Long Creative writing Poems
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Here is my story, raw and uncut.....
I was a DJ at a small gentleman's club - I loved music, and so I had an "ear" for mixing
tracks, plus with my passion of creative writing I wrote lyrics to songs. But working in a club
you're around alcohol, and drugs. I quickly got hooked on cocaine, the rich mans drug.
Liquor and cocaine was my thing. On the night of my crime, A "homeboy" of mine came
over to my apartment with some coke, I had the liquor. So we begin getting high, drinking
liquor while playing the Playstation2. We got a call from a mutual friend, a girl we had both
dated. She asked us to come over. We said we were on our way.
Now by this time, I remember, I was soooo messed up man. But I got in my car, him in
the passenger seat - on the way to Jenny's house, we are passing the bottle of Jack back and
forth. It's around 2ish in the morning. I was off that night from work.
So we pulled in the driveway, we went around back, like we always do at her house.
(Everyone goes to the backdoor). The door was unlocked, lights were off, all was quiet - we
figured she was asleep. My homeboy goes straight to the kitchen to fix him a sandwich -
don't ask me, I have no clue how he could eat. I go into the living room, she's laying on a
futon, I jump down next to her, playfully saying, "Girl get your ass up." But to my surprise
an older woman jumps up saying , "What are you doing in my house?" _ Now understand I'm
high out my mind, I was invited to Jenny's house. Who is this woman screaming, "Get out of
my house!" I say, "Where is Jenny?" And she says "No Jenny lives here!" - Then like a light
switch comes on! I realize, "Shoot I'm in the wrong house." - Now I know what you're
thinking (How would I not know?) I can only say with the amount of alcohol and coke, and
the fact, the houses looked the same (It being a subdivision) I believe that's what they call it.
So I take off running "Man we in the wrong house" I tell my homeboy. As we are leaving
I'm asking him questions like (How we not realize this isn't Jennys office?) He's got this big
stupid look on his face - A lot of what happened that night has come back to me over the
years. And the look on his face when I asked him that question confirmed - we sure was
trashed!
Continued in Part 2
Poetry as well as writing are both gifts and labors of love.
Jesus Christ has freely bestowed upon me his gifts of
Writing and poetry. I am primarily an inspirational/
Christian poetic writer. It is plain to see poetic/
Creative writing are my passions. And one of my major
Reasons for existing on planet earth.
Using poetry/writing as part of a time capsule. In order
For any future unborn generations. May discover and
Perceive their very own literary legacy. By desiring to
Make an impact and a difference in the literary circles.
Shaping and molding younger writers, and my peers
To uncover their own goals, hopes, dreams and planes.
Writing for the both the enrichment and amusement.
Are working together. Simultaneously in prefect harmony
And Creativity. Working together hands in. "Hands across
The water and hands across the sky,"The Beatles.
Often used exclusively for spreading the good news.
And informative news of the life Saving gospel.
Courtesy of my beloved Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ is my bright and shining candlestick. He
Is my brightly shining candle light. Illuminating the
Darkness in a sin stained world!
Turning on the Lamp of his lighthouse! Guiding ships
Into their Harbor of perfect security and safety. Entering
Their Home port of operation. And welcoming their
Loved ones safely back home once more again!
He is the Sanctuary of my life. He is my BFF, my very best
Friend. In the entire world I exist in! He is my guiding
Candlelight by morning, noon and night. When things
In my life go upside down. Jesus Christ sets things
Upside right!
He has bestowed his free gift upon other Christian
Poets and writer. Who know about writing and the
Gospel of Jesus Christ. Than will be revealed to me
In my entire earthly life.
Who far surpass me in Their very own ability and
Creativity. I do not compare myself To anybody else.
For I can Never measure to their professional quality
Standards!
But Christians, everywhere through out, the world.
Are spreading the good news of the gospel of
Jesus Christ! "Turn on the light house. Turn on
The lighthouse." Leaving it on morning, noon,
And night. Who love their beloved Jesus Christ!
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
July 12, 2020
From my childhood to adulthood my
Spirit always wrestled with navigating the
Tumultuous torrent of others thoughts
and opinions seeking to discover and
Hear my own voice.
I pen my journey, my spirit, my home.
A masterpiece crafted in passion and strife,
In each fading chapter, my life is a poem.
Each day a stanza, each moment a line,
Ink of my heart in rhythms divine.
With metaphors blooming in gardens of time,
My soul finds its music, its vibrant rhyme.
For my life is a poem, a legacy spun,
A symphony woven until the day is done.
For every lost moment, a lesson was learned,
In the furnace of trials, my spirit was turned.
For the world tried to clip my wings and I still
Learned to fly.
Teenage years spelled chaos, emotions untamed,
Pages marked by heartache, where innocence shamed;
The ink grew more vivid, the essence of life.
For every insult, criticism, wrong doing I let slide
It always felt like a part of my soul died.
Adulthood arrived, with burdens to bear,
Time penned its chapters with wisdom and care.
I pen my experience with the poetry I share.
Putting one foot in front of the other I continue to
Move forward even when life may take me a few steps
Back.
To be true to one’s own poetry roots are beyond skin deep,
My ethnic background or demographical community where
I sleep and rest my weary feet.
There was time where others as well as myself thought I was unable
To speak. Then the seeds of poetrees began to grow, from the soils of adversity
branch out, above the low level shrubs and weeds to embrace the light of the sun.
A poetry that will never have to stand in another’s shadow.
Standing alone tall and strong but never alone.
The quill of experience wrote lines steeped in grace,
each face found its place.
My life is a poem each experience is a totem
So I write, and I live, in this infinite quest,
For my life is a poem, imperfectly blessed.
Like many of us men we are taught not to cry,
Show weakness or express emotion although
We are still human. I let my tears flow through
The ink of my pen.
My life is a poem.
We faced each other in a circle as
we sat on chairs inside her classroom; then
she had us close our eyes. Perhaps we used
some blindfolds. I’ve forgotten details, for
it happened in my high school years ago.
Our sense of sight was gone. She walked around
the circle, giving each of us a taste
of something we would savor in our mouths.
Then each of us would guess what it had been.
We must have sampled spicy, sour and sweet!
I can’t recall the foods we tasted or
how many times we guessed them right or wrong.
She also had us use just sense of smell,
and later, she played sounds for us, and we
made guesses as to what it was we’d heard.
This happened in the first week of the class.
It stands out sharpest in my memory,
but I recall we’d share our written work
inside a circle. This I loved so well
because we heard each other clearly then.
I can’t recall the name of her who taught
Creative Writing. She was young and sweet
and knew the trick of using every sense
to help us be in tune with what we felt.
And that’s why we used blindfolds that first day!
Those words like “imagery” I’d only read
about in English class would come alive
because this woman knew the secret of
good teaching was to let her students learn
from real experience, not just from books.
I don’t recall the many things we did,
but all the fruit I bore from what she taught
is with me still; the stories that I wrote
and little poems saved since eleventh grade.
I kept no work from any other class!
I never guessed those many years ago
would find me on a thing called Internet
or that I’d end up writing mostly poems
when little stories used to be my “thing!”
Real writing days came once my kids were raised.
But always I’ll recall that precious class,
The funnest and the most inspiring one.
Perhaps a bit of what I am today -
A teacher and a writer - I owe to
The miss who taught Creative Writing Class.
Brenda Chiri-Carroll's "Who Has Inspired You the Most In Your Life" Contest
(I have learned this teacher's name since I wrote his back in 2011. She is Ms. Deborah Rozeboom)
Here is my dreamiest, dream job.
I will get to drive a fire truck and use the sirens - all the way to work and back. The gasoline will be paid for by my company.
There will be no committees, and no paperwork. No one will be required to do anything they do not want to do.
Everyone will be the boss of themselves. We will get to design our own luxurious offices. We decide what our work is.
The woman next to me is designing houses for people who do not have them. I am running a creative writing center slash art studio for pre-teens and full teenagers.
The woman who envisioned this company pays us what we decide we are worth. My best friend spends her day in an enormous greenhouse creating hybrids.
We eat a family style lunch and brainstorm our terrific ideas with each other. There is a lot of laughter, the walls exude joy. We want to stay late.
We have a hot tub, a swimming pool, daycare center, school, and arcade on the premises. The school is manned day and night, even weekends, so our children can go to school and learn geometry or psychiatry, or zoology at any age. All they have to do is talk to the teacher. They can go to school on Saturdays and all night! They love school because the curriculum is designed around their interests.
We can play whenever we want to play, swim whenever we want to swim, design whatever we want to design. Supplies are unlimited. Paper, pencils, coffee, fruit snacks, lunches, and suppers, are all free.
We design our day the way we feel it should go. My perfect career makes me feel respected, and is fulfilling in so many ways. My friends are here, and we help each other so often, they are my family; I am part of theirs also. We each have an apartment if we want to live here. It is soundproof so we can sleep at any time. Naps are encouraged. The perfect workplace. The only time we leave is to worship, because it is strongly encouraged to get away for one day and worship the deity and religion or non-religion of our choice.
Creative Writing was my love,
a passion I thought highly of.
A freshman, I felt I could shove
one course in my school year.
Assignment 1 - simple indeed:
"Who broke your heart and made it bleed?"
I felt I nailed it; Prof agreed
(or so it would appear)...
I think I wrote convincingly -
"Winter is not my cup of tea,
it casts its bread upon the sea,
my saddest time of year.
I call a halt, enough's enough!
I clench my fist and call her bluff,
and frankly, speaking off the cuff
I wished summer were here.
"Dog days of summer make me smile
when, grinning like a crocodile,
my smiles are wider than the Nile -
Elysian Days with you.
With bated breath, I'd greet the moon
and croon you some soft summer tune
until that wretched day in June
when you dealt me a blow.
"My love, you had me on cloud nine,
now casting pearls before the swine,
you ran into his arms, not mine;
my baptism by fire.
You left me there sadder than sad;
there may be balm in Gilead,
but you left me stark, raving mad,
about to go haywire.
"To add insult to injury
you said I barked up the wrong tree
and so I sailed on glassy sea
I hope I'm not too vague,
or should I spell it out for you?
In light of your foul witch's brew
I should do as the Romans do:
avoid you like the plague!"
Thus it went on, emotions raw.
I hoped my prof would be in awe -
My last line was the coup de grace:
I know this, too, shall pass.
My gentle prof, he had his ways
of pointing out my bland clichés:
"You do enjoy a well-worn phrase!"
I learned a lot that class.
// Reminiscing on my patient Creative Writing professor indicating my over-reliance on tired phrases //
written 16 Aug 2020
No twilight concerto to sway not yet
as zigzag street lights pound upon
heavy fog clutching iced flakes on rooftops
like hushed matte from night's gale
pouring bitter ovules to a past in need of relief.
While in her vein is a constant downpour
of Bach's untenable requiem
as hands pound on ivory keys,
immersing in the fever of the moment
until fingers carve a solemn journey
into wiry trails of insolent rain.
How she summons the goddess of morn
to cure thistles of wait and pang,
sifting each beat, each note without interludes
until this child- woman shifts her face against breezes,
tasting madness rawness on lapping winds…
In disheveled lingering she cuddles
unspoken words, her own song
on panels of cut-glass-------with acceptance
the world could still breathe despite a torment:
just then...in a twirl of air's cadence
the night shuts off.
.............
1/18/2016
Jamie Pan's How Long Can A Poetry Go
This poetic attempt is a cross between existential expression
and stream of consciousness technique. The former highlights
contemporary man's response to anguish, isolation,uncertainty
of life in the midst of change.Thus, this poet explores
the outpouring born from inner annihilation-- being
absent from the self- YET allowing space to exhale for a new
awareness to surface.
Dovetailing this language of despair to the stream-of consciousness
technique allows the spontaneous, raw float of thoughts without
the pleasure of edit, like journaling and ' writing down the bones.'
I feel that literary devices ( from metaphors, enjambment to alliteration)
come into play , well, quite instinctively.
In my creative writing class as a college professor, I ask my students
to write with their less dominant hand to discover the 'heart of the matter.'
Then again, that's beside the point. This author will leave this piece to assault your senses, and then, softly break all defenses. Thanks!
Love is a fact
Not an illusion
Or armies of ghost encircling the niche of our heart
& the craving is not a pure nonsense
For the kids, love is a language of the bed
But for us - love is painful
Sweet - expelling the beast of hatred.
I’ve travelled to the legends
Love isn’t just a word built with blocks of innocent letters.
Time stands in confusion
The absence kills my soul
Collapse alll the roads to my heart
I’m addicted to her presence
When she cancel her smile
& deprive me from breathing her perfume
The coldness of my nerves burns me
In the agony longings
FIFEHANMI (show me love)
I memorize all your names in my prayers
Say them in my evening hymns
Narrate them every night before bed time
Paciolo Pen Saint
(2)
Show me love, treat me as your Life partner,
Olowooridayo, I have to feel being important to you,
please ensure that you think of me always,
like I am your 'One and Only',
make me feel better to suit you plan,
show me the love that
the swears of your mouth
confesses everyday with the Al-Qur'an,
let me feel I have someone indeed,
give me a life assurance that I would fear to forget,
I want extraordinary styles in this display of love,
love me in manners and methodologies never heard before,
Aadunmi, Fifehanmi!
Make me feel like a woman whom is needed,
show me that you love me,
let your eyebrows, ears, thoughts, actions...
be a mirror reflecting love to me,
crown me an Experiencer of your own Love,
if not you,
then no other trousers will lay himself upon me,
at dawn, day, night and midnight:
to sweat out his stress and worries,
to gossip his happiness, wealth and prosperities.
Show me love,
show me in the strongest skill that your capacity can permit you,
Fifehanmi,
Fifehanmi...
Please...I have accepted your words that you love me,
but show me love, Fifehanmi!
RASHIDAT OLAMIDAYO AJAKAYE
STRIDA- ... guiding you to striking confidence in academic and creative writing!
Advocating adherence to the Almighty
Building lives, I am called, by His blessings’ bounty…
Cheering police lady officers as values coach
Devoting time for Bible study with prayerful approach…
Efficient orphanage Mom, striving to be effective
Fulfilling chores along patience of sweet directive…
Geared with persevering servant-leadership governance
Hopeful is my heart to hoist special children with loving guidance…
Involving in church ministries, by faith, for eternal impact
Joyfully sowing Gospel seed midst Scriptural contract…
Kindling fervency of High School creative writing students with zest
Learning am I unceasingly, trying to exemplify what's best…
Meaningfully mixing meat and veggies to my menu’s delicacy
Nourishment I value in feeding children with optimum sufficiency…
Opening opportunities toward stewardship maximization-bliss
Purposive are set programs my Social Work responsibility can’t miss…
Quieting myself from pressure as I silence pets’ quirk
Rest my soul seeks, after checking Bible College students’ work…
Studying for weekly virtual and actual face-to-face discipleship
Tenaciously, my commitment is propped by the God* I worship…
Upheld upon the Lord’s heavenly calling for gracious reaching-out
Victoriously I continue midst unbelief, fear, faithlessness, and doubt…
Waking with the Saviour’s strength everyday to fulfill entrusted roles
X-factor of my new being keeps on achieving motherhood goals…
Yielded to the Master Whose way is perfect, granting favor to my task
Zenith of haven’s fortress I reach while in poetic moments, I sublimely bask.
*Colossians 3:17 And whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.
Abecedarian with couplet form
February 14, 2024
1st place, "A Poet Plus" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues; judged on 2/23/2024
This poem is very long overdue
The words or things to say I just never knew
You had so much faith in me when I had none
Just a student waiting for the school year to be done
But because of you I am who I am today
A writer publisher and poet proud to say
You are the definition of a dream come true
I wouldn't be where I am today without you
You were the best teacher I ever had
I wish there was a way I could reach you so bad
Once I graduated your words of encouragement and belief never left my mind
Ms.Clifford you are truly my hero and one of a kind
You helped me succeed and be all I can be
It was your passion that you carried with you that inspired me
You are no longer a teacher at the school but please know I have searched for you
Because I never got to say thank you for everything you do
It has been decades now but I will never forget how I got to where I am right now
So wherever you are it's your turn to take a bow
Pat yourself on the back or give a speech or simply take a stand
As I applaud you for giving me a dream and lending me a tremendous hand
Caring enough about your students and going out of your way
Helping me with the present but preparing us for success in the future every day
Making sure the foundation of my dreams would some day come true
I am so blessed and grateful that I was taught by you
You are truly my hero and my creative writing teacher throughout high school
The critiques, feedback, criticism was never to hurt me and I found that super cool
The manuscripts I wrote, never knew it would turn into a published book
Wherever you are I hope that you will take a look
You really made a difference in my life and definitely helped me grow
Your name should be on the wall of fame or on the honor roll
I wish you the very most happiness in the life that you live
I hope you accept the trophy for the Best teacher award that if I ever saw you I would give