Long Poetry is Poems
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EXPRESSIONS THROUGH POETRY
Writing poetry or anything at all creative is a lonely business. You are your own judge, for what
You write down on paper, invariably comes’ from within, and contains a great deal of yourself,
your personality, beliefs, feelings and restlessness. There is very little honour in writing poetry, only
an inner satisfaction that you have somehow managed to communicate with someone, somewhere,
even for just a fleeting moment. Few people are actually attuned to your thoughts and feelings
and the way you see things in life as we are all individuals.
Poetry is a rhythmic language charged to the highest possible degree with one’s own personality.
It often holds no practical ends, unless sheer delight is to be considered practical. It arises from, and
communicates with layers of consciousness in daily life. I imagine we have all had the experience of
not understanding a poem, and yet, getting something out of it. Our, response to poetry is largely
Instinctual.
Depending on the poet, words can either gain or lose significance according to a complex and ever
changing context that is partly personal, partly social and partly historical. Poems take on meaning
according to the angle from which one views them. It is futile to talk of the progress or decline of
this art. The art flourishes whenever a poet writes a poem. Poetry will never wither away, as long
as people feel the necessity to express themselves.
Poetry is often thought of as been eccentric, and is certainly considered to be an art of high
expression. Reading poetry allows us to learn, enrich our knowledge and sharpen our astuteness.
I believe that there are poems tucked away and locked up in many homes, so come on, get out those
precious poems, dust off the cobwebs and do something about them!
For no one but me.
Autumn leaves fall from a tree,
Ordinary people never inquired,
But, from my view I do see,
And instantly I'm inspired.
For no one but me.
Roses seem to bloom out,
Only when I am around,
There is absolutely no doubt,
Poetry is a talent I've found.
For no one but me.
Snowflakes twinkle as they fall,
They're gently blown over and under,
Most people don't care at all,
I watch them with awe and wonder.
For no one but me.
The moon shines at it's brightest,
Only when I draw near,
I don't mind in the slightest,
Because poetry calms my fear.
For no one but me.
I see this world in a different light,
When it shows it's beauty to me,
I sit with paper and pen to write,
Of the shimmering deep blue sea.
For no one but me.
Instead of using canvas and paint,
I describe color with black and white,
And I wait until daylight grows faint,
As stars draw me toward endless night.
For no one but me.
Because I am a poet,
What I am able to see,
Only another would know it,
This is what I'm meant to be.
For no one but me.
I once knew this poet
Whose world was filled with rhyme
Said he couldn't help it
Was all that filled his mind
He always caught a catch phrase
Where there never was a doubt
That he'd whirl his words around it
And a poem would come spilling out
It must have been what he was born to do
Guess you could say he found his call
Once he grabbed that truth and set it loose
It all came natural
What he wrote was plain and simple
At times could ring profound
In the peeling of layers of the soul
Where all poetry is found
There are no two ways about it
To all this he fit the crime
This poet that I once knew
Whose world was filled with rhyme
I am
The words of
Aphrodite
Incarnate.
Goddess among men,
I have wasted my last syllable on
your mortal soul
Priceless in immeasurable worth.
Your left with nothing but a handful of fools gold.
I am the words of Aphrodite
Incarnate
Goddess Among men
Unbridled passion lies within this unbridled soul
A lifetime of boundless affection
Withdrawn from your bank
Of empty compassion
I am the words of Aphrodite
Incarnate.
My
Exquisite
Poetry is none but mine.
Cherished by others
I am the words of
Aphrodite Incarnate
And
I am a muse
I
Am
Timeless
I am divine
Source of inspiration
And you no longer hold my attention.
Form:
". . . . poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings:
it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility"
Woodworth
With emotions of an artist
I pen poems deep and soulful,
going to a place of feelings
and I linger in the silence.
For it is there my muse dwells,
and it is where feelings creep.
I find my emotional shade,
my heart, my mood, and my passion,
and from my pen words of feelings fall . . .
Words of sorrow,
deep and dark,
of tranquility,
and peace.
___________________
March 22, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Feelings
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 886-508-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym
After watching a couple nights of "Country" it brought to mind some lyrics I wrote when I was 20 to a country music melody I made.
It's funny how the words of songs
can climb into your mind;
that same song they've played
a thousand times.
The melody is all I'd hear,
the words were muffled then,
when we were so much in love
and oh, such close close friends.
But now the sadness in my heart
and fear of losing you,
makes my thoughts a fog of feelings
drifting out of view
and the song they've played
a thousand times
that slips within my ears
can live without the melody,
the words are all I hear.
(The difference between song lyrics and poetry is that, for the most part, you want easy to remember thoughts that accompany a melody, rather than intense "in you face" ambiguity that is more difficult to internalize.)
So, very much like the velvet softness of poetry.
It doesn't bang like a drum in your ear.
Nor is it the sound of raucous laughter in a cheap, bawdy, theatre.
Big words that provide nothing but confusion?
Do you expect poets from huge dictionaries to get contusions?
Poetry is anything but tap dancing in garish poet costumes
on the poetry stage.
Some are poets genuine, not poet impostors.
Anyone can follow a form, let's face it and claim to be a poet, how
poorly they fake it,
The true poet has a heart and loud drums and a chortling crowd
cannot erase it.
Being cheap and tawdry,is not a poet's fare.
He or she has a handle on life's heartbeat which they handle with
The tender sound of a windchime's gentle sound and share.
10/18/2020
Opus# 3
I seldom look in
the mirror anymore,
my razor-blade with an
edge of jagged rust –
gave up “Creature features”
with my early need to scare
a girl into my arms at the theater
a shower a day takes care of
most else – but when hairs, none
left on the head, become the
household's main blight, an old
barber's scissor in my wife's
scepter-ed hand, make my beard
a bit less~ the unkempt sight.
The best of me has long been
my dabbling in art and altruism;
Ila and I, two of a kind in these
respects – likeness ending there
for she has always been the Fashion
Plate, while unkind neighbors
have often whispered, why on earth
did she choose such a common
looking mate?!
Poetry is a religion I think,
priest and priestess of words:
like the tunnels of worms and
the wings of birds our spans
high and low, depending on
the inspiration, composing both
gems and turds.
Though my body has
slowed – the downward inclining
normal senior trend – my spirit
seems yet, most times, to be rising,
though audibly creaking its upward
arching positive bend; myself long of the
opinion that the sun is a bit more concentrated
when in an old poet's/poetess's experienced
capable hands, expressed in his/hers well seasoned
perhaps overly cured, highly distilled flatulent
eyes, with just minor joint-less joint-sighs,
I dutifully pen heartfelt lights –
writing new, lustrous dawns over all
my frequented restroom, therefore only
somewhat restful golden nights
My dreams are nightmares.
I am forced to stay awake through sleepless nights
so I won’t hear the lamentations of my ghosts.
Endless monologues with my demons.
The devil fears the darkness that perfumes my mind,
a descendant of a cannibal tribe.
I violate all human laws
that massacre my dignity.
Being a slave is not in my plans.
It’s war until the graveyard.
Indelible scars,
medals to adorn my boldness.
The suffering my body endures
turns my life into a horror film.
I hate the human species
and I have no pet to compensate.
These insatiable parasites call me a psychopath.
I dream of slitting a pedophile’s throat
before the eyes of a rapist
waiting for his hour of execution.
I am a predator,
I will never endure their persecutions.
Hatred has replaced love in my heart.
A hardened criminal, not sentimental.
Nothing romantic,
poetry is grim
like the entrails of hell.
I carry the lights of darkness,
like the chains
that gnawed at the flesh of my dehumanized ancestors
in slave plantations.
I hate misery
and the savagery of capitalism.
I am addicted to life
like a junkie hooked on his dose of crack.
I will end up in the mud
on which I urinate every day.
I will end up consumed
by these fleeting vanities.
I go off-road
on the highway of dissent,
with my neuroses
and my transgressions as rearview mirrors.
No box, no code, no rules,
I am an outlaw.
With copper-toned skin, like the shoes of American supremacists
during the transatlantic slave trade,
traces of lashes
are still visible on my face.
Author Dana Redricks
September 29, 2020
Poetry is the rhythm of the heart and soul. Poetry is more than art is a part of our lives. Poetry comes in many shapes and colors. It is rhythm at it's deepest core. Poetry is all around us in the air. It is a rhythm of every living creation. Everything has a song, and everything has a story. Poetry it is something that is extraordinary, and more than ordinary. Poetry expresses pain. It expresses overflowing joy, and every emotion that is felt in between. Poetry is everywhere just look and see you might even be speaking poetry Don't You see. Poetry can be the beauty of a tree, or the buzzing of a bumblebee. Poetry is all around us can't you see it's in The Melody of the tunes that we hear in the musical beats. It is in the summer heat. Poetry is for the rich and is for the poor. Poetry is for every girl and every boy. Poetry is a creation of God. Poetry is an original to each and everyone. We all have our stories to tell, no matter who you are.