BITTERSWEET (A PARADELLE FOR AUTUMN)
Gone is the bird song that once filled the sky
Gone is the bird song that once filled the sky
Now the wind moans low like lovers in need
Now the wind moans low like lovers in need
In need like a lover, that once filled the sky
Gone is the bird now like a low moan of wind
We have gleaned from the earth its bountiful fruit
We have gleaned from the earth its bountiful fruit
The fields are empty, the harvest is in
The fields are empty, the harvest is in
In the harvest gleaned of its bountiful fruit
From the earth we have empty fields
The leaves are beautiful in their dying
The leaves are beautiful in their dying
This is the swan song of earth
This is the swan song of earth
In their swan song dying
the leaves of earth are beautiful
The sky we have gleaned, empty as bird song
fields the leaves beautifully, in the harvest
dying, bountiful fruit gone, once
of earth in need like a lover’s swan song
filled by the low moans of wind
Poet that I am,
I live on dreams and breezes...
I love to live in peace
and in a state of happiness...
But ambiguous as I am,
I am happy and sad...
I harbor dissatisfaction
and anxiety...
I seek total bliss,
the kind that can never be found...
But that does not shake me,
because I am an ethereal creature,
I live on dreams and chimeras...
Never giving up...!
I remember sitting among the poets in this place of arts
Where curved brushes painted blushes of artists open hearts
Our art could be confined to paper, but really it was meant to fly
Like a caged bird beats its wings, these words seek the sky
Only on the lips of faith, they leaped from the pages
And danced around the room, turning citizens into sages
Awakening something so deep, I forgot it was there
A hunger to create, and the pride to share
The words returned to the pages, content with its journey as proof
A smile touched her lips, after delivering such a truth
She quietly closed her book, as we laid there raw
For as much as we thought we knew, we were still left in awe
Of The Laureate
In words that dance, a poet's grace,
A laureate's soul finds its embrace.
With verses vivid, tales unfurled,
They paint emotions, a world advanced.
Their quill, a wand of rhythmic might,
Crafts symphonies in darkest night.
From heart to ink, the journey's grand,
They wield a pen as magic wand.
They capture dreams in vivid hue,
Reflecting life in every view.
With language as their chosen art,
They touch the core of every heart.
A laureate's essence, pure and deep,
In every line, their secrets keep.
Through verses bold, their voices soar,
A legacy that time adores.
1 fine day an erstwhile aspiring
dotting poet laureate
Overcome by inner torment and
habitual thought
This ditty came to wrote
When 1 finds the sun behind
sadly no longer way out in front
Ever so steadily warming one's back
and dirty neck
And so too the torrent of regret
that makes 1 fret the splinter creaking
wooden board's under foot
Beware and very mindful to watch
out for the gap's as you step
Because it's easy to fall through
the crack's
And it's a long old way back up as
there are as many stairs to climb
To find yourself right back where
you began
Realizing you have reached your
ceiling and have finally attained
your level
And the only thing awaiting
after that
Is an untimely death
Hopefully then followed by an
everlasting eternal peace at last
Oars and jars in place,
sails ready to blossom,
map drawn as a moon.
Chinese character, rhythm of life,
painted on the hull.
It is strange that I see.
On every mornings breeze.
That there’s always a doorway.
To you.
It is strange every time.
It is always on the line.
And the door.
It is open.
For you.
Come morning,
Come morning,
we set sail.
A-nother
L-aureate
L-ady
I-n
A-mazing
H-appiness
G-ladly
E-njoys
M-arvelous
L-ine
A-bout
M-agnificent
B-eauty
I-mparting
N-atal
C-elebration
I-n
O-ccasion
Topic: Birthday of Alliah Gem O. Lambinicio (October 26)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, world to world,
Bouncing from dimension to dimension,
Stranded in the space that is nowhere,
Unsure if this is wake or sleep,
Unsure which option is reality,
Rapid fire stillness,
The love child of sanity and insanity.
I loved you the best I could,
Your scars were so deep and so old,
I could not see them and you could remember,
I love you,
This time love was not enough.
Through doors and windows,
Further and further inward,
Pushing limits until inward becomes outward,
And miracles unfold into reality.
In the music of life there will be sound and rest,
In every day there will be work and rest,
The contrast is important,
Finding the balance is the test.
An apple bitten,
Exiled from the garden of love,
Innocently wise.
From Africa to America spanning the world, quite possibly
My DNA struggled to survive to make me,
My existence is a testament to survival fitness,
My life is to nurture the future and bear witness, the past,
My name is the name to property they gave,
My heritage my lineage is that of a slave,
Yes, slave, property, harsh words to hear,
Great Granddad was born enslaved, three generations too near,
Granddad laid bricks, played music and sang,
Hope from Grandma’s illiterate lips, I sprang,
A lineage broken in Georgia or Carolina south,
passed on and on by word of mouth,
The legacy must pass through me to give my children power,
For their momma’s line stepped off the Mayflower,
In both I must help them see honor,
For the strength and the pride that made me must endure,
Listening, and teaching, and learning I press on without blame,
Learning from the past about my past I move on without shame,
Each new day, new creation, I write the story,
One of survival, renewal, reflection, doggedly pushing toward glory,
I am black yesterday, I am black now, I am black history.
(On the state of American Poetry- A Non-Poem Poem )
I'm Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
They voted. I won.
' came down to me and the kid whose dog craps on everyone's lawns.
His poem was about a missing red crayon; mine: the stop-sign someone stole from the corner of Elm and Main (I think I know who did it too).
Is it coincident both poems are about loss?
Probably not. Poetry is at it's best when expressing loss.
He'll probably win the position back next year with a weepy poem about not having been chosen Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
That's fine with me, as long as he keeps that damn dog in his own yard.
If words are thoughts made manifest, humanity then a poem long ago written
only the poet knowing the design
Tragic or joyous, all things rest in his hands
for once the word is constructed creation is realized ending fulfilled
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