Look at the clouds in the sky above
Puffy, vaporous, fluffy stuff,
Ephemeral, illusionary, ever-changing
A moving mass, reshaping before our eyes.
Billowing blotches spreading like
ink on blotting paper, soaking in,
imbibing a recall of inward reflections
that perspective can change sides,
change viewpoints in time and space
near and far, old and new,
up and down, side to side,
rocking to and fro,
for the spell of clouds lies
in their illusions,
on which we dwell.
Come..
fly with me
beyond,beyond
imagination
Capture..
emotion's
aurora
from the firmanent
Watch..
images descend
. as crystallised
inspiration
Bathe..
in a tide
of surreal
tranquility
through a personal lens
perspective's gaze
alters
as blotting paper
absorbs impressions
learned & unlearned
from mainstream
or the back lanes
or perhaps stand still
&yet
driven by this creative itch,
each day
this word tapestry
must stitch.
Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks
of grass, trees to climb,
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools
and bric-a-brac
webbed in history.
There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch,
grapes swelling
under a cool canopy of vines,
soft skins bursting
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths,
almonds, apricots and the luscious
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.
Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower.
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.
Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.
A POETS PROGRESS
Through a personal lens I think,then write
Perspective's gaze alters,from night to night,
As blotting paper,absorbs impressions
Of poetry's learned and unlearned lessons;
my anthology,my journey's log book
From mainstream or the back lanes I took,
An emphasis upon a favoured form.
Those endeavours which I,on reflection mourn;
I change,I alter or perhaps stand still
In retrospective of a fogotten will,
And yet,driven by this creative itch,
Each day,I,this word tapestry must stitch.
As I wend my way around curving roads
up high into the mountains
I finally arrive at the Eight Gables Inn.
I wonder what it is that drives me here!
Perhaps I have developed wings
and flew across the Atlantic towards
The Great Smoky Mountains
on my adventurous ride
to the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Tired I hope the Inn
will live up to its reputation.
The sun is setting as I view
the purple orange skies darken,
whilst here and there lights
in desolate cottages twinkle in the dark.
I hasten to my private bath
and slowly sink in the warm water,
overpowered by the smell of soapy foams.
Pleased with my silky skin
I put on a plush bathrobe
luxuriously enjoying the feel
of the soft fabric against my spores,
and with a graceful dive find myself
on top of a feather-top bed.
This is the life of luxury...
Until I feel the taste of blotting paper
that cover my whole mouth.
I open my eyes and know
it was all a dream, alas.
My love when you leave
When you walk away
It's my moon vanishing
It's my sun disappearing
I do not eat
And your delicious food sleeps under the covers
I drink hard at night, very late
Like a blotting paper
You are my moon and my sun
At night, I have no sleep
Since your beautiful body is not there
Mine stayed very cold
In the absence of your warmth
Too far from happiness.
When you leave
I do not sing
I am late
Slow is my stepping
It's death
My thoughts are on you, on you
Everything annoys me under the roof
It's my sun that's not there
It's my moon that slips away
And it's the exodus of my hope
Under the non-starry vault in the evening.
Love, you see
That I love you with passion
You are my treasure, my good
You're the one who gives me the way
To live with the greatest respect
In an atmosphere of love and peace.
Love, when you leave
My pen is weeping
I'm scared, I'm dying
And I drink like a bibulous sleeve.
P.S. Translation of “Amour Quand Tu Pars” by
By Hébert Logerie
Copyright © December 2002, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
I recall the old school desks,
Ink for fountain pens a pesk,
Ink wells with lots of blots,
Blotting paper smudged the lot,
There was ink on all our hands,
Ink monitors in history's land!
Reminiscing a Future
Taste of my Teddy bear suckling comfort
Cool button in his ear on my tongue
Sound of silence of parachute’s silk
The nothingness of free fall before landing
Sight of an Octopus squirting ink onto my
Diving mask blinding with glimpses of vision
Touch of cow’s dung heating a humble
Wall sheltering compassionate feelings
Smell of blotting paper on a fountain
Pen’s script reflecting short-lived fragrance
Synaesthesia? Nonsense? Common Sense? Sixth Sense?
Ethereal Incense of mind soul and body transcending?
I taste childhood
I hear freedom
I see no delusions
I touch equality
I smell passion
I sense...Forever
26th July 2018
re-post inspired by Brenda's contest
Through a personal lens I think,then write
Perspective's gaze alters,from night to night,
As blotting paper,absorbs impressions
Of poetry's learned and unlearned lessons;
my anthology,my journey's log book
From mainstream or the back lanes I took,
An emphasis upon a favoured form.
Those endeavours which I,on reflection mourn;
I change,I alter or perhaps stand still
In retrospective of a fogotten will,
And yet,driven by this creative itch,
Each day,I,this word tapestry must stitch.
Embrace the new technologies,
acquiring knowledge as your goal,
in the realm of search and seizure
feed your mind, refresh your soul.
Social Media and bloggers,
irritants in cyber space
will whore themselves for your attention,
waste your time, usurp your place.
In my youth, before the outbreak,
schooldays were much simpler then,
homework, classwork, all handwritten,
essays done in fountain pen.
You fire up your fancy lap tops,
Facebook, Twitter, Cyber Talk,
while I give thanks for ink wells, pen nibs,
blotting paper, sticks of chalk.
POEMS THAT MAKE NO SENSE—2
their flesh bears no scars
only coldness forgotten
and bizarre
never pealing layers
of bleeding hearts
no strings attached
just beings from
odd spaceplaces
dead and dying to
be done with it
all in all their souls
are very still like
blotting paper
absorbing the pink
and blue emotions
of litmus reviews..
Blank…
landscapes on which to
pursue frightening
invasive
disclosures
thin lines of
multiple
foreclosures
mirrors unsheet
forgotten relics
of exposure
in shattered
gutted
shutters
© Kim van Breda—8 October 2o15
Such as blotting paper
We absorb everything:
Sunrise, darkness,
Roses, thorns,
Bitterness, Basil
Lightning’s, thunders
Ravens, Snakes,
Worms under the bark,
The bark and roots,
We absorb
Bread and salt,
Plague, dust, ash, tar,
Wound and the fire of wound,
And the blood above the wound
We absorb
The death, the bones that a thousand
Thousand years ago
Recumbent motionless
We absorb
The rust and forgetfulness,
The dried roots and rocks,
The roads and intentions,
The milk of our mothers,
And our fingernails,
Which were eroded under dirt,
And dirt, what walked over,
Or what walked beneath.
We absorb everything
But what do we give back?
Written by © Fatima Nusairat
Embrace the new technologies,
acquiring knowledge as your goal,
in the realm of search and seizure
feed your mind, refresh your soul.
Social Media and bloggers,
irritants in cyber space
will whore themselves for your attention,
waste your time, usurp your place.
In my youth, before the outbreak,
schooldays were much simpler then,
homework, classwork, all handwritten,
essays done in fountain pen.
So, fire up your fancy lap top,
Facebook, Twitter, Cyber Talk,
while I remember ink wells, pen nibs,
blotting paper, sticks of chalk.
Proper learning imputes proper senses
proper senses set up the mind
the mind is like blotting paper
blotting paper absorbs ink
ink inks on paper
paper shows words
words impact
Through a personal lens I think,then write
Perspective's gaze alters,from night to night,
As blotting paper,absorbs impressions
Of poetry's learned and unlearned lessons;
my anthology,my journey's log book
From mainstream or the back lanes I took,
An emphasis upon a favoured form.
Those endeavours which I,on reflection mourn;
I change,I alter or perhaps stand still
In retrospective of a fogotten will,
And yet,driven by this creative itch,
Each day,I,this word tapestry must stitch.
Brian Strand
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