Long My muse Poems
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To those naysayers telling you
"You're bound to fail,"
Respond with "Watch me!"
Use their words of doom
As fuel for inspiration
To aim higher for the stars.
Each time they employ tactics
To dismantle your
Painstakingly constructed dreams.
Each time they sound
The death knell against you,
Simply keep on walking toward
The practical goals
you've set for yourself,
Step by step
Keep laying
the foundation of your dreams
Brick by brick
For your detractors
Have given you the blueprint
To build much bigger dreams.
Each time they attempt
To extinguish the burning flame
Within you
With words of disapproval,
Use them
As fuel for inspiration
To prove them wrong.
Unbeknownst to them, they feed
Your dogged determination
Like kindlings to a bonfire.
My Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
Date written: 1/4/2023
Poems tiptoe into my dreams and fill up all my sleeping space
Thoughts of mythical creatures, maybe a wonderful brilliant thing
They are swirling and twirling, each in own unique place.
Without any thought of my well-being, they banter and they brace.
Throwing out a plethora of inane ideas, without any obvious taste or grace.
Subliminal faerie clips,
float into my lavish fantastical dreams on an angel’s wing.
Unaware, I slumber on, my breathing at a quiet, gentle, meditative pace.
Knowing not what my early morning poetry will savagely or lovingly bring.
Poetry seizes me in my sleep, and holds me hostage even after I am awake.
Unaware while I am astral traveling,
but morbidly aware when I leap out of bed.
Her metaphors and nuances wind around my dendrites,
without a quiver or a quake.
Unbeknownst to my quieted essence, as I travel around moonlight’s silver lake.
Quickly aware, when I begin throwing out ideas and full passages
the minute I awake.
My imagination is spouting phrases and rhymes that seem curiously well-read.
Thoughts slither and sneak around me in teasing ways,
like the skin of a sleek snake.
My muse marches out lines of poems,
knowing my therapeutic need to be so fed.
Written 2-21-2019
Contest: Poetry and Me
Sponsor: Silent One
I went to bed but couldn't sleep
Getting up as my thoughts run deep
I need to write, my mind's at stake
My muse once sleeping is awake
I trip on the cat, hit my head
Maybe I should go back to bed
But writing I must soon partake
My muse once sleeping is awake
At my desk now, starting to write
I will be here most of the night
I write rude poems, my mistake
My muse once sleeping is awake
I submit my poems on line
Not feeling concerned at the time
Next day displayed, a fool I make
My muse once sleeping is awake
7/14/19
Contest: Writing Challenge 1, July 2019-Repeating Refrain
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Syllables checked on PS.
In my diary of destinies,
your song left a sweet scar.
In the silent savagery of time,
fate falters, floating like a feather,
yet my soul still sings your name.
In ivory and ebony hues of hollowness,
you bring colours to my monochromatic existence.
I find no wonderment in worthless words,
losing patience with pondering in poetic passions.
Intrinsic ink no longer flows in unwavering waves,
yet my thoughts won't stop my heart from bleeding,
seducing me to rewrite our tale in cranberry skies.
We've been engraving metaphors into our souls,
portraying purple star kissed tulips between our poems,
blossoming bronze blushing gardenias in my love garden.
When the last petal falls as prose like personification,
I'll place you gently in between unread chapters,
for you're the embodiment of my poetry of colours.
I gaze beyond enchanting hills draped in green silk,
wondering if love was a thorn less rose in an empty desert,
would it perish like lonesome lips without your kiss?
My muse is floating towards your majestic shores,
but will I be cursed with a thousand springs without you?
Distance can be cruel with melanin dreams and muted nights,
serenading sweet symphonies and melancholic melodies.
In my beloved's oasis, maybe jasmines have thistles too,
like beautiful memories of a once majestic masterpiece.
The horizons to your eyes can be violet, marigold or indigo,
you could be a lily, lotus or an orchid in fluorescent orchards,
just don't abandon me to bloom under midnight tones,
as my forever ends with you under sapphire skies,
as your eternal gardener radiating in saffron rosy rays.
to truly be whole
we must be in touch with our soul
I call mine Trixie and claim she is my muse
Or I give credit to the deer, eagle or wolf,
my three power animals
they give me what I need daily
Deer gives me tears for those who are hurting
and empathy to go along with it
Eagle gives me the power to soar, so I can zoom in my sleep
Wolf gives me the aloneness I need
to separate myself from the pack
so I can rejuvenate and refresh myself,
the heart of the matter is this, I am in touch with my soul
it is what makes me want to be me
the me that survives my incarnations
I truly am whole
and I love it
(Dedication: For my wife Ann)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And when I think of you my love,
Warm feelings sync with ode to dreams;
I feel touch link such precious streams,
On verge and brink of joy above.
Here by my side yet a soul free,
Through time and tide where love sparks fest;
I feel touch glide in happy quest,
As you abide now most truly.
And through the years of lovely light,
Faith and hope cheer each day that comes;
I feel grace here as moments sum,
Watch your eyes spear such profound sights.
Here for a while we journey far,
My muse you smile as verse lines cite;
I feel love style such tender writes,
Touch floods each mile with brilliant stars.
And when I feel fond touch of grace,
My lover thrills my happy trip;
Your presence heals taut pain that grips,
Fond eyes reveal a lovely face.
As time moves fast in hurried trends,
Soon moments past tell in recall;
I feel joy last through sweet and gall,
Each day a blast where love transcends.
You are to me a wise sage still,
Fond melody in mystery;
Sweet ecstasy works sensuously,
Your face I see in steadfast will.
Thank you my dear for dreams that come,
For happy cheer in vibrant play;
I feel love clear through night and day,
There's naught to fear when true love sums.
Leon Enriquez
24 July 2018
Singapore
Because
In this world of contradictions and fear
You care
One of a kind invisible, yet true
Weatherproof, divine
I get it, faith is gift
My muse itself stands in need of You
What is this love that makes me seek You?
Because
Even as I snooze
You open my heart to Your words
Have me to make right the wrongs I've done
Steer my thoughts, I pray
I'll have it no other way
You're in charge, I'm not, and
Because I am of You
I'll lay wait your appearing
Let my rejoicing hold features of You.
Because
In this personal space I'll carve
Wherever I dare
Silence beckons with index to its lips
I get it, stillness speaks
I am entranced to advance my views
I'll abandon what's not of You
You're epiphany of love that renews.
*
The blank page laughs and begins to dance
She bends over and shakes her booty at me
Put your petootsie away, I say, but I am smiling
She wants words – adjectives, prepositions, verbs
Especially verbs! She says, shaking, laughing, dancing
She loves the ing-words the best, she is good at them
I watch her sparkling, dazzling personality do a two-step
Don’t you need a partner? I ask the blank page.
She leaps into the air, bends, folds, twists, and turns.
You might as well give in, my muse suggests.
She knows this could continue for an insane amount of time
I snatch the blank page down and begin to write.
My existence is a poem I've never finished,
as I've always been unsure what form it should take.
In a labyrinth of lyrics, words are like whores,
unfaithful and easily bought in a virtual marketplace,
so I wonder if it's better to leave them unwritten -
but an unprecedented urge to scribble overcomes me.
My muse is not amused with prose.
Love for rhymes and syllables abandons me.
Yet, I know one day I will produce my best poem.
I remember when I was invisible,
silence was so surreal, until my pen began to shout.
If only love was like our words.
I never asked to be loved,
I always thought it was a natural emotion,
but when you are seen as a foreign seed,
you feel you do not belong.
Fate is like Judas,
that comes with a price,
leaving you confused with the mind like Russian Roulette,
wondering which verses should be sacrificed,
before the final 'bang' takes your life.
We search for normal in an ordinary world,
where such definitions are a matter of perception.
Childhood becomes an enigma when you are guideless,
so you search for faith, but end up faithless.
When your world is burning,
rage becomes your most loyal companion -
releasing trauma through misunderstood screams.
I was born lost in a place I did not belong,
a different breed from a foreign seed.
I've been finding myself since the day I took my first breath,
a bird born too early with ruptured wings,
unable to fly, struggling to breathe,
before I could write or sing,
the universe engraved an anthology of adversity,
an impromptu narrative turning me into an accidental poet -
with an unlabelled identity.
I've walked amongst devils and angels,
been betrayed by their wicked schemes.
Yet, I never cry for yesterday,
I am not a manifestation of my suffering.
There are so many ghosts, I could not heal,
I know their silhouettes will forever haunt,
but I continue to count my blessings,
as I've grown invisible wings,
spreading in the form of free verse.
Their feathers have become my quill,
where my ink soars like an eagle,
because I'm not afraid of approaching storms.
The story of my life will eventually be forgotten,
but maybe my poems will live forever.
Silent One
11 March 2022
I feel yellow and orange and swirls begin
Prancing and dancing, smiling with mirth
What about pops of white? My muse asks.
I shush her, because I am in a swirly mode.
Hot pink drops into my dendrite field.
She is all about herself, living her best life.
I have no choice, so I add her to my soul.
Friday has never felt so dazzling!
Silver? Gold? Purple? The majestic colors.
Would solid be appropriate? Layers upon layers of bliss.
My muse dares not speak, wondering where I am going.
I am all about checks now. They are always red and black.
Unsure why, but suspect it is due to my grandmother’s afghan.
My mother completed it a week before grandma died.
It was a crocheted beauty, which stimulates red and black.
I begin to paint in this memory, not recognizing the significance.
Glittery, happy, joyful dashes and drops
Complete my exuberance today.
I feel myself easily.
Living subconscious patterns.