“The Watermark”
Black halos fall at my feet
like the Sun’s shadows kneeling
on beds of imperfect pearls in salvage prayer
scorching the past with its unspoken words
into a new day, the tattoos written sting
and you think,
you’re crazy
bare footsteps like poetry belong to a body of work naked
pretending to walk water along the white Capricorn sand,
no man is an island reading the Sky like it is the lover horizon,
dipping into the shallows reading their rippling waves
all breaking like prisoners escaping their water-mark tears
no lifeguards,
follow here
five fingers
five toes, alone -
gone tropic speaking to the magnetic undertow
pulling you further and further in
the heart is a pounding Ocean, every day calling
with its shining kintsugi grin,
“leave the shore
venture further out
venture further in”
shadowy selki
like a black halo falling
escaping the daft confinement
of a mad mortal world
into the baptismal brine of eternal dreams
pulls in the horizon like a lover,
sheds their skin
CandideDiderot. ‘25
Sing is what Glenn Hughes does
what is the rare truth
tonight I will play Glenn Hughes on repeat
The Voice of Rock
His songs touch my soul
Music is the Healer
it is our words upon his lips we seek
Why do anything at all except listen to Glenn
his body of work is Golden
Oh there is so much love.
Poem titles:
- Glenn Hughes Wordplay
- Glenn Hughes sings to Heaven or Hell
- My Mom never knew Glenn Hughes
- When Glenn Hughes Contests Reigned
- The Essence of Glenn Hughes
- Starman meets Glenn Hughes
- Glenn Writes for Us
- To love Glenn Hughes
- Glenn Hughes Reprise
- So Much Love from Glenn Hughes
To love an artist
is to go without saying
his body of work is Golden
Glenn Hughes, the Voice of Rock
has blessed us with 50 years
of musical masterpieces
When you are down and lonely
you can count on his vibe and his funk
to cheer you up
Glenn has saved my soul
on more than one occasion
with his bluesy songs
Whether it’s dark or light, night or day
I am here listening
listening to Glenn always
I invite you too
to engage in his music
and to love him too
"Well"
Well,
I’m way too romantic
aren’t I?
Tattoo’d poetry
on a tongue
not
speaking
on a body of work
spent unspent
love let loose
on a deep
French Kiss
tatoo'd poetry
on a tongue
locked in
your everything
diving deep 6
into you
like Persephone
underground
I’d rather be a carwreck
driven 100 mph or more
slammed up against your wall
with purile certainty
fingers entwined
the plot curled, legs twisting
fingers deep
in ink
Well, bursting
I’m deep
like deep Red bells tolling
out there
in that walk on water
ocean of yours
sharks circling
I ride
their sandpaper backs
holding tight onto their quartz fins
their razor sharp teeth
cutting up all my pages
in the in-between
emerged in everything
the losses over
every winning win
the black and white
Orcas circling grin
wolves like words
come to save me
and I am yours
eventually, heaven ridden
Well,
I’m deep
6 ft in
another
4 and 20
blackbirds
risen
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Your body of work
My temple
I've come to worship
Fingers grazing lightly across the ink spilled pages
your beautiful soul laid out before me
Your minds a flowered field I find myself running to
Through the windows of you
those dark eyes ever enticing
Gateway to the wanted world
Lost in limerance, closing the door on the darkness behind me
"Serpentine"
Give a woman enough rope
and She’ll show you
what hanging’s worth
the life coiled around
a body of work
could be misconstrued
serpentine
She draws from the rock
like it's Her cornerstone
creation
sexuality
fertility
the life force
of our
ever spinning planet
serpentine
like it’s Her cornerstone
the conscience, conscious
In The Dreaming
It speaks
Its tongues
She listens
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Serpentine.
"I am not even dust. I am a dream..."
(Jorge Luis Borges)
I remember when
love spoken plainly
conveyed all manner
of hidden agendas
hands instead of
tap dancing keys
unlocked
a body of work
stroked skin melting into
sultry deep pink summer satin
caressed with a racing
velvet lipped kiss
smelling the other
hint of warm leather
dived deep
swimming freestyle along
the undulating waves
towards the pulse
at the base of a throat
then, down towards
the place where the
heart beats fluttering
signs read
a welcome
bend in the road,
before heading south
reverse the journey north,
just at that place
where a whisper
can be heard
under the ear,
the hint of freshly
cut silver grass and
dark dark red roses
the tongue becomes thirsty
for life catching
rivulets like rain
running along curves
dipping into the
unexplored
hollows,
but surely
like a fine wine
that has once
come-of-age,
ready to be
poured into it all,
the law of love
offers no
fast and hard rules,
the field
is wide open
the grass
so much greener
there grow
the exotic blue orchids
bending into and over
all those bleeding
dark dark red roses
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Let me be consumed by you
Your song, your soul, your body of work that reads like a road map towards some vague destination
A place in my heart now void of its contempt
This is a long drive for someone who couldn't read traffic signs , smooth sailing under yellow lights into a city of your grand design
I'm on my way giggling like a lovesick schoolgirl
Outside and elsewhere
existence is a leaf on a deep blue river;
a long night has set it free to bob and tumble
as an upturned mirror caught in the gray rays
of an obscure sun.
I listen to the heartbeat of a giant turtle;
the soundless pulse of a mind roaming away from itself.
At such times, a body of flesh becomes a body of work,
an opus of all that can be held
between a left and right handedness.
Nothing has a name here, all anchors are cut,
the black cat of thought
leaves no pawprint upon the inner eye.
Somewhere, now buried in a silvered dew,
the world at large has shrunk beneath the gravity of its own presence.
On the surface of all seen things faces are bereft of identity.
Home seems far away,
a place where an awakening ghost waits for its own arrival.
All the works of a self-creating oeuvre are naming themselves ‘home’
but ‘home’ knows nothing of any journeys made between
these disinherited regions.
From behind a cloud of nowhere a frameless door swings open;
nothing enters, yet All That Ever Was steps out
to greet it.
It lacks every rhyme or reason
To bake a cake and not serve it
It takes away the season
And leaves a bad taste to sit
Here's a baker opening shop
Who's a few slices short of a loaf
Abruptly brings his sweets to a stop
To the abandonment, me, the oaf
I had looked forward to his cake
Is Connie not allowed a sugar rush
Yet no reason given to the break
Only an indelible slight and hush
What I'm driving at is not that sweet
But a contest here at Poetry Soup
Where the sponsor got happy feet
And skipped out on the group
His slight, "no winners chosen" ... gang
As every criterion followed to a tee
Yet his answer leaves mouth's to hang
And a body of work to drop to a knee
10/27/22
Tell It Like It Is Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Mystic Rose Rose
N/A
That's all she wrote.
I have learned not to waste valuable time
On lines having neither rhythm nor rhyme,
Words strung together are hardly sublime.
Obviously, some poets are not in their prime
I wouldn’t give their body of work a dime,
I think they should be charged with a crime
Some should consider becoming a mime ~~
Their long poems present an uphill climb,
Pen me singable lyrics with pizzazz anytime.
written April 18, 2022
Bob Dylan has sold his body of work,
Bruce Springsteen
sold his body of work
Mozart sold his body of work.
Poets try
but money never sings to them,
their bodies not getting any younger
and always depreciating.
Emotionally abstract;
A rush of beautiful tears
leave behind discolored eyes;
All the passion fading
into the painting of her smile;
Chipping with every slow drop
puddles form chaotic shapes
casually described as art;
They see a masterpiece
in the splatter of geometry,
overlooking her face so
emotionally distraught;
Worshipping the body of work
she left behind;
Reconstructed over time
whispers of the past like art so abstract;
Painting the star crossed eyes of future artists
who embellish the magic of folklore.
The last living souls on Earth
will be the ones who lie and deceive.
Humans have painted a portrait of
humanity that exemplifies the worst of us,
and instead of hiding it away,
have turned it into a museum.
One painting to represent one body of work.
Humanity has forced itself into evil;
Cheating and lying and scamming and stealing
to get out of what we have created ourselves.
The last living souls on Earth
will be the ones who ripped humanity’s heart
out, attempting to meld it into a kidney.
Essential, but easily replaceable.
And trust,
It will be replaced.
The Interview
Written: by Miracle Man
5-4-2020
A topic of late being hotly debated,
brings questions and answers, both, unrelated.
Before responding to a question, he hesitated,
then implied that question should be restated.
Now slurring his speech as if half sedated,
he requested, into English, it be translated.
For the rights of women I’ve always advocated,
so I demand these accusations now be vacated.
My body of work has been most decorated,
and these accusations find me devastated.
I hold to the statement I’ve previously stated,
I deny, deny, though witnesses were located.
This story is something the media created,
and tends to leave me quite frustrated.
By bringing up these things far belated,
you’ve made Innocent things seem x-rated.
The charges against me have been inflated,
and should have never been promulgated.
Before I totally lose it and become agitated,
I think this interview should be truncated.
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