Best Pencil In Poems
Each step I take along the way is more than I can endure
and every curve in the lonesome road becomes a detour
back to you because movin' on is somethin' I just can't do,
not if movin' on means no longer will I be with you
I can't explain what I hear when you don't say a thing
But my heart dances to every word of the songs you sing
I feel an ache so bittersweet when with a ragged breath
I whisper and you're not here. Juliet dies another death
I can't rewrite history, but if I could I'd steal time from stars
All I can do is pencil in, "I loved you" on pages of memoirs
When dying embers of us become ash without a spark
I'll be lost without love in my life, wandering in the dark
Emptiness is a painful emotion no dictionary can explain
A chorus of 'What could've beens' I'll echo in sad refrain.
But what can I possibly say to console my broken heart
when it realizes that we're no longer just fingertips apart?
Against the magenta horizon the waves cascaded
as the eventide ascended and daylight faded.
No scene was as lovely as this lighthouse scene,
it brought me ease as it was beautifully serene.
This was a picture of pulchritude only God created.
A flashing beam strung through the ebon skyline,
and the heavens showered with stars of divine.
There were nocturnal sea creatures causing commotion,
roaming throughout the azure darkened ocean.
It was lovely and splendid, God’s perfect design.
Weathered rocks stacked up against the base
of this lighthouse I wanted to sketch and trace.
So I pulled out my book with my pencil in hand
wanted to reveal to the world so they’d understand-
this lighthouse was a place of comfort and grace.
No I’ve never seen lovely until this very night…
sitting here in silence gazing at this house of light.
Lighthouse Poetry Contest
Eve Roper
December 23, 2018
A poet who was famous for his love poems was approached by a young boy who shyly bowed his head…
“I want to write a love poem…can you teach me how?” He said.
The old poet smiled.
“So you have come to me because you know how love and poetry are intertwined…and I’m guessing there is a special someone for this poem you have in mind.”
A nervous smile crossed the young boy’s face at these words the poet said.
He looked up and the old poet could see his cheeks were glowing red.
The old poet smiled again.
“My best advice is don’t start out to write a love poem…you see it doesn’t work that way…start our writing about this person…and love will find a way.”
“Take pencil in hand…and think about this person…soon you’ll find it so exciting…
How the words will travel from your heart to your brain and end up in your writing.”
“And your poem may rhyme…or it may not…it does’t matter for in time you’ll see…anything written from your heart…why…that is poetry.”
“And you’ll feel such a sense of accomplishment when your poem is done…
That it won’t matter if it finds its way to a million people…or if it reaches only one.
“And once you’ve written your first love poem…once you see it completed there…
You’ll want to write another and another…because you’ll start to see love everywhere.”
“You’ll see it in your family…you friends…your pets, the Earth…your home…just remember, if you’re writing from your heart…you’ll end up with a poem.
“And finally remember you are human…sometimes you’ll end up with the perfect poem…a poem you will adore…other times you’ll realize…that’s what they make erasers for.”
“So if you want to write that love poem, take this pencil and this pad of paper too…
I have told you how to start…the rest is up to you.”
Azteca
As a young girl growing up in Los Angeles City
My mother took me everywhere with her
Our favorite Mexican restaurant had great hospitality
Casa De Nina, I enjoyed the music and she, their famous platter;
Guajolotas o tortas de tamal
Desayuno, plato de huevos rancheros
Champurado and pan dulce de Pasqual
The owner made us feel special, served us our usual
There were, Chicano art hanging
Some of the most authentic were of Azteca
Roots in the primeval instincts enchanting
The details of nature surrounding, alla prima,
A painting of an epitomal Aztec noble prince
A beautiful princess in his arms, bien fe`rma
The traditional cuadro stayed on my mind ever since
There it was, in all places, the painting was everywhere
La Marketa, the textile district, La Golondrina
Pintura’s de Indios Mexicano’s all about the town square
Olvera Street, even in the Mission at the Marina
As soon as I got home, I cleared away the furniture,
from up against the wall
In one hand the print on the calendar
a charcoal pencil in the other I began to sketch it all
A mural has to be painted in close relationship
to the scale, style, and mood of the interior,
With regard to such siting, to eye levels, a very good tip
Considerations as light sources, make realism art superior
I hid the paint from my mother and dad
Unnoticeable as of yet, I drew very lightly
I worked fast with what mediums I had
Brush strokes here and there, ever slightly
Until a finished project, my very first mural
I took her scarf and covered her eyes,
lead her down the hall and pushed the door
I whispered into her ear, s-u-r-p-r-i-s-e
Happy Mother’s Day, I prepared her a little more
With her fingers splayed over eyes and lips
My mother processed, motionless, in awe
Focusing on the corner at the paint drips
she said, I always knew that you could draw
An inspiring experience for the most part
Exhaling—she saw that I was passionate of my Chicana art
Just put a pencil in my hand and suddenly...
..Smilling, talking, dancing across the page, climbing in a story,
Drawing a leaf, a picture,
Writing an adventure waiting to be read,
Drawing, writing all the whille,
Smilling at every word to be born,
Expressing every feeling ever known to man: happiness, sadness, love, and hate,
Every feeling ever imagined and described,
Magic in my words and fingers,
Creating beauty and perfection,
Beauty on paper,
Love in the sky,
Better and better do my words fly,
Higher, stronger, more beautiful, to perfectionperhaps not yet, perhaps not ever.
In the morning I was impatient as you dawdled
and I told you to stop being so slow.
You just smiled sheepishly and said,
"Bye Mommy, I have to go!"
In the afternoon I spent most of my day on the phone
while you sang aloud and put your toys in a jovial row.
I motioned irritably for you to be quiet,
"Get your homework done right now!"
I rattled off like a sergeant.
"Okay Mom", you said seeming to understand
and sat straight at your desk with pencil in hand.
After that it was quiet in your room.
In the evening you approached me hesitantly and asked,
"Will you read me a story tonight?"
"Not tonight. Your room is still a mess,
how many times must I remind you?" I said in a muffle.
With your head down you wandered away from me,
but kept your dance-like shuffle.
Before long you were back and peered around the wall of stone.
"Now what do you want?" I asked in an agitated tone.
Without a word you threw your arms around my neck,
kissed my cheek, then "goodnight Mommy, I love you"
was all you said and hurried off to bed.
I felt a wave of remorse come over me.
At what point did I lose the rhythm of the day
and at what cost? I couldn't say.
You had done nothing to provoke my mood.
You were just being a child, busy
with the tasks of growing and learning.
I got lost in an adult world with responsibilities,
burning demands, and flip flopped priorities with
no energy left to give.
You became my teacher even after an arduous day
of tip toeing around my moods.
We have one life to live and I yearn to start the day again.
Tomorrow, I will treat myself with as much understanding
as you have shown me today. I will remind myself that you
are my baby and I will enjoy being your Mom in every way.
Your resilient spirit has touched me so I come to you,
to thank you my child, my teacher, my dearest friend,
for the gift of your love that will never end.
THAT SUICIDE
By Roy A. Merritt
If I could only defy this pain
Perhaps I wouldn't feel so inane
Perhaps I wouldn't ponder so
All this pain that strikes me low
And maybe I could drive away
This voice that demands of me each day
Take the chance strike you fool
You're only drowning in this pool
In this pool of miserable grief
That''ll never leave you give relief
There is no hell you fool you see
No heaven or hell no eternity
No God or Satan as they propose
Just this misery that grows and grows
Grows like the monster who does conspire
To bring you low and dwell in fire
The fire that burns within your soul
Though burning harsh it leaves you cold
No more do you wish to reside
You only want that suicide
That suicide a beauty's appeal
That begs of you, you to kill
No thought of those you'd leave behind
To explain it all your long decline
They you know at least you guess
Would only howl and loud protest
Please dear one break this chain
That bounds you up with constant pain
We couldn't stand it we couldn't abide
If you should commit this suicide
But I don't listen and quick depart
To drive this blade within my heart
And as I watch my life retreat
I greet this death, this death so sweet
And once I go and meet my end
Only a number to pencil in
One more fool that couldn't hide
From that pain that suicide
What a better life this could be
If I could only realize, what God is doing
Is not about me,
How much time have I wasted u see
Failing to realize his idea is not about me.
God is about purpose promises and plans
This is what we must understand, if we are to experience
A moving of his hand.
Oh what a better life this would be
If I could just embrace, what God is doing
Is not about me.
I'm just a pencil in his hand
Following his command
While he is working
I'll stay as humble as I can.
The drunken pen dips and swerves around curves on paper. Paper for the purpose of writing things—thoughts a pen brings. My cursive swings, wild and loopy. Oops! Too loopy. Took that curve too fast, ran plumb off the paper. And even worse, it spilled the paper bag stuff. Never mind, at last I’m back on track with my pin head thoughts staggering drunkenly. Thoughts bound to be zingers and sell like mad—good, mediocre or sad. Gutenberg would’ve loved to have my flowing ink, when I’m sober. When my ink stops running my master shakes me vigorously. I hate that! He’s searching for a lead, but there’s no need to be in a hurry. Like at the bank, hurry up and wait. Another line is moving—better get over there, little time to spare. Ahh! Much better. But now the lady ahead is searching her purse for paraphernalia, like an I D? I have no idee what. I’ll throw away the calendar; put this pen in reverse when this woman starts looking for a pencil in her purse. Look! The other line is now the shortest; should’ve stayed in it. Come on! Ain’t there no justice? I’m crowding her now, staggering unashamedly, a need showing up in me. If my pen stains her blouse I could get thrown out of the house, but pens don’t know no better, we just stick to the letter, and take a nip every now and then. One more jigger, then I can figger how to scribble again. Bettcha my master will like that.
blessed assurance
thy computer is fine
for now
but just wait the next crash
and sharpened pencil in hand
I have told all my wishes to the sound of the rain ..
I described the fantasies of my dreams to the beautiful mountains rubbing against the sky..
Lack of faith in the beautiful carvings in the temples..
What is it that I have on this nature.?
Turned all dreams into reality ..
One day in my life with you ..
Riding a motorcycle as if hugging you from behind ..
My intimacy was blocked by not letting air in..
Mountaineering has made me feel high and mingled with nature..
Trembling of cold air
Searched for your warmth ..
Unexpected - Loneliness ..
For the first time,
The sound of your breath began to imprint permanently on my brain beyond my ears..
I stuck your finger in the awkwardness like I held a pencil in first grade..
Your hair will touch my lap
My fingers gently embrace it..
It has become so close to you that I envy myself on my right hand..
I forgot to keep track of how many times your lips touched me..
You hugged me tightly and I disappeared without knowing where I was ..
With such silence - your touch surrounded me ..
Even if your hands were momentary, your mind would have been lighter when you lifted me ..
I have heard that there is femininity in masculinity
But,
I experienced masculinity only when you fed me with your hands..
If you have given me such a unique experience
Who can I be to you. ??
I closed my eyes and thought about it ..
Musical nonsense – purging thoughts
Songs of the heart fill the notes on the sheet
Black upon white in the fanciest lace
Strings out of tune to the places they meet
Melodies wane in the moments we trace
Choruses christened in sweet water glow
Ring through the valleys while villagers sleep
Echoes of remnants the masses did know
Following tears in the music they weep
Bass beats now driving, the wind at the wheel
Harmonic detours turn lyrics around
Lost with a map folded twice to conceal
Any direction a bridge can be found
Violins float on a cloud made of rain
Drifting through caverns much deeper it seems
Piccolos run past the chord dangled pain
Wondering what has become of their dreams
Symphonic whispers of volumes too high
Scream in the night by the light of the moon
Dancing with shadows that soon wander by
Curious why this is so out of tune
Still here I sit on a bench made of pine
Pencil in hand and a page it does greet
Playing these keys hoping but to remind
Songs of the heart fill the notes on the sheet
Don't ask me.
BEAUTIFUL
Adoration, aspect I usually abuse
For I, my, dear would act like a mad man because
I would stare at you like um a statue
Wonders in my mind carrying me away
Taking me time to process every part of you,
I used to claim um an artist, but you proved me wrong
I would just hold still, pencil in my hand, drawing board before me and your photo on the other hand
My eyes glancing at a small piece of paper colored
And after some few hours of silence magically a smile would develop across my face,
And I would pack up my stationary and lie down on bed... thinking
Thinking about the beautiful gorgeous face of yours,
How carefully and slowly they were structured,
Those thick bushy eye brows sprawling out so loud to be seen
Going downwards we have a masterpiece,
The glowing, hidden sexy brown eyes, preserved only for the special ones
Oh gosh! The nose, (laughs) so cute, and a bit pointy and soft, me like it,
And again, do I really have to say something about the… kgm! (clears throat) lips
How they run so soft, cuddly, babe you the best
Whenever I run mine on yours, slowly and tenderly, I run out of breath
They are like magnets; you are south um North Pole,
The magnetic bonds are high that when they attract each other they won’t let go
Not forgetting medium sized, flat based chin that combines with the jaw bones from the sides and completes the full house contours making up the angelic face
Uhm.. (overwhelmed) to be continued
Firm and hard in your hand;
swift movement like a fairy and her wand.
Gentle but bold as the tip rubs the surface,
each stroke is a new reason to be amazed.
An honor, a pleasure if you have it.
Many would crave for because it lit
up the sparks in your eyes and heart
to be able to use it for simple, pure art.
It's the birth place of ecstatic ideas.
Although the first step - many might fear
because it hurts, sometimes it bled
but after the opening it's pleasure's fed.
There are many ways to use
this fantastical item - a mind's muse:
either lay it down flat and nothing comes out
or move it upright and see the seedlings sprout.
Black on paper, white on the page.
It's the key to your imagination's cage;
it's everyone's true start to then land they planned;
it's this pencil, this pencil in my hand.
I sit here at two in the morning
with pencil in hand
for the poem I am penning.
The lights are low
save the one on my desk.
In the ashtray
a cigarette is burning.
Gentle spring breezes blow
cool but not cold
wafting scents
of a lawn freshly mowed.
The sheers at the french doors
billow and dance
as the wind puffs and blows.
In the background
the music softly plays,
cascades and flows.
A clarinet, violin, french horn,
and now an oboe
fill my ears
as the fire in the fire place burns low.
Smells of the cookies I baked
nearly an hour ago
still linger and mingle
in and about each nook of the room.
The Jack Russel at my feet
lightly snores
as the cat stretches and circles
for a nap on the hearth floor.
For my public,
what shall I write for them?
What is in store?
Then Bam
a book falls to the floor
and I am jolted from my nap of dreams.
You see
nothing is always quite
what it seems !!
This poem is part of a series including Sunset Reverie, An Evening by The Lake,
Days End, On Comes The Night and Tiny White Canoe