked 08-26-2016
as he enters he switches
off the lights
particles of light peep
through the blinds
the air filled with tension
we haven't been here in this
space in what seem like ages
the smell of flowers so
overpowering
I shield myself from his gaze
his hands move over my face
he gently kiss my nose,
slowly moving to my forehead
the ease in which he does it
calms me
serene in preparation
as he expertly yet gently
awake all those senses
which lay dormant
the moment is now
it is just the two of us
while we explore -
flirt with the senses
the shadow moves over our
naked bodies
©011220111440
Music is a big part of our life to sustain
Listening to music takes the whole brain
It can also improve your memory
When someone shouts at you expertly
You become alarmed and silent
But when someone resonates for you
The sound makes you happy so he intent
If someone with a deep hoarse voice you knew
Speaks to you shivering
It might create fear to your listening
And you will be more watchful for what’s next to surround
I imagine a movie without music in the background
Would not make us think or let our minds cheer
A low voice is quiet and difficult to hear
But illustrates emotions and lifts a feeling
If someone dies and people do not sing
People are upset
They say that’s not respect
I like the sound of vehicles’ horns at night
It carries my strength to write
I like the nature and electronic exaggeration music portray
Someone will promise to give you all their life and soul in a day
I love listening to music aloud
It’s a sun wiping off the cloud
Masereka Amos
I see her, ecstatic under thundering skies, red flashed lightning
Long hair static, arms spread wide,
savoured downpour, dance.... exuberant
As if day becomes night, a crimson moon, tinted stars, painted clouds
Peering down, eclipsing fears and weaving enchantment
Her pirouettes stir dry leaves in whirlwind patterns
And I stand in awe, my clumsy limbs reach out to her
My coy moves, a pitiful attempt to match her audacity
Her inner focus, isolated from everything but herself.
I wonder, could this be a dream, a vision created by a lonely mind
An apparition in melodic shapes, beauty conjured by wishful feelings…
Then she stops, looks in my direction, and my breath escapes
Her eyes enchanting pools of fire, and deep inside I stir:
"Dance with me". Is that my voice, cracking like breaking branches?
One lithe motion and she is behind me, over my shoulder I can see her curls
No, it is her voice, an angelic sound wafts about me, I am motionless, mesmerized
“Dance with me” she says again, touching my arm as I feel myself floating
Lighter than air, as if I have wings, I feel nothing and I feel everything…
Nothing, nothing beats her warmth, no rain, no thundering booming growl
from the clouds, no, nothing beats the warmth of her heart beating against
mine, or the saltiness of her skin, or the gentle teasing in her voice
I still find it hard to convince myself that this is happening…to me
But dream or not I will dance, for that is my life…to dance
And I will smile for the first time in a long time…in harmony with hers
"I knew you before you knew me" she says: "I saw you before you saw yourself"
And deep inside I melt, those walls she expertly tears down brick by brick:
A mason cementing with bare hands, and I am suddenly naked.
And I am free, no longer held captive by my own desolate thoughts,
free to explore, free to experience and free to follow her lead,
as we now dance, unreserved, un-tethered…into every tomorrow, together.
***
September 30, 2017
Copyright © Chris Green and Darren White
Botched Artwork Saves Town
Sometime last year, in late August 2015, something unusual went viral..
It was an ancient picture on the wall, vastly unlike its original art..
A piece of botched artwork, unfinished, and yet all over the world it enthralled..
People, the tourist kind, they made a quick bee line, to see for themselves..
Ecce Homo, a seemingly priceless ancient painting in a church , upon one of its wall..
Time has ravaged its brilliant colours , and its paintwork well flaked off the wall..
One artistic old lady of 83, she took it upon herself to try restore its beauty..
Painstakingly she laboured upon days on end, as expertly as she can..
She meant well, it hurts her artistic soul to see the priceless artwork fade..
She tried her best, but the colours, they ran and it was a difficult task..
She had to go away for a short while, she left behind a half restored art...
Someone in church, horrified no doubt, took a picture of it as a matter of fact..
The uploaded picture in the internet, it was shared and quickly it went viral..
Many found it amusing, there was so much scorn, it was soundly ridiculed..
The Ecce *****fresno, or Behold The Man, it now looks like a monkey or a porcupine…
A picture of a mournful Jesus is no more, in its place is an artwork that is one of its kind…
Poor Cecilia, a widow and amateur painter, she never had a chance to finish her effort..
Her failed restoration effort rocketed around the globe and then a miracle of sorts..
People started thronging to this church in Borja, Spain, it was a pilgrimage of some kind...
After the viral picture on the internet, people just had to see and view this new find…..
Now that 150,000 visitors have come and gone, Borja is a town rejuvenated and restored..
In this village of medieval palaces and winding lanes, this botched artwork has the town resurrected…
All the free publicity from a botched artpiece, it has been a breath of life to the local economy..
God works in mysterious ways, it explains the good fortunes that follows from the smudgy renderings..
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/15/world/a-town-if-not-a-painting-is-restored.html?_r=0
Deceit of sun when rays are still but porous;
unwelcome thief, afford my dream more seconds.
Some dappled shadows flit through mystic keyhole;
alight upon pellucid remnant image.
I stifle yawn as thoughts embrace the vision.
My ever-restless spirit merits story
which doesn’t evanesce at first obstacle
encountered when issues foisted upon me.
Embarked on travels, trinkets of high finesse
that crossed the boundaries of reality.
The past firmly imbedded in the future,
illuminating a path predictable and
imbued with fantasy and peccant grandeur.
Adroitly I manoeuvred through initial
self-doubt that plagued a multitude of people.
Circumlocutory whim of eidolon
expertly gathered evidence to support
demand that’s straddling realms, but I will resist.
I read the missive through and then carefully
enfold my dreams in cocoon, preserving them.
Unpleasant facts I spat out like an obol
that’s placed under tongue of recently deceased.
The critics can wait with Charon for day of
reckoning – future set aside for visions.
My dreams swim at the edge of river’s conscience.
Expectations made dreams luminesce brightly,
but withered in morning sun’s naïve splendour.
Like sands in the hourglass, the grains of wisdom
filtered through consciousness and needled thinking.
I set aside the search for epiphany.
You may think that I am famous
Can't recall my name but
You've seen me hang out with the stars
Believe me I'm right there with ya
I'm in their every picture
They don't know me but I know who they are
Thought it'd do me a world of good
To move out West to Hollywood
And try to get my name put up in lights
I myself see nothing wrong
Being the king of the Photo Bomb
Though I'm still matinee and not full price
When I see a major star
I run up to their fancy car
And kindly open up the door
They all give me the strangest glance
When they can't quite place me yet
They feel they've seen me somewhere before
I'm at the next table in the restaurant
Sitting smiling nonchalant
Big toothy grins when the flash bulbs go pop
I'm the guy by the swimming pool
In the Speedo looking cool
Waiting on the Photo Bomb to drop
Or the guy on the red carpet
Expertly placing my spinning head
At the perfect strategical angle
So when the picture does appear
In all the Major Rags for years
I'll be more famous than Charlie Rangel
Those of us that'll never make it
Can anyone really blame us
For trying to slide our way to the top
It's all I really know how to do
If you really must know the truth
My only claim to fame...the Photo Bomb
Once glorious, but now rusting buildings, lined every dusty road.
Somehow everywhere clung the smell of cow dung.
My heavy bag, a giant rucksack,
Most of it I shipped right back.
I thought there wasn't much glitz or glamour,
And fought rough in a bit of a clamour.
Tuk-Tuk's going tut-tut, the hawkers piercing eyes and traders raise the price.
Welcome to Mumbai!
First, I met Tony, who promised to show me,
All the sights and sounds and where stuff might be found.
He exerted Rupees and expertly duped me,
But for a guided tour, I'd have expected to pay more.
My first "queue" for train tickets,
I was newly in the thick of it,
Could they organise a straight line?
They're walking on the train line!!
The infusion of livestock into the traffic,
My confusion and shock, all of this madness,
Each to their own, but, who the hell planned this?
But first impressions are often misleading,
Best get some rest, a wash and a feeding.
An open mind, that beliefs, often null and blind,
Just might find, can lead toward the fuller life.
From the mountains to the Thar desert,
Everywhere, I found was rather pleasant,
Lived like a king, paid like a peasant.
The colours everywhere and flowers worn in hair,
The spices on display and price you have to pay,
Surprises me to say, she'd grown upon me more each day.
And I had five months to travel through,
I bid a sad goodbye India, I'll see you real soon.
On scented breeze, she'd whispered to me,
As her saffron voice caressed my ears,
She hinted with ease and flickered desire,
While cinnamon curls lingered from her hair,
and nutmeg sweetened my dreams.
She
poses
exposes
exquisitely
evocatively
engagingly
expertly
Nature
nude
I do not listen because my heart hurts when I hear the sad, and the mean.
And I get way too loud when I hear the happy. Sad, angry people frown at
My giant head-throwing witch cackling laugh. It hurts them.
I do not listen because it is better for my tender empathetic soul not to hear
What might make me feel bad all day long. However, people think I am listening,
Because I am the great pretender.
My head is nodding in all the right places, giving these people my comfort eyes,
As I am expertly not listening, fooling them, so I can retain the part of myself
that desperately needs to retain hope, joy, innocence, and optimism.
Uh-oh. Something has gone terribly wrong.
I am shaken into active listening, as I can tell by the person’s face
that they are not spewing out drama, or one-upping
Stories, just to be talking. I start to listen, learning who I need to help today.
My only talent, is being a maestro at knowing when and how to listen.
In my day, the mail carrier was called the Mailman.
However, I don't recall any women choosing the profession.
He came to our house twice a day.
Once in the morning,
And once in the afternoon.
Time went slower then
and he had time.
He could deliver the mail
and talk to us kids a while too.
Once when he came by
we were playing mumbly-peg.
He asked what we were doing
and we showed him.
He got out his own knife
Balanced it on his finger
and ka chunk, it stuck expertly the first time.
His blade stuck in the ground every time.
Mine came a little too close to my toes
but stuck. He complimented the risky landing
then folded up his knife and put it back
in the mail bag draped over his shoulder.
The leather, old and very worn
gave way on the edge where he reached in
for the letter that needed to be delivered next door.
Leaning into the weight of the bag,
he was on his way.
Oh, Parthenon,*
Sublime aesthetic structure,
Embodiment of unparalleled elegance,
Incarnation of history, philosophy, and sciences,
Everlasting beacon of human civilization,
Glorification of architecture,
Pride of the Western world
You, the deathless temple of Athena,
Undeniably, it reflects the harmonious blending:
Of matter with the form,
Of man with God,
Of the temporal with the eternal.
In you, one may easily discern:
The drama of Sophocles,
The wisdom of Socrates,
The reason of Plato, and
The logic of Aristotle incorporated
Into
The ageless white marble, that the
Everlasting mountain of Pendelikon so
Generously has offered
And
The skilled hands of Phidias and Ictinus,
So expertly have shaped, into a
Never-ending hymn of worldly beauty,
Ascending to the heavens of perfection
As a thanksgiving to the wisdom of the divine and as
A never-dying monument to human creativity and
Understanding
Oh, Parthenon, before your perpetual magnificence,
Humbly I bow!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
13 JANUARY 2013
*One of the crowning monuments of the world and, unquestionably,
one of the finest is the Parthenon, the ancient temple of Athena, daughter of
Zeus, Goddess of wisdom.
Built between 447 and 438 B.C. during the Archonship of Pericles on the most
prominent spot of the Acropolis- a rocky hill of 158 meters above sea level-
Parthenon has dominated since then with its extraordinary architectural splendor, not only in the land of Attica and the rest of Greece but also, one may say, the mind and the soul of the entire world!
History has often shown, that with acumen,
the sword pales in comparison to a Poet’s pen!
It cuts, not as does the sword forged from steel,
but with a piercing words, a conscience can feel!
With subterfuge and sweetness, it can hide
the acrimonious jealousy that may reside
within the soul of a scurrilous deviant poet.
Chances are, being well disguised, few know it!
A poet’s words can lull a fretful babe to sleep,
or move a Nation to mourn and weep.
Whilst those who seek ill deeds to conceal,
will discover his words will oft reveal
the bribery and corruption they’d committed.
Poetic licence, with words carefully submitted,
awards a poet the freedom, no sword is allowed,
as he subtlety sets out to sway an angry crowd.
The pen, oft proves a deadly weapon indeed.
Expertly wielded, a tender heart can bleed,
but used with reckless abandon? Of it beware,
for this deadly weapon, is beyond compare!
Rhymer. November 12th, 2016.