We harvest all we can
to last us through winter
Glance at the majestic moon
and make a wish with her
Magical things happen
as her rays beam down
a soft side of night
cuddles us close
Dreams come in quietly
holding us nearer
We stop to reflect
on things gone by
The nights get shorter
the air carries a chill
which we wrap up against
Now's the time to shut down
I'll stir again when its warmer
until that time I will slumber
until spring returns
and the nights get longer.
a scribble here
a scribble there
my pen randomly
drawing diagrams and
spelling out words
meaningless chatter
idle artwork
mindless spilling of
thought overflow
nervous tic
kinetic outreach
mental gymnastics
creative outlet
for pent-up energy
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
A missile’s disguise is a flower
magnetic, a whiff of its power
Yet when its petals draw near
a new odor appears
~ Zero-hour
The sea laps the shore,
whilst the sand receeds into
its cold blue temptress.
Oystercatchers sqwark,
their long beaks beaconing
the summer solstice.
Upon the clifftops,
weathered walkers feel the breeze,
adrift by sundown.
Day 0 - End to End Trip Poetry Works.
04.30.2025
To draw is something …
I could never do well,
The joy a picture can bring
The stories it can tell
I could never do well
Drawing freely on my own,
The stories it can tell
Remains for me unknown
Drawing freely on my own
Pencil, paint and line,
Remains for me unknown
A skill that is not mine
Pencil, paint and line
An artist with a brush,
A skill that is not mine
A talent you cannot rush
An artist with a brush
The joy a picture can bring,
A talent you cannot rush
To draw is something …
I draw the heart alone
on a wall,
I draw the heart on the night.
Wanted to draw my heart
on a heart,
but it always kept itself
out of sight,
never appeared
like the endless common tales
under the sun,
rain or the moonlight.
(23.04.2025)
Draw me closer to your light
and bring me farther away from this world
of concrete Angels and sleuths
Anoint me with your grace Lord
and make me thine own
I rather live in communion with you,
than any place on earth.
Sometimes you are good, but you just don't believe,
You have negative thoughts, you let your talent blow away on the breeze.
Do what you want, you could write even draw,
It doesn't matter what you do, if your happy its never a chore.
Put it out there for others to see,
Some will like it and some just won't,
But as long as you are happy so what.
FOLLOW YOUR DREAM
Some of us are born to write...
Others here to draw.
Either way, we paint our life
In living metaphor.
Everybody is creative,
Different and unique.
We are all strong, even when
We think ourselves as weak.
Words for some of us can be
A simple piece of cake.
Others' visions are told in
The pictures which they make.
Together, we can write a book
As well as illustrate.
Between us, ideas are endless
In what we can create.
There is no need to authorise
An author's collaboration
With a willing illustrator
And their joined foundation.
Whenever I hold a pencil in my hand ,I shake.
If I try to draw and pretend to imagine, I will fake.
It's not that I do not like or appreciate this form of art.
Just that it does not come to me from inside of my heart.
We all have different abilities, likes and dislikes.
Drawing does not excite my brain if I have to be precise.
Still it always hurts me that I just cannot draw.
But I would like to believe that it is not a flaw.
Blossoms line my laden descent
down to the perked watering hole
that plays empty theater,
awaiting my creative path,
a royal welcome -
represented by accumed variety and presumed clarity,
of intentional therapy of renewed sensable youth.
Periscope complicity is channeled by heart's stereoscopicity,
Dryad/Satyr Satire, no dry ads, only wet views.
Season facets a wild cherry scent to your vantage point
of attitude and beauty proximity, of dripping cues.
Draw the liquid curtain on the canvas
of insanely intimate hues.
To a crash on the rocks of the mind-blown
by windswept rescue chasing you behind a messaged massage,
Baywatch, Oasissed Dunes and slow Djin mirage.
Nature is no stranger to being the muse,
Rebel with a cause,
cause maybe this time you stay
and snuggle awhile, sailor.
Have you seen the chic pink Gucci tiger ad? She asked me outright.
I had not, but knowing that company, it is fancy, unique and tight.
We want you to create something like that, said the imposing baboon.
Does she not know the only thing I know how to draw is a girly cartoon?
In the attraction of Nature's-draw,
will my heart survive such beauty
attracting with its maw- sitting beneath
impending- melting offering -cascade of Winters drift encore of grift,
scenic spring undressing the thaws,
trap of heart's thoughts warmly clad,
hanging cliffs, gardens of Babylon-
bathed on the lips to wear like an entance,
of entanced shades in scarlet riding beast of glade.
There is no choice but to plunge from the cliffs
and be submerged in the surround cloud lay.
The sting of cold anenome of taboo anamoly of anamorphic fish eye lens o drone , 'saulted wound of surrounding detergent urge of soliloquy-posed like a babbling brook sent into motion by the
everclear projected beast mode of the know,
seeps in to santize the drowning pool you have inked beyond the greatest show on err,
pearls of evaluation of sanity- so audaciously an enchantress come for the bones on our shores
for an innocent suare',
wears the beads like a rosary,
pray for me.
She will have evidence to use against me
on Judgment Day, beyond
and keep part of me sentenced upon this plane,
stowaways, mistress and vagabond.
My friend says his son wasn’t a bad kid.
Bad kids stole money from their mom’s purse.
Bad kids did hard drugs.
Bad kids had unprotected sex.
Bad kids always got into fights.
My friend's son only smoked a little grass.
He only painted a little graffiti.
He only drank a little beer.
He only crossed the white line just a little bit.
But that family is more than a little dead because of it.
it's been a while since I wrote.
Sometimes I feel like I could float
between the best of both worlds
that I've created with nothing but my words.
But to pen it all down seems hard sometimes
because I wish I could have a feather quill
to spray the ink all over my papers lines.
And maybe use a paintbrush too
so I could draw the world's I've envisioned and colour it with everything about you.
Can I sing it in a song?
my words might not mean much
but I swear I'll let it all out so they can match
with the words that pour out of my heart.
For what it's worth, one of my worlds has you
and the other probably has more food
but it all comes down to the way it all feels
If it's right, I'll write it down and make sure it's real.
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