If I wandered through the room
With lazy-lidded eyes
And a half-cocked smile, barely there
Would you see through my disguise?
My aura’s calm and steady
I’ve filled my head with songs
I’m channelling the tranquil spirit
Of someone who belongs
Relax my shoulders, slow down my pace
And say
less than
I could
I keep my speech cool and composed
Feigning ‘everything is good’
Fabricated serenity
Is wrapped all over me
(I’m wicked-nervous to the core)
I'm giving off ‘carefree’
Creation is something that many have embarked to acheive
My belief is to get out of the way of trying to create while rolling up my sleeve
The next step truly has its own journey, distance yourself from thinking too deep
A great idea or creation could end up as a technique too steep
It looks amazing once I eject myself out of the anomaly's plan
Where do these ideas come from? could it be my mood or my hand
A trust needs to appear for it is all that works in a moment of creation
It will happen once all the elements bind together when it comes into fruition
I'm proud to call myself an artist with multitudes of talents
Whether I'm sad, depressed or just joyfully absent
Infusing tricks that remain tacky or cheesy has no place in my arsenal
Or should I just be and allow without a mehtod that's enforceable
Creation is the process of channelling a wave of discoveries
Marked in crystal birthing of artistic prophesies
They already exist in disjointed pieces
My job is to unearth them and assemble the
Art.
ravens croak
applauding twilight
larks churr
saluting sunrise
a last dance over
an inverted verge.
a perpetual encounter
the last mesh of murk
against gleams of glow
held in abeyance,
opposites wrangling
like birth and demise
asking intricate questions
preserve or discharge
uncertain anxieties
ravens claim temporal flesh,
their ravenousness relished,
dominant despotism
it seems.
yet our lark’s song resonates
stirring our species
influencing our intimate impressions,
channelling subconsciously
our choice
around that inverted verge
eternally guarding us
People, we are the pulsing heartbeats,
Pumping life through this world's veins.
Our words, the rhythmic thrums,
Echoing through endless plains.
Poems, they are the arteries of connection,
Channelling thoughts from mind to mind.
Conversations, the capillaries of communion,
Weaving bonds that intertwine.
Life, it's the ever-flowing river,
Carving paths through rocky terrain.
Concerns, the rapids that threaten to sever,
Tossing us, testing our will to regain.
But communication, ah, that's the lifeblood,
Coursing through, keeping us alive.
It's the oxygen that our spirits so crave,
The sustenance that helps us thrive.
So let your poems be the heartbeat's cadence,
Syncing with others at the perfect time.
Let your words be the arteries of compassion,
Bridging the gaps, making connections sublime.
For in this tapestry of life's conversations,
We are the threads, interwoven as one.
Each voice, each thought, a vital pulsation,
Keeping this grand symphony forever begun.
People, we are the heartbeats of existence,
Poems, the very blood that gives us form.
Let's flow together, in perfect persistence,
Weathering life's every storm.
dawn’s
cheery
red cherries
by the bagful
cheek by jowl they munch
dangling the stem, spitting
out crunchy seeds (tooth breakers)
channelling the healing power
chalking up juicy rufescent bites
at dusk, couple’s cheering cerise cabernet
If anything
I see them each morning
standing by her statue
at the roundabout,
Pensive, deep in prayer,
reflective,
perhaps seeking solace
I don’t know!
Maybe searching for forgiveness
trying to make a connection
with their loved ones,
using her image as mediation,
I honestly don’t know!
Could be channelling messages
of love, praise, loss,
or something completely
different,
I really don’t know!
I drove past again today
not a sinner was there
no one deep in prayer,
Thin Lizzy’s
#Waiting for an alibi#
came on my car radio,
For a split second (if anything)
it all made sense,
and I did know!
I took note of the time and
date,
and went on my way!
The first 'real' poem I wrote
shook me to the core.
I say I wrote it but really
I think I was channelling it.
I was a fifteen year-old girl
and I wrote a poem about a soldier.
I penned it in quatrains and in rhyme;
it almost had an Irish accent.
To this day I swear there was something
definitely surreal about Dreams' Battles
AP: 2nd place 2023
Always fond of painting,
my preference, Realism,
I did a portrait of Bidden –
but the nose kept going
beyond the frame – so, with
desire for the problem to
tame, naturally, I got an-unnaturally
larger frame. Soon, with necessary,
repeated application, the wall gave way,
and the nose was out in the
rain – then, my neighbors
began to complain – myself at last
reasoning, that, when rendering
politicians, Modern Abstract, like Hunter's,
would be a medium more sane –
I discarded my begun Harris,
probably an ever greater
migraine.
His palette was every shade of grey
Jet black one end snow white the other
And never did a stroke touch the canvas
Before endless moments of pondering
Like a crow in a tree
Surveying a frosted wasteland
Then swooping with purpose
Only when the prey was sure
I would watch in awe
Barely daring to breath
As the landscape took shape
In twists and swathes
Delicate dots and bold waves
Skeletal trees appearing
Against a bleak winter sky
Chimney smoke stains
From a distant town
Broken figures bowed
Against the harsh terrain
His head would tilt back
In tense contemplation
Fists clenched and eyes closed
Summoning the strength
To make his next move
Awaiting the muse
Inhaling the heavens
Clutching for inspiration
Then a sudden inhalation
And a whispered sigh
As his vision restored
And the brush led his hand
A world without colour
The death of hope
Questioning God himself
Channelling his demons
In exquisite form
It was still dark when I awoke
To the tinny clang of my travel alarm
The bedroom cold
And the day unwelcome
The windmills swallowed
Don Quixote,
Ocean spat out Atlantis.
Nothing will surprise their hearts
Captured by stony aortas.
The boy from family portrait on the shelf,
Dag his bitten nails into remains of rotten orange
(which left the trail in colour of the burning hearth
across the sky),
And probably not even then,
Not once, has he wondered
What are the trenches on his mother’s face
Channelling salty water
From two black amulets.
Sister’s arms grew wings and scattered
Toward the hanging tree,
Row and untouched by loneliness,
The dog was staring
At the dry terracotta peel,
Only the father,
Smiling and handsome in a black suit,
Resisted the tide of the scorched sunset.
He played the cello with such finesse
Clutching his instrument tight to his chest
As if he was channelling his very own heartbeat
In every stroke ~ in every note
Investing so much with each lift of his bow
His flamboyant gestures mesmerised me so
An artiste creating a masterpiece
Tantalising
Teasing
Tempting
Tormenting
For he was ~ he became that cello
For he was ~ a most talented fellow
Any inhibitions gone
his soul immersed in every song
On reaching the finale
this man was truly spent
his outstanding performance
was surely heaven sent…
Written 8th October 2019
3rd PLACE
Contest STRAND SPECIAL 8
Sponsor Brian Strand
I wrote this after attending a most wonderfully uplifting performance by the World renowned Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, who performed at the Royal Albert Hall, London. This poem was inspired by their principal cello player, who put his heart and soul into every note he played!
Looming bells;
Celebrating marriage and love
Channelling flowers;
Overlooking for the bride;
From a distant you can smell her;
Aromatic like oracle flowers;
She walks softly and quietly;
Celebrating marriage and love
Flowers surround and hang surrounds them;
Bride to be and her groom;
Standing in a row the bride-man/groom alongside him his best man;
Flowers fold outside wedding blossoms claps;
Father of the bride sheds tears,
Celebrating marriage and love
He stumbles yet says something blew in his eyes;
As the organist plays here comes the bride...
8/13/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
I awoke and flung the ache;
Deep into that darkness ;
'My heart!' said I, 'thing of love.'
Spiritually channelling dawn;
I heard my heart, lonely troubling thump, thump, thump, thump, thump;
Blood flows I'm alive;
Once midnight- tormentor of my dreams
'My heart!'
In a kingdom full of hearts;
Deep into that darkness;
My passion is the cross ;
Once I sat engaged and thinking;
6/24/19
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
the
s h a p e
of clouds
spontaneous transformations
caused by wind and air presure
f u n n y f a c e s
a n i m a l s
f r o l i c k i n g
pixies dancing
racing across blue skies
random shapes trolls with holes for eyes
angels blowing kisses
or are they devils in disguise
stacked or just whisps feathery lace
tumbling rolling
channelling sunbeams
rays of light
they say only
shine on the righteious
Get into Shape poetry contest, sponsored by Maureen McGreavy
7/5/18
Inside the oceans current channelling energy begins
combing deep sands awakening feelings soar high
Within a deep fountain appearing dressed in liquid light
brighter than the sun your brilliance shines straight through
Crown of awareness to see into the heart
where there is no in between geography
Supreme bliss enters cosmic universal powers
timeless living visions in a precious gift wrapped soul
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