I wrote when I was a young girl
and each entry ended with
“It was a good day”
because it was
and tomorrow was a present
wrapped in ribbon
I dreamt again
that I was swamped by customers
ordering drinks I cannot make
and food I cannot translate
while trying to keep everyone happy
while sneaking away to read
the diary of eight-year-old me
to puzzle together why she became
the lost waitress
My diaries had dainty locks
and charming keys
for little hands
They are in a box
with yearbooks
in an attic
full of cheap nostalgia
I wrote my sentences
in pencil
I cannot feed and care
for all the caged animals
(there are too many per cage)
The floor never promised
to hold me
I once collected pencils too
and grouped them based on
popularity
I didn’t have friends,
I had unsharpened pencils
and erasers that came
from vending machines
I learned to fill the quiet
and danced in negligee
to David Bowie’s ‘China Girl’
When his voice broke,
I felt his falling
and stretched my fingertips
high to a popcorn ceiling
“It’s in the way of my eyes!”
Dazzling across the sunlit ocean floor,
On my way to my alma mater’s shore.
Lavender and rust corals light my way,
Puffers and mantas in graceful display.
Harmonious with neighbours, I stay,
Intuition whispers where currents sway.
Navigating waters both night and day,
In my deepest melancholic mood,
when my appetite ceases for food.
When I can hardly get an hour's sleep.
When I'm tempted for nothing to weep.
When I can scarcely retain a smile.
When happiness goes a distant mile
away from my world of emotions.
I veer off from my own commotions,
when I journey through my own feelings
to get the best of inner healings.
Positive conquest takes center stage
as it defuses my inner rage.
I am renewed with positive thoughts
as my inner melancholy rots.
I simply relive my happiest days,
as my memory the good times replays.
I think of my friends and family,
and the good times we spent happily.
I retain my uplifting memories
which I penned down in Emory's diaries.
DECEMBER DIARIES
When snowmen are built and Christmas trees glow,
When a colourful world becomes pure white,
I was born this month not so long ago,
When every tree branch is laden with snow,
It's the month of giving and spreading light,
When snowmen are built and Christmas trees glow,
Carols are ringing mid the mistletoe,
The nights are darker but the stars shine bright,
I was born this month not so long ago,
Sweets and cookies and soft cakes overflow,
The cool choir goes singing throughout the night,
When snowmen are built and Christmas trees glow,
The angels look down and blessings bestow,
Children in red and white are such a sight,
I was born this month not so long ago,
Gifts are placed around fireplaces aglow,
Ice crystals float down and skating is right,
When snowmen are built and Christmas trees glow,
I was born this month not so long ago.
06.23.2020
Dear Diary, woke up this morning
and opened my eyes
Dear Diary, practiced yoga
and got lost this in the thythm
Dear Diary, where do I go
and how do I find my way back?
Dear Diary, is it all a thought
and could it be what get life on track?
Dear Diary, these days you're a journal
and I wanna know why'd you change
Dear Diary, it is time to say goodbye
until we meet again another day
The Dilettante Diaries: "Finding Lost Keys on the Steppes of White Ivory"
Where do you place your hands
When the sands of time
Slip through the 4th
and like reading braille
you silently derail
to touch burning
black keys
on white ivory
you go about
removing cold hands
from the warm pockets
of trapped complacency
looking for
double sixes
roll the dice
tumble the love cup
upside down
soft-sucked
sugar cube
black tea leaves
soak up your
bespoke wet dream
slam danced
you're romanced
up against graffiti
walls, you
take a chance on
shadow dancing
with another hand
tired of shuffling decks
cutting cards with
Half-hitched knots
and sinking boats
that pass for
tiger sharks
playing for
white ivory
on the cool
Siberian Steppes of
silent aching skin
shimmering
secrets sans
translucency
and buzzing bees
burning
stings
the wanting
humming silently
secrets and
all those
lost black burning keys
within …
(Lovejoy-Burton/October 2018)
The Dilettante Diaries: "Love in Motion"
Sanguine Soul finds Mate
Magnetic Mate finds Soul
Poetry
Love in Motion
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
"My heart is like a singing bird". Christina Rossetti
The Dilettante Diaries: "The True Romantics"
Once cages are open
the True Romantics
dance their dance
of Freedom
Hidden Keys
Swallows
air beneath
their wings
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
"I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else." John Keats
"I love you more than my own skin." Frida Kahlo
"Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced." John Keats
"Kiss me and you will see how important I am." Sylvia Plath
"I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love." William Blake
“Don't look at me in that tone of voice.” Dorothy Parker
1.
"Giving In"
Club Kuru
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEFwRSjfHk8
The Dilettante Diaries: “BEE”
Love
Joy
Bee
“BE”
“B” he says to his 2nd.
“Tiddler B” he says to his 3rd.
“…….B” he says to his 1st.
….if
he could just “B”
more than “She”
under earth
he would
B just B
Love. Walking
Love. Breathing
Love. Seeking
Love. Talking
Love. Listening
Love. Giving
Love. Loving
Love. Being
Love. Freeing
Forever
for Her
he’d just
Be
swim into her last breath
with
Peace
Love
Joy
Be
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
for LJB/VCB
18.9.71
"Seams Sewn in Souls Strung like Pearls Cast out into the World"
In each of us
a pearl
God
the unknown
embryonic
soul
In each of us
the common
thread
Seams Sewn in Souls Strung like Pearls
Cast out into the World
Different beds
Same Road
Home
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
1. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/05/15/style/sunni-colon-music.html
“God is a Woman”
Romance should worship Her
Always
See how God grows
in the Woman
Different windows
Different Seeds sown
Black Iris blooms
Today is Now into Tomorrow
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Za_N28331Qw
The Dilettante Diaries: “Freshwater”
This is how it begins
Opposite side of the chequered board
Black and White, a game to win
The 50 Move Rule flirts consequences
of a burning mind
Through windows
Freshwater
is now lapping at his shores
She calls his bluff
Menu: Sardinian
he’s a soft Diamond in the Rough
Two travellers -
A Writer and another Writer
change course,
Two travellers on a journey
turn around, tack inwards towards the other
change the plot, rhyme and verse
Freshwater
The 50 Move Rule flirts consequences
of a burning mind
Opposite side of the chequerboard
This is how it begins
Black and White, a game to win
No Deer in the Cross Lights
She smiles
He grins
Freshwater
Lunch and a swim
(Lovejoy-Burton/September, 2018)
"Slow Air", Still Corners
https://youtu.be/h10-Q4vJGVY
1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fifty-move_rule
2. Pilu, Freshwater
The yellow and frayed eternal pages
Are crying with blue ink and look the same.
The years turn to words and seem like ages
Of grief in such a thin and subtle frame.
This memory-evoking prose of sorrow
Is life... or scattered pieces, left of it.
I'm waiting for the better new tomorrow
And learning to accept the worst defeat.
These words have got me back to times of glory,
My tears wash this bitter ink away,
I can't believe it's me who wrote this story,
I wouldn't dare say the same today.
I cut my hand while touching reminiscence;
I'm brought to life by strong and sudden pain.
The paper's edge is sharp and torn to pieces,
And all that's left is just another stain.
To scribble on paper
The things that I love
Is like asking vapor
To turn in to rub
It feels degrading
When put into words
To entertain one waiting
With nouns and verbs
This is my heart
My reason for breathing
The jump to my start
My rhythmic beating
But I do it still
Incase by chance
Another soul feels
A kindred romance
If a person can taste
And enjoy the scent
Digest the grace
Then I won't repent
My efforts prove fruitful
When evoking emotion
When noted as truthful
By an unknown friend
I still long to be apart of your
midnight diary;
One whose words supply a
passion for poetic substance;
At your elegant wish,
To complete empty pages;
With the same thing that
completes yourself.
So for tonight;
When the moon rises,
Please bestow that motive unto
your pen,
So I may feel at ease to sleep;
Knowing that sometime during
my dreams,
My name is somewhere in your
midnight diary,
As yours is now written on this
very page of mine.
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