Popcorn poetry
Wordy feast for eyes to eat
Beautiful in braille
Had Been Using Braille
had been using brail
when he did write much email
out window would sail
had been bold and brash
very vile was city of Nash
there his dough did stash
Jim Horn
eyes wide without
trying to blink wanting
to see every thing paraded
before her always asking what
her nose in perfect symmetry
equally distributing everything
to make the whole complete and
through this she doesn't even snore
leaving her lips finding her jaw
not clinched at all actually slightly
opening to my fingers as if to suck
feeling her face in the dark wondering
do my
fingers
lie
to me
Here’s a short poem for the blind among us,
A poem that’s written in braille,
A poem that hopes to enlighten the world,
A short unique, beautiful tale,
About a blind old wise man, who lives all alone,
In a house on the far side of town,
With a poetic dog, who faces the moon,
And howls a short poetic sound,
And the man can see what the dog softly sings,
Can see what this dog tries to say,
Can see the love shared by this most beautiful dog,
The love on full public display,
As he drifts off to sleep, every night of the week,
Drifts off with this dog on his mind,
This poetic mongrel, a terrier cross something,
This poetic dog who is blind.
A tiny scar that marks a
long-ago mishap or misdemeanor.
A slender ridge left by an
ancient scalpel.
Faint dots and lines,
barely more tactile than a tattoo,
in the shadow of a breast,
the lee of a thigh,
the curve of a hip,
that startle my hands because
they are like invisible jags in silk,
minute blemishes
embossed on flawless skin.
Cocooned in love’s sleepy afterglow in my bed,
your body is warm like hushed earth that
remembers a newly departed sun.
My hands sleepwalk across this
mythical landscape,
stumbling eyeless across
a scattered alphabet
in which I’m not literate,
the coded script
to a life that has now joined mine.
There will be plenty of time to learn.
For now, my fingers are content
to gather up their stories,
undeciphered, into my dreams.
As an appendage to my life's story as I sail
Will certainly be a very long tail (oops... tale!)
Also climbed Mt. Everest
Got to the top, beat my chest
Then fell to the bottom, now read braille
I remember seeing
rich, chocolate eyes that invited me in
with hospitality and comfort like a hot chocolate
on a particularly cold fall day.
And that
the sun turned your skin to gold and
it was still soft and
sweet smelling.
Your delicate
crown of hair a
halo
of abandoned beauty a
physical form of the words
'reckless abandon'
and I remember your skin under my fingertips your
hands in which i held tightly so as to not let you slip
through my fingertips so as to tell
you
i won't let you go.
I remember seeing silver skin
dark, black eyes the color of
night with
small yellow sparks
as stars
i saw them.
i saw them and i saw that
the moon
dyed your skin ivory
we were in an old silent movie i saw
your lips moving and i made up the words i saw
you in black and white and i made up the colors.
you spoke in the song of the mourning dove
you spoke in ancient tongues that i loved that i had forgotten.
I saw the poetry written on your skin on your palms
and i felt it
etched into your bones i read it
like braille.
For long i longed to meet in greetings
the sight of the morning.
My eyes with glasses to hide from the harm
of the darkness of day.
As i saw no faith in my last hope,
cometh was the braille.
And my hands started to see more clearer,
beyond wishes of my eyes.
So i writ a note with suicidal thoughts, a death note for my eyes had already died and awaken was the view in my hands.
So i raised dots ink on a transparent paper a see
through, for i was to see through it.
As for all was written in thoughts , "my transparent paper",
the brailled
Adorned with momentus meaning ,
darkness can be a terrible and scary thing -
For some- a time of nightmarish convening
Yet to others - divinely rich beauty abound
To me it is a story to read one of
my favorite things - lying on the ground
All the stars are braille as I reach out to read touching and caressing
One falls and other takes its place
the story is rewritten again and again and never dull
Some people on earth prophesied the stories to stones ,
some five thousand years ago ..ancient stories regarding our times
Full of ugly, detestable crimes, so I do as I may,
watching the night sky reading stories of dragons ,
creatures half man and many other wonderful things
My perfect world of armored braille-
I'll just keep on reading of ancient battles, songs of lovers
Adventures of the gods
And four leaf clovers.
Amy Green
April 2014 revised May 18, 2014
Your Braille Writer
I’ll write from right to left
while you read me from left to right
our hearts meet and we’ll never say goodbye
you are my precious gem in this world of change
remember, I am your hope and strength whatever happens
I’ll show you the light
a great assurance
that you’ll be alright,
like a bright lamp
just carry me
I’ll show you the path
giving you lovingly
the desire of your heart
just touch the dots
like switching me on
then I’ll show you that life is good and the world is so beautiful.
Date Written: Sept. 18,2012 by Leonora Galinta
Note: I lovingly composed this poem dedicated to exceptional kids especially the V.I. or visually impaired ones . I tried to make a lamp shade shaped poem as I was inspired by the manual braille writer I have here. I used this when I learned braille writing for V.I.
Second Place
Contest: Impress Me with a small Poem IV
Judged: 3/14/14
Sponsor: Poet Giorgio A. V.
how can you remember
every word, everything I've said
when you are looking at my lips
still moist and swollen from your last kiss
the whole time we are talking
oh, but honey I remember
everything that you have said
cause you are talking with your hands
your fingers doing the enunciation
reading me like I was braille
The tiger moth
Wingless flight
Camouflage stripes
Sitting patiently
Waiting in the
Tall thick grass
Reading the braille
Stars of night
Asking the Lord
To bring back his sight
Blind; six dots helped others "see".
For Raul's contest
Within the days,
eyes of ilex
lulling to the
snowy grass.
Hearts and echoes
beating past.
To want them would be
vox and vex;
My love is silence
at its best.
Speak while I am still
a living verb
and not the words
upon my grave.
Consume me like
the ocean waves,
before I am nothing more
than literature.