It's being with you,
and thinking of no one else.
It's looking at each other in eyes,
and getting lost in each other's thoughts.
It's holding hands and strolling on the beach,
and not even noticing the beautiful waves.
Its indescribable love written on your beautiful face,
It's undiscovered joy in your sensuous smile,
It's uncontrollable lust in your close embrace,
It's endless desire in your deep beautiful eyes.
It's a painted mural in my heart,
Its inscriptions can't be erased with your loss,
if it ever gets repainted with a substitute love,
it's engravings always remain intact in my soul.
OBSERVATIONS
a dream
of truth
deserving
enthusiasm
in
never-to-be- forgotten
expectations
predictions
adornments
engravings
with
compositions
reiterating
appropriate
images
alongside
continuity
of
viewpoints
divisive
diminished
prospects
destabilise
stability
&
benefit
the
sympathetic
Scot Walter Shirlaw
made engravings by the score
With lines carefully drawn
nature studies at dawn
Grave Yards
A walk into the grave yard of my memories hoard.
Life’s journeys, experiences, recollections are stored.
Tombstones lay in wait, years have eroded the engravings,
Nothing left of excursions but dust upon thoughts one is saving.
Difficult to recall, especially in old age, all that has been written
upon the pages of my history books, stories of having been smitten
during life and so long ago, memories to let go of, memories to behold,
of many relationship, platonic, meaningful, friendships forever to hold,
laying within files, in the deep, dark depths of my memories reserve.
I have to wonder, as time slips by, just how many I will preserve
during what years are left to this old soul, that will come to consciousness
and how many will live on, enlighten, brighten, or become forgetfulness.
B. J. “A ” 2
May 6th, 2022
Dedicated to a Lover, from so far away and four plus decades ago.
A Friend, for forty eight years who is shrouded by the devastation of dementia .
a gray brick church with hidden entrances
surrounded with many tangled gardens
and engravings above doors and alcoves
is where I go to pray on the virtues of
love, joy, peace, kindness, and faithfulness
on goodness, gentleness, patience, and balance
seeking oneness and dignity in life ...
I kneel in the silence of prayer
within a sacred candle flickering alcove
under a stained glass window of Jesus
with open arms
______________
May 15, 2021
Poetry/Verse/faith
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1355-820-15
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
It is slowly juxtaposition,
an oldies reith for an acoustic-ness-
and we make a mock,
drain the corner stores mox....
Engravings in luck and harmonious-
they take a tail for a toc,
malevolence out of the box,
on the streets-
in levy and over the acropolis,
like crumbly even and corny thermopolis-
how the havens in heaven must shine inside...
How many travels say they coincide?
Even in a sailing away against all storm's periphery,
dynamite at the dreamy renditions are trickery-
a pleasure of the presence is no outer measure of some other type of compression!
Frozen In Time - Grave Etchings On Their Faces - Nearly Fossilized Engravings
When words are hard to find
When gravity gets in the way
Never call them wrinkles in mixed company
Lines form deep canyons over time in secret
History becomes the past as you grow older
Some words are hard to swallow
Some things are better left unsaid
Old men come from the past
Flow down the river with it into yesterday
Some things are better left unsaid
In ancient circles it is tradition
But circles under the eyes
Heads hung lower than the human race
Speak volumes
Say everything worth mentioning
Feet never touch the ground when telling stories
Loftier heights must be reached if only in futility
Worn out by time with sunken eyes cried out
Nearly fossilized, grave etchings on their faces
Dark and sinuous in their hidden messaging
Their feet never reach the ground as men remembered
At least not until tomorrow should they wake again
How can that be with all that weight of history
Heads hung lower than the human race
Time is never on your side when speaking of the past
With grave thoughts and gravity etched on their faces
The left side of my brain a kaleidoscope of hues,
pinks and purples, yellows, reds and blues.
All shades for each crazy mood I choose,
with a variety of paint my mind carries,
there’d be rainbows with unicorns and fairies.
Soft brush strokes for perfect eternal zest,
for colorful vitality is what I love the best.
On the right side of my brain I’d etch
a silhouette of my heart charcoal sketched.
Memories of my dogs playing fetch,
for they too are my children you see
and have special meaning to little ‘ol me.
Engravings of loved ones who’ve passed away
and verses of silly phrases I always say.
Each side of my brain are both combined,
making my soul unique yet brilliantly kind.
There’s nothing like my chromatic mind,
giving such lively and florid illustration,
making me grateful for my God-given creation.
I shall never let go of my mind’s flamboyancy,
and all the picturesque moments of vibrancy.
Mind the Wet Paint Contest
Viv Wigley
March 19, 2018
Tattered and soiled, an old book with gold embossed letters on its cover. Discovered in a crumpled heap. A treasure once to be in a library, shelved, to be read. Withdrawn to reveal wonders of the world. Fragile its pages, turning each page with notes in the margins, difficult to read. Engravings of an angelic sculpture, forgotten in time.
Hate as much as you wish,
but the jerk,the jolt,the pound,the thrust
experienced by a tender drop
happen to be the sharp engravings
upon the chest of the robust rock.
Never trained to peep cautious,
never taught to note whispers
the wounded embryo recovers soon
to find that neither the market noise
nor even the mid day light
but it is some dim remote wink
that almost snatches it's world of rights.
Was it the only key
to all the worlds to be explored-
it knows not how to answer,
and knows not even how to ask,
but rudiments meant for the purpose
ease ahead all it's work.
It then seeks to be alone
and seeks to ruminate
with it's lonely available tooth.
It then learns to hide and learns to seek,
and learns to do things that one cannot speak.
It starts to disbelieve
everything that it comes across
and delves into the dangerous depths
to find each time a new truth.
And now,perhaps this reversal
of the waves of pain that spread
from all around to the ever itching naval,
soothes it somewhat only to return
as devastating tempests
to the calm and quiet shores.
Through the gates of a mysterious garden,
Eyes glinting in the moon,
A sudden wind caught my hair,
Dark chambers, a choking sound in the shadows,
Unlatching the threads of a defiled soul.
Feet cold on the grass,
And I stood listening.
The darkling seas beyond moan,
Unearthing the sepultures,
Secretly buried in their womb.
Torn petals upon my palms lay,
Engravings shrunken and old,
Of some forgotten verse.
The boughs were dancing there,
The night sky, their flowers mirrored shimmering,
Echoing their song of some broken dream.
((... I walked away from the ancient ruins,, a glimpse at those hidden hollows,, slipping into the silence.))
Fine line drawing
Sketches of simple things
Artistic interpretations
Line art sculptures
Pencil engravings
Visions of harmony
Etchings in clear lines
Black on white shades
Grey tints impact
Notice the familiar
In artistic strokes
Lines in sure tangent
Graceful lines shape
Define the picture play
Still life subjects
Drawings in 2D
Live on paper sheets
Touch of focus art
Cryptic memory
Assembles in greyscale
Mental portraits
Adjust to light
Form and function
Greet line symmetry
Words can only hint
Upon that cryptic sight
Rendered by art form
Pictures rendered
By heart and mind
That urgent hand unfolds
Once upon a blank page
Where no shades were
A new emergence
Artistic perspective
Primal devotion stays
Mint in shaded tints
Leon Enriquez
20 September 2014
Singapore
Like a stillborn child they slept;
Their good and evils they
couldn't do again.
In a place quiet, dark and
lonely,
Where even prisoners are as
free as kings.
Many hopeless people desire to
go there and live;
Those who are grieved; who
seek death.
The rich, the poor, the famous,
the wretched;
Those who prefer the grave to
any treasure.
They desire to go there;
A place with a mouth that
never closes;
Always open to recieve;
Always expanding to
accomodate-
The vast populace trooping in.
How I hate to go there,
The tombs stones and
engravings;
Oh! what a terrible sight!
Always, I pray earnestly,
Not to travel that to land.
Turning on favorites
All the firsts of things
Felling in depth
Being unaware
Not giving a care
Letting go on roller coaster
Learn
Catalog page
Turns
From one thing to another
Paint brush flow
In even strokes
Then in all directions
Engravings fitting
For Summers affections
A. W. Nutter
Monotonous music assaults my ears
The beat, becoming a hypnotic tone
To half clad men as nighttime nears
Dancing around their prayer stone
Worshiping the ancient engravings
A Lycan, portrayed as the master
The human reduced to groveling
Begging for mercy from his captor
The music increases in intensity
Chanting from the dancers begins
Working themselves into a frenzy
Ready to release the beast within
Random killing, is not their mission
The Trinities plan must be defiled
To destroy mans hope of salvation
The pack, seeks Bethlehem's child
As soon as transformation begins
The right hand of God will fall
Saving the son from demons sins
Gods warriors, answering the call
The mens faces begin distorting
Howls of pain, fills the night air
Signal given, warriors descending
Lycans trapped within our snare
Swords are drawn, blood is spilled
The head Lycan, begging for mercy
Raising my sword prophesy fulfilled
Last of the breed killed for his heresy
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