Long Piece of paper Poems
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The city, part awake, part asleep,
part dark, part lit,
strangers all around, repulse me.
I trudge tormented,
hungry and forlorn,
down an unlit cul-de-sac.
Black cats mew,
Unseen dogs bark,
my stomach growls.
Empty dustbins abound,
No smells of food.
Is that a gargoyle in flight?
I duck in fright?
I curse as a piece of paper
flutters to the ground.
The sky too dark,
the angry wind howls,
my soul in agony,
my body weak,
from lack of sustenance.
I lurch into an old abandoned house,
climb up rickety stairs,
hope all would fall upon me,
end my earthly stay.
I see her in a corner
huddled up.
I sit near her,
foul smells mingling.
She stirs,
hands me a piece of stale bread.
Thank God for little things.
The preacher sent the townspeople home
just as eventide set in
each one carried a crimped piece of paper
the instructions were easily read
lock your doors and windows, remain inside until dawn
she will rise tonight
He tore the paper into tiny bits as he walked toward the beach
an old woman grabbed his hand
as he pulled away she placed a sea shell in his palm revealing a pearlescent round object
he was astonished as it dissolved with the touch of his finger and
the shell closed by itself
He walked closer to the shore
a townsman yelled from a window
fear her, leave young man leave before the feral creature comes forth
he paid no attention his eyes focused on the sky and the water
he licked his lips, the salty tang of the sea awakened his senses
he hadn’t forgotten her attempts to plumb his innermost emotions
he yearned to see her
he was willing to give up his life, his career, his family
he wanted only her
he felt the same thrum as the night she claimed him as her mate
he knew his destiny was tied with hers
She reached up through the icy water
without hesitation, he took her hand
following her into the depths of the ocean that was meant for no man
their love served as his guide
he took no notice as every breath of air escaped from his lungs
he saw nothing but her beauty he felt nothing but her love
the women said he drowned
men claimed he left in fear
some say that on starry nights
if you are silent you can hear
their laughter howling in the waves
03/22/2021
Written for Eight Word Bardenesque Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
As a poet
you have the right
to remain silent.
If you give up that right.
Anything you say
can and will be used
in the court of public opinion.
You have the right to use
a computer keyboards.
If you cannot afford one,
a pen with a piece of paper
will be provided for you.
You have the right to speak like an Attorney,
to take your readers on a trip or a journey.
Giving them a feeling of anticipation.
Using words out of context or connotation,
or use long words like conversation.
You have the right to give feelings a voice,
to express yourself in every
kind and category of poetry,
or muster a musical group
like the one called Floetry.
You have the right, to recite, day or night
to speak out loud! in front of a crowd!
To make yourself heard!
With the freedom of the spoken word!
To stand and proclaim, to entertain,
Or choose the words to describe your pain!
You, have the right to complain.
Know that for you, no subject is taboo.
Only season your words with grace,
as you may have to eat them,
if they are thrown back in your face.
A love twisted in a high school romance,
Both fixated on puppy dog eyes,
Skipping classes followed by lies,
Predictions to never be seperated,
Only as much as parents tolerated,
They would run if given the chance,
Upon a mellow river rusted a louring mill,
Dim lit repairs by a scarecrow of a man,
Alongside the river it was a small span,
As skeletal hands of the mill snag floating logs,
Rising sun now pierces mountain fogs,
A cold chill replaced by warmth that begins to fill,
Brackish waters breed fish teeming angling,
A plaid retiree toats an unknowing burden,
For upon the rocks a body rolled in curtain,
Fumbling hands dial the sheriff's office,
Resulting in a stomach turned nauseous,
Thoughts race from torture to strangling,
Students murmor rumors over empty chairs,
As sherriff pulls students for questioning,
While a plea for help at a parent's beckoning,
Cries heard aloud through echoing halls,
Answers from questions expose a plethora of flaws,
Tensions tighten because this small town cares,
Foghorns sound as headlights cross beams,
Moonlit mist hides a livid discord,
Only witness, a fisherman shipboard,
Rocks shuffle around steadfast feet,
Argument ends in the shore's peat,
Unwanted blood spills ending young dreams,
Narrow light leaves a lifeless body luminous,
Examiner removes an entombed clue,
Beneath a fingernail a piece of paper folded in two,
Unfolded the bloodied paper reveals vastly,
An agent must be summoned lastly,
For murders like this may be numerous.
Pen,Ink, Paper
I see piece of paper,
Next I see some Ink,
And finally I noticed a
lovely and unique pen.
But to my surprise they
we're out of sync.
That had a bad, bad
disagreement.
I wanted to help so
I asked what the
problem was.
Each tried to talk at the
same time, I waved my
hand said one at time.
( I felt like a judge)
Ink, you can go first,
he nodded and began
to talk
" I'm tired of not being
appreciated. If it wasn't
for me no poems, books,
songs, or words in general
would ever be seen".
The pen just interrupted
ink, Wait a minute you
and me or inseparable.
We have lived together
for centuries. You need
me ink".
Paper jumped in and said
" Where would you display
all your pieces of work if
it wasn't for me? Your work
would be useless. I'm talking
to you both".
I finally jumped in and said,
all three of you are important.
You all serve a special purpose.
But you serve a bigger when
you all are in sync working
together as a unified team."
When I said those words,
they made up and became
a team once again.
The End.
10-25-19
Alexis Y.
In a world of paper, colors bright and bold,
Lives a stamp collector, with stories to be told.
With albums of wonder, and pages of dreams,
Each stamp a journey, or so it seems.
But shadows can linger, and hearts can break,
For the pain of loss is a toll we all take.
An album once cherished, now vanished from sight,
A collection of memories, lost to the night.
The thrill of the hunt, the joy of the find,
Can turn into sorrow, leaving echoes behind.
Stolen treasures whisper of what could have been,
A passion now haunted by what’s lost within.
A simple piece of paper, yet it holds so much,
A glimpse into cultures, a soft, tender touch.
From monarchs to landscapes, from wildlife to art,
Each stamp is a window to a world set apart.
From faraway places, where skies meet the sea,
To tiny enclaves, where the heart longs to be.
Yet, never for fortune does the collector strive,
It’s the stories and journeys that keep dreams alive.
With magnifying glass, they study each line,
Yet each missing stamp leaves a mark on the spine.
They trade and they share, with friends who understand,
The joy of collecting, but also the hand.
In quiet moments, as they flip through the pages,
They travel through time, across countless stages.
But the pain of the absent can weigh like a stone,
A collector’s heart aches for what’s never known.
So here’s to the dreamers, with albums in hand,
Who cherish these tokens from a faraway land.
Though loss may be part of this journey so true,
A stamp collector’s spirit endures, seeing through.
Am still remember,
When it is still standing.
I tried to climb it,
So that I will finally find myself behind it.
As it where my journey end,
where I will hold my diamonds by my hands.
How can I forget that punch I got.
When am still trying to reach the top,
so it will be easy for me flowing down to the gift of my heart.
But the favor never looked at me.
As before I reach the top,
I came back like a piece of paper after a big wind.
Now the rain of my happiness is raining.
Because that incident never changed my heart destiny.
My heart took it as the correction of the trial I haven't achieved.
That's why my hopes blusted that mountain like when am breaking eggs.
Now am enjoying the fruits of being brave.
As now the road ended.
As there's no more sweating for fighting with storms on the way.
As there's no more obstacles.
The road ended,
The diamonds are on my hands.
Maybe the songs have robbed me,
Losing on words, depth and passion,
I lurk around for death.
Like a crushed piece of paper
Once sheltering the secrets of a lost soul;
I glide to, where the vile wind takes me.
As i listen to the melodies
Of melancholy,
Under a moonlit night,
Looking at a bridge, that cant take me to heaven:
Behind the wavy trees,
Alone like this night,
Alone like me, leaning on my Wall,
With the vision stretched beyond the stars,
And hands hanging lose, like nowhere to hold on;
I want to ask that stranger over there,
"Do you know that I see you?.."
A gust of cool breeze broke the spell,
Lazily I look above,
I see the night sky like a chiffon veil.
As the shadow drifted from a rare inspiration
To darkness...
So did my words,
I am just a crushed piece of blank paper,
With no secrets of my lost soul
And no vile wind to take me away..
I have many times before,
Tried to walk away from this poetry of mine,
But as usual ended up in a state of deplore.
Alas, this life of abhor has grown into an addicted entwine.
My life as a poet is all cold sweat,
I guess is now my curse.
It is now trapped on a piece of paper like a laden fishing net,
My moments are trapped within its verse.
As I live my moments……`
My life is now but a dream,
And the dream is now my life.
I have no longer the need to scream,
these written words are a silent whisper akin a surgeon’s knife.
All my life I have had to be a fighter,
And my pen gave me my voice,
Now I know why I am a writer
who has won his fights without a noise.
My past is spiked and laced with mistakes,
I don’t have, any remorse or regret,
my mind and its temple have borne the bruises and aches,
Am smug about it and would like to relive it without being upset.
My devious past fuels my emotionally charged words and text,
And fires from within me the unchained rage,
Am never about it vexed or even perplexed,
As in this ink lies my sweat, blood & tears, stained & burnt but easy to gauge.
My verses are my memories of the bygone,
The paper on which I write on is my stage,
My tainted pen nib is my microphone,
And my life is perched on what was once a blank page.
For quite some time now this pen is my teacher,
And my mind controls these words I write,
These verses guide me out of darkness and make me richer,
And become the beacon, my guiding light.
I have spent so much time alone,
That I needed someone to say hi
My life was stuck in silence and blown,
I pick up this pen when feelings low have to glide by.
As I scribble my dreams,
The ink replaces my tears,
The verses consume my life with screams,
and I sculpt within them all my fears.
I have tried to walk away from this poetry,
But my life is snared up in a verse,
My life is trapped on a piece of paper,
My poetic life is now my curse.
Is it really my curse!!!!!!!!
Or a reflection of my thoughts to the happenings averse….
Into my poetry I must myself immerse
And sharpen my thoughts to make them diverse…….
And my life joyfully traverse
So now
I do not need to walk away from my poetry of mine
Align and live my life filled with mirth and sunshine.
In crowded halls, ivy clad, walk the sleepless zombies - the walking dead.
They’ve come to grapple, the chosen few, in trials by pen and pencil too.
Long ago we quietly agreed to trade studies and stress for a lives of ease.
The fire of competition burns within, a pyre fueled by challenge and adrenaline.
We’ve been grinding from morning’s light to dark midnight, fueled largely by tasty caffeine's bite.
Sleep’s a distant memory, that’s been swapped for all-nighters, notecards and highlighters.
Professors who have taught us now plant briar-like, trickster-questions, to try and fraught us.
Have we synthesized it all - the labs, lectures and quotes, the chapters, quizzes and notes?
The hours we’ve spent, dissecting texts, parsing equations, crafting essays - pay off now.
Or don’t - the clutter of fact, theory, and tensors will separate the scholars from the pretenders.
But fear not, dear reader, for we’re tough, seasoned cowgirls and this is just another rodeo.
True, we chew erasers not tobacco and ride desks or lab stations, not bucking broncos.
But some are thrown, bruised and scarred - finding their future careers discarded.
We’re required to hand-write our test essays out, a trap that negates AI with age-old foolscap.
We know the challenge, we’ve studied and crammed, to tackle the hurdle of ‘top-tier’ exams.
Beyond the stress beacons the sweet release - of holiday parties and presents that please.
But perhaps the sweetest possible tease, is the promise of slumber and weeks study free.
.
Webster: foolscap = a piece of paper