Shadows on the edge,
memories slide out of view
never full focused-
the past lingers like a breath
you turn to catch, but it's gone
Sideways glances sway
moments in periphery
blurs smear the mirror-
déjà vu calls to play its hand
closing again, happenstance
Gazing at the lake
trees melt into reflection
golden rays adrift-
I reach to hold the shimmer
my fingers grasp only air
A leaf in the wind
fluttering in dusk-lit breeze
reminds me of you-
every sideways glance reveals
the weight of recognition
Wharf boards creak beneath
our bare feet press grips
we leap without thought-
each splash resounds in my chest
as time refuses to pass
The late sun hovers
painting ripples in copper
horizon half-formed-
déjà vu hums in waves
whispering, be still, be calm
Beneath the surface
voices travel in bubbles
half-song, half-echo-
rising like our lost laughter
from another life we lived
All glimpses return
lakes, ripples, sunsets, jumps, leaves
sewn multi-threaded
sideways in peripheral
repeats until the love stays
I'M STILL HERE
IT ALL STARTED WHEN I WAS 10 YEARS OLD
I WAS MOLESTEDFOR 5 YEARS FROM MY DAD
AND RAPED BY MY BROTHER
BUT I"M STILL HERE
I HAVE BEEN BEATENWITH A TOW CHAIN
AND MY HOUSE WAS SET ON FIRE WITH ME IN IT
BUT I"M STILL HERE
I HAVE BEEN BEATENAND THROWEN THREW A BIG PICTURE WINDOW
AND WAS RIPED FROM ALL MY CLOTHES OFF
BUT I"M STILL HERE
I WAS RAPED ON SEVERAL ACCOUNTSBY MY MOM'S
BOYFRIEND AND HIS SON
BUT I'M STILL HERE
I HAVE HAD OVER 11 SURGERIES PLATES AND SCREWS
ALL DOWN MY RIGHT HAND SIDE
BUT I'M STILL HERE
I WAS SLIPPED DOWNERS IN MY DRINKS
AND ALMOST DIED
BUT I'M STILL HERE
I WAS BEATEN SO BAD BY MY HUSBAND THAT WHEN THE OFFICERS
TOOK ME TO WHERE MY BROTHER AND SISTERS CAMPSITE
THEY DIDN'T EVEN RECONGIZE I WAS
BUT I'M STILL HERE
I WAS VERBALLY ABUSEDON SEVERAL ACCOUNTS
AND SOMETIMES I THINK IT"S WORSE
BUT IM STILL HERE
THE REASON FOR THIS POEM IS NEVER GIVE UP
CAUSE IM STILL HERE
Wheel by wheel in its craft
of running...
The rain falls and falls
watering craft...
Blows, the wind that blows
its job of winding...
How it sleeps the night
in its craft of dreaming...
The sheep jump and jump,
in their jumping crafts...
Children play at play,
sweet crafts just for playing...!
I went on a journey across the land,
until I got to the beach with it's golden sand.
I was not here for sandcastles and a splash
I've come to collect some more sea-glass.
Some of it is pretty and colourful, but I prefer the black
I want to get as much as possible before I head back.
Black Sea-glass is pirate treasure from what I've been told,
It's etched with silent stories of pirates hunting for their gold.
I can imagine the glass I find as a mug of Pirate rum,
darkened to help prevent it spoiled from exposure to the sun.
"Shiver me timbers" they'd shout, and X marks the spot,
I hope before I go home I've collected an awful lot.
When I get home I'll glue any to my model sea-glass pirate boat,
then when it's complete I'm gonna see if it'll stay afloat.
I've got my fingers crossed that the launch will be no shocker,
and my sea-glass pirate ship ends up like Davy Jones' locker.
Hammer and nails
And pine and paint,
Made by hands ...
Earns no complaint
A roof and walls
Not much more,
A hole in the wall
Is my front door
Put there for me
... A place to go,
Just to get out of
The rain and snow
Home sweet home
In a rustic realm,
Hidden up and away
... In a shady elm
One safe haven ...
No matter what occurred,
A place to go ...
For one small bird.
Trying to piece together my past
Gluing together the fractured pieces
Hoping the memories will continue to last
Unlike the gaps existing in my mind
So come along together with me
And let's play arts and crafts
Distinguish the flashbacks I see
With what was really reality
Do I truly remember the words that were spoken?
Or is what I remember obscured by calamity?
I see visions of the past when I am awoken
Reliving the horrors my conscience has redacted
Arts and crafts to put myself back together
Turn me into your most painstaking project
As my chronology is scattered like the weather
And maybe one day I can be fully crafted again
But for now I still cry myself to sleep
Tears wilting up the paper sheets
As I drown abandoned in the deep
The purpose of this exercise or test
Is to assess your own individual
limit's of excess
And if you are 1 of the last standing
at the end
You are a shoe in for the job
After that there is a small case of
a swearing in welcoming ceremony
Then your skills will be put to good use
In the matter of the dark arts & craft
arena
Tina learnt to knit her own sweater
Instructions followed to the letter
Many stitch she did drop
Gave too many a strop
When made looked like been through a shredder
Next she wanted to learn to crochet
Make flowers tied into a bouquet
Got her yarn in a twist
Knots and ties would not shift
But did look like a crochet toupee
Decided to learn how to hand sew
With pretty ribbon make a hairbow
Kept pricking her finger
Soreness pain did linger
Her fingers now size of her elbow
Not to give up, tried live art drawing
Felt that was her natural calling
Excited and nervous
Felt hot as a furnace
Of male model on all fours posing
No dangly bits was shown to be drawn
Disappointed felt little bit conned
She drew him very well
All her friends she did tell
As an artist was were she belonged.
18.12.20
all senses under attack
stirred whirlwinds of exotic music
dance in tango heart and soul
aromas of patchouli myrrh and frankincense
have me floating six inches off the ground
trinkets from around the world
a mosaic oozing with mystique
exotic flair whispered in foreign dialects
cultures mingling at the market place
a mermaid chant serenading me
to seaward whimsical adventure
drifting off to faraway lands
an all too eager mind dizzy
soaking in this sizzling myriad
of flamboyant colors
and sumptuous textures
my heart regenerated
my soul ecstatic
twirls with excitement
the world indeed a global village
beauty bold of art
shared across the lands
enchantment imported overseas
mystically inspired awe
speaking to my heart
a cyclonic journey
quenching the drought
of my very soul
Read on air by invitation ~ May 26, 2020 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: 1st place 2022, 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2022
Posted on November 6, 2020
Life is a smile of a newborn in mother's arms
Arts and crafts of stained glass from grains of sand
Freedom of a chick on its very first flight
Love of a mother scurrying beside a young fawn
Float on a lotus pond in style of white swans
Lyrics of nature scripted in nightingale's song
Painting in vermilion tints rising on meadows of fall
Rivers rushing down from spring mountaintops
Romance in lover's eyes watching a new dawn
Wonder in breath of a single-celled amoeba
September 14, 2019
HM: Strand special 5 by Brian Strand
Life poetry contest; Sponsor: Ironic Zink
Finnest of art culture pure of glass
How would the rain rejoy or dance in flame
Color of nights bridge of the unknown
Roof of a kite keys to wine in do one feel the thunder
Laughter of first breath and turn of day of wake of each day
Can a touch of a palsm tell how a story willing beginning or end
Sound of pure thunder is it a sign of worth or sign from beyond work
News or news unto the cater worst or best days a head learner curve or a gift
From above
If I gave my all would work show on my face or would be in vein
Color of a crystal could tell a man work what is at the top of missile toe
Truth love.
Relaxing on a sunday afternoon
I love to paint and needlework quilts
I love to relax on my patio, to see the
fruits of my work and smile
I love to create and know, the people
Will love it so
I take the time to envision the work
To be sure every detail is done every needle and stroke
The treasure without measure is there for me
I love to be outside, the beautiful weather, paint the latch hook needle and me
the sun
dips her wings
in Holy water
before she crafts
the scent of dawn
I mutter a curse
under my breath
and I spread my
sticky paper-mache fingers
And I irritatedly look
over at Austin
sitting next to me
who purposely poured glue
on my hands
and is now laughing
hysterically
and I return the favor
although the teacher
caught me
this time
Then I flicked paint
onto his glasses
and he flicked some on my shirt
and I try to ignore
the strange boy sitting next to me
and I continue trying
to finish my paper-mache
end-of-year project
and then he paints my arm
and I paint his hair
and soon I am covered
in a thin layer
of blue paint and glue
and I think to myself...
Art class sucks.
~Marie Viloria~
Written for the contest: ANYTHING HANDMADE