"The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever." ~ Jacques-Yves Cousteau
When Cupid’s wishes surf on the tail of a comet,
eventide envelops the tender skyline in stillness,
mirroring sparks of neon stardust on the shore.
Stroking the salt-laced sand in silken rhythm,
while hushed leaves surrender to the sea’s songs,
curating a silent reverie of drifting dreamers,
filling the amethyst air with indigo blooms,
as wind and waves merge, echoing secrets~
like heartbeats aching for a kiss of moonbeams,
amidst fluorescent tides twinkling in tune,
erasing tears in the blush of forgotten sunsets.
Categories:
curating, beautiful,
Form: Free verse
I remember how the rose moon drizzled gold,
when stars within your eyes danced, flickering pearls,
curating a carnival of dreams untold~
while heavy skies unveiled tuscan truth, that twirls.
But am I to swim through syllables of grief,
for innocence was snatched by a soulless thief,
stealing soft colors of sunsets with thick sins,
as violin stringed heart sings on sharpened pins.
Categories:
curating, angst, child abuse, deep,
Form: Rispetto
From morning light until 6pm at night,
I'm behind the scenes curating delight.
With tones that echo on your radio,
blending local stories into audio.
In the heart of waves, where frequencies ascend,
from AM to FM, radio signals extend.
In the realms of airwaves, where voices roam,
broadcasting melodies that are heard at home.
With many dials, meters and buttons galore,
producing shows, which listeners adore.
Weaving scripts to ensure presenters flow,
creating playlists of songs people know.
Colleagues call me the conductor of sound,
composing themes to entertain all year round.
Preventing silence from all transmissions,
making life easy for my technicians.
Inviting guests from a wide range of places,
from different backgrounds and new faces.
On standby to report on breaking news,
using social media to increase the views.
Monitoring projects are in my domain,
there's also an apprentice I have to train.
It's not just about navigating the studio,
I compose the moments that make hearts glow.
Categories:
curating, work,
Form: Rhyme
I’m singing in colors of champagne sapphire
curating mauve rhymes from orchid twilight,
as bleached butterflies bloom and soar higher,
candles of love rekindle through moonlight.
Polychromatic phosphenes burn so bright.
Twin flames of technicolor fiesta,
paint dusky horizons from stellar heights
when blood rose within lies in siesta.
Aureolin strokes of firm faith transpire,
thawing blue icicles on frosty thorns
Tossing pastel petals dipped in despair.
Yet, stars above the raven valley mourn,
sprinkling pixie dust upon mellow horns,
Hoping someday there'll be no unseen tears
Pushing soulmates to the pyre in forlorn.
We rewrite neon swan-songs with no fears
Perhaps, black is the synonym of love,
woven to the silver wings of midnight.
Categories:
curating, color, love, metaphor, poems,
Form: Rhyme
THOUGHTS
an insidious truth
this magnetic
attraction
an
accessible charm
engaging
expressions
of an inner
construct
agonising
so interesting
explicitly
embraced
yet a
paradox
capable
of curating
exaggerated
images
a
divinity.
of transformation
of innate qualities,
in an artifice
of authentic
choices
contoured
& involved
so effortless
frequently
appearing
artificial
Categories:
curating, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The Victorians knew how to keep the odd keepsake,
locks of hair, dried blooms, death masks.
Flowers and Jewels, all had symbolic meaning.
Butterflies and all manner of dead bugs were curated,
pinned to the afterlife forever.
Few now have the patience to collect, label and display.
We are the display now.
The selfie, the vacation, and the dinner we ordered
are now the collected keepsakes of existence.
When we go the way of all dead things
these pictures will be pinned to clouds.
They will not gather dust nor fade,
for they were never that real anyway.
Categories:
curating, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Spaces like Life
Your death is no spectacle. It will unfold itself ceremoniously
like a soft-sweater worn and discarded because of a snag
I walk in a ghetto in the black of night, chunks of asphalt heaved up in more spots than smooth,
Makes me think of you,
57 murders of the kind I like
with his first touch, you’ve been archived,
dust collecting on your gilded frame,
curating feelings long dormant,
with the first exchange of flesh—no market bizarre bartering,
the store room caught fire, and you are naught but cindered-ash.
The body both fleshy life and a tomb.
How does paradox exist?
Think on it, scissors join to dissever!
It's one absurdity I cannot resist.
Such conundrums mere escapist thoughts
Bring a chuckle to my lips and a smile on a dog.
As I pass cars jacked
Up on bricks, weeds burst through their rusted out floors,
And brick buildings fenestrated with busted out windows,
once strong practical housing for those “less fortunate”
I cultivate a fondness for demise.
I grow a kinship with discarded things; another era
Eased into obsolescence by sheer neglect.
Categories:
curating, age, metaphor, time,
Form: Free verse
Cunning with wily mind
crafting ways of deceit.
Crooked with twisted heart
curating ways to harm.
Crude with boorish actions
causing wild damages.
Cruelty embodied!
08/19/2016
Note : For the contest (A poem that you enjoyed) by Lewis Raynes.
*Placed Ninth*
Categories:
curating, allusion,
Form: Verse