Long My own style Poems
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Remembering that day you were totally gone!
Your etched coffee mug with your name, lonely, on the bright plaid
kitchen table.
And your loving presence vanished like the fog.
Deeply sad, was I, indeed, was that whole morose day..
Who knew the man of of my life was headed my way?
Not me, drowning in tears and forlorn loneliness...
How does life work out? It does. Is it angelic presence?
I feel that very exact same way today. But know now the seasons
of the heart has its ways.
And today's heaviness will be gone and vanish.
Replaced by a glorious, melodious song.
Through this morning mist, dream helpers already at work on the spirit
of my dreams.
So, I let it go, drifting in dreams in serene poetic repose.
Neither form nor impressive vocabulary creates my poetry.
I am happiest exposing the genuine me, not to please thee.
Still in search of my own style, the genuine sounds and depth of my soul..
Why, of course! My heart will carry me for miles.
10/17/2020
Opus# 1
'Good Morning, Heartche.' Song made famous by the late, great,
Billie Holiday.
I'm rather hard to figure out
Not many really get what I'm about
I'd rather sit quietly than shout
I keep it real I'm not prone to pout
You might think me passive
Still I will act
when others are subdued by doubt
Somewhat serious
Yet prone to smile
Not ecstatic I have my own style
If you need comfort I'll stay with you a while
Don't expect much talking
I'm a listener on the emoticom dial
As a poet
I know the power of the word
In the end I like to hear and be heard
Like you I too have been burned
Within adversity there were things I learned
I am a dancer
Stepping out on pages
Quiet paper oragami cages
Traveling on thoughts
Floating through all my stages
Fast forward rewinding
Pausing at my distance
Like the Borg victims there is no resistance
I breathe my thoughts with a certain persistence
If you look at me
I might reflect you
Searching for answers
Seeing beyond dark corridors
To places bright blue
Perhaps you as well
Like me
are an enigma too!
Written April 8th.
Looking at the view from the window,
I watch the cars as they pass on buy
The street lamps give a distant glow
Now brightening the darkened sky
Looking at the view from the outside
It has a whole different perspective
Especially if looking from the inside
Things they seem like their reflected
Looking at a view but way out of focus
I ask myself what it is I'm now seeing
Making up my own style of barnacles
But though looks they can be deceiving
A view from a completely different angle
Now that changes the whole dynamics
Different shapes, a square or a triangle
But I don't know much about physics
Iideas from others I wrote like sights and sounds
Idea came from seasons and ghost town poems I wrote
probably makes no sense but like I said in my dys of colour poem
the way my thoughts are made WRITTEN BY MYSELF DAVIDSCOTT FEB MARCH 2013
wishing round in my head while think of other things at time maybe reedit in future
im still working on something else called rems
Difficult to speak right at right moment
Words of mouth thrown once can't be taken back.
I try to be polite on each comment.
but sufficient promptness, I must not lack.
I talk pleasant putting proper effort.
Difficult to speak right at right moment
Verbal interaction is sure an art.
After conversation not to lament.
I try to be clear to words what I meant.
I talk to the point if to contradict.
Difficult to speak right at right moment.
Not being rude I talk, yet quite distinct.
Well known proverb 'what you say, say with smile'
Words of my mouth will remain permanent.
To impress listeners is my own style.
Difficult to speak right at right moment.
I believe that at first
I had a thirst for word
As a child I’d create my own style
And make up words to popular songs
Especially when I wanted to sing along
But did not have the vocabulary at age two
By age six I was full of poetic bliss
But only pounding keys on my toy piano
Shouting made up songs as I’d go
Then on a whim of destiny
I became a victim of rape
But I had no word for it
I truly didn’t know what to say
I didn’t understand at age six
That it was a teen and I was just a kid
I saw blood and thought the cool aide
I drank had simply leaked from me
The pain and shame was like a bad dream
But I did not despair for music was there
Then at age seven ironically
A family member, my father began molesting me
This time after years I did speak
To my sixth grade teacher who intervened
But before I could find a way to tell
I used poetry and journalism to excel
My writing was not really the best
But it saved me non the less
So for me music and poetry
Are at the core of my salvation my peace
Years of fears tears and therapy
I am healed and better for it all
Thanks to God and a teacher
Who inspired me to talk.
Pen then, I beg thee,of meatloaf.
Perchance.....or butterflies wings?
Meaning or depth, has little honoring!!
Be a fool and pen of things of today?
The poet-butterflies, all fly swiftly way.
To write of-gremlins at the supermarket?
Life has no meaning, don’t you get it?
It’s supposed to be all a big laugh for misfits!
No, I don’t get it and I never will.
Just want a bowl of granola and humility
To taste it’s grand sweetness under the Oak tree.
In my big sun hat, taking a summer slumber
. 6/19/2021
(This is my own style of poetry)
Poetry by Pangie
Form:
MY SPIRIT SOARS
"The wind rides in solitude, In her diaphanous delight Her skirts brush eternity, To gather the stars of night"
Music fills my soul and wakes up my senses
and I find my whole body moving to the beat,
rhythm, tempo, cadence of the music in precise,
distinguished moves, defined, delivered with feelings.
How dancing stirs me and lifts me up is beyond me.
Every move I emote is an expression of art, feeling
serenity, freedom, happiness and being in a trance
while I sway, shake gracefully, showing my authenticity.
Dressing up makes me feel free, expressing my love
of fashion and expressing my own style, individuality.
It is art to me, playing, coordinating colors, adding
accents of scarves, hair pieces, belts showing my chic way.
Travel enlightens me, brings joy, delight to my being.
It gives me knowledge, being aware of the facts and
familiar with the places I visit while enjoying my stay.
It gives me freedom of exploring and sweet memories.
How my passions carry, transport me into
another world, where I find solitude, serenity,
freedom, delight, joy or up above with the stars
and that is when my spirit soars with the wind.
5/3/21 Choose Your Form Poetry
Joseph May
Chose: Option #4
Checked: PS Grammar Checker
Concrete
Cold pavement
I watch the shadows huddle by the subway vent
Fear
Heavy and deep
Afraid of where I’ll lay my head to sleep
Toronto winds
They cut like glass
Counting every nickel as the minutes pass
I walk
I wait
Checking every receipt by the iron gate
Don't call me cheap
No don't call me cheap
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
Safe and sound
Racks
Rows of wool
Found a winter coat where the bins are full
Soft
Cotton seams
Living out a life on a budget of dreams
Second hand
My hand
Better than the hunger that I can't command
I save
I survive
Keeping my dignity barely alive
One shirt
Used well
I’m wearing it today can't you tell
Don't call me cheap
No don't call me cheap
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
Safe and sound
It’s an insult
It’s a sting
It’s a bitter kind of thing
When you look at me and laugh
When you look at me and judge
When you look at me and sneer
I see the struggle
I see the sidewalk
I see the truth
[Verse 3]
Style
Is what you make
Not the brand name that you choose to take
Hard
Thrifty grace
I won't let the poverty erase my face
No debt
No shame
Just a different way to play the game
Friends
Listen close
I’m the one who values the most
Pure thrift
Daily wear
Keeping away from the cold despair
Don't call me cheap
No don't call me cheap
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
I’m just building a floor so I don't fall down
Safe and sound
Every single day
Every single day
This is my style
My own style
Don't insult me
No
Don't insult me
Just let me be
Free
(I inserted my own style in this crazy, yet cool composition I penned a while back on a Sunday! I hope you enjoy this somewhat new poem!)
Love
Will
Clear things up -
If only you would see it
Crystal
Clear right this instance
Sunday's nearing its end - my life
Welcomes Monday with open arms
Grazing on my own,
Hoping to find love somewhere safe
I fell in love with mystery
But, disappointment hunts me down
I'll be an animated clown
Though, deep down inside,
I feel the waves of emotion
Become friends with my state of mind
Gratitude will be
My friend
Odd questions poke at my brain
One thought asked:
What's
Love?
Form:
As fresh and as fragrant, colored hyacinths,
That intoxicates one with heavenly scent.
So may my true,original form of artful poetry,
Bloom and blossom, escaping cells of the past.
To spring into action at each sunrised day!
Not wondering where my poetic desire be.
For truly, as a new child grows free….
And this style takes on its own shape.
I, no longer resist, creating my own fate!
********
Greek Legend has it that Hyacinthus, a young
man from Greece, was beloved by Apollo.
He was teaching him how to throw the discus.
Accidentally, it hit him in the head and killed him.
Instantly!!
Out of his head, the ground soaked with his own
blood, grew the flower,named in his honor of his
Name…. Hyacinthos.
The petals were marked with “Alas”, for sorrow.!
Panagiota Romios.
Romios Poem I
“In My Own Style”