All I need is inspiration,
To write poetry every morning
As the sun is dawning.
All is I need is dedication,
To write poetry every evening,
And even when I’m sleeping.
All I need is my heart beating,
To write poetry with a passion,
In any style or fashion,
I write a poem on just a whim,
And go out on a limb,
I the beholder see beauty in everything.
I can write alliteration,
And careful of misinformation,
I write love poems with flirtation,
With careful deliberation,
Striving towards fair direction,
Love our poetic generation.
My muse eager to co-operate,
As we generate and contemplate,
And meaningfully corroborate.
Should I not be happy with my poem,
With its title, content, or a name,
I move to a process of elimination,
Poetry my passion and intoxication.
Similar to Noah's, and in an analogous way,
That was the catalyst for the rise of the rainbow.
After the flood, Noah has warranted the decay,
This pledge will be obvious on the display.
Each dream we extol deserves deeming.
Depict a slew of rainbows into your living.
Our chimeras will bedim if we don't believe.
Each one reiterated faith and perspective.
We will be unparted from our everlasting love.
And the congruence warrant will not once shove.
God granted us a rainbow that glittered in the sky.
So that he could corroborate his powerful allay.
In the midst of the most hallowed light.
Though doubt frequently gives way to sight.
And consider living by faith rather than trust
That's what keeps you going and it is a must.
Sobbing may continue throughout the night.
As of yet, delight will return shortly after that.
In all its splendor in the early morning light.
There'd be no affliction if the stain had not spat.
Written: March 31, 2022
What keeps me going Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
Slipping through the crack
feeling like a maniac.
Gather no moss this rolling stone.
seeking a place to call home.
No one lends a helping hand.
not even to a delusional man.
No lining silver can be found.
in the clouds that hang around.
Unable to anticipate one's acceptance.
through the pearly gates.
Living on the streets in such an awful state
an illness this does corroborate.
While waiting for life to throw a twist
I'll just keep staring into the abyss.
Poem date: 3/7/2019
Sponsor: Edward Iben
Title: Staring Into The Abyss
Written By: D. Collins 3/4/19
A timeline and testimony can bring anyone down.
Even those who seem to think they wear a crown.
Bring in the money man and get him to flip.
Corroborate it with that Michael Cohen ****.
Think back to WikiLeaks and Trump's major speech.
He had a major announcement he'd spill next week.
Then he postponed it indefinitely.
Because he jumped out in front of WikiLeaks.
That's diarrhea of the mouth you can't take back.
When timeline and testimony line up with the facts.
As far as I'm concerned, there is no discussion.
We will find tax, bank, and insurance corruption.
It will start at the top, and trickle down to the kids.
All will be accountable for what they did.
Timeline and testimony is what Mueller already has.
While the SDNY is preparing to tax that ass.
The dead are silent.
Thirty-six winters have passed.
Their silence is unbroken.
The dead make bad witnesses.
They do not make themselves heard.
They are hard of hearing.
They fail to make appearances at hearings.
They do not corroborate
The evidence of living witnesses
With fading memories,
With disturbed emotions.
And henchmen are let off
Their hooked crosses.
"All human law is imperfect,"
sigh they whose sins are grave,
too grave to count.
Time heals all
but the dead
are dead still.
Not to be
Is to be
Out of court.
A kindergarten memory
I have is very strong
And no one can corroborate
Or prove that I am wrong.
We’re gluing shapes to paper
And two colors we could use.
I look at all the choices
When deciding which to choose.
I proudly pick the purple
And to go with it, the red.
My teacher, though, suggests
I switch to red and blue instead.
Her reasoning is simply that
My colors do not match.
As I remember it, she felt
She’d saved me with her catch.
Imagine if I’d had the guts
To stick with what I liked.
Perhaps when projects came my way
I might’ve been more psyched.
By nullifying what I chose
The teacher, I think, fails,
For all she did was knock the wind
Right out from ‘neath my sails.
An artist I will never be –
Those skills I don’t possess.
Yet red and purple still look good
Together, I profess.
If I were a polygraph made flesh,
Of wires and sensors and microchip core,
I would know of the truthful intent
Of lover, of suitor, of paramour.
Our eyes when they meet in the light
Would open the souls of absolute proof,
A fingertip brush of the skin
Confirming of falsehood or truth.
I would hear in the tone of a voice
The frankness of purpose or fraudulent lie,
Authenticate candour of words,
Corroborate, counter, endorse or deny.
But all that I have is a heart,
Bruised and confused by a past of deceit;
How to depend on a thing
Abused and so used to skipping a beat.
I am lost in a quandary of faith,
Apprehensive and frightened of hollow despair;
Be patient and treat me sincere
As I wrestle the conflicts of truth, lie or dare.
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