Pixelated, dark, and with word I did not know,
I met you with that mask.
And though I’m sure I have memorised it’s crevices,
Your shirt, the glasses.
I feel guilty about it still.
God is something of many that connects us,
Something that loosened our ropes,
And your cross is highlighted in my moonlight,
And yet I’m drawn to you still.
Your wisdom outshines mine,
And you bask in it well,
And your tan fingers ran over my route before me,
I follow along, to my peers’ disdain,
And I look up to you still.
For, my dear, you have been through hell
And with each of my beats the ache grows,
And your scars match my own,
And your lack of an ichor leash let the worst inside,
And we fall today still.
And my protection I do wish you had,
Though our locations do not align,
Shared nations, interests,
And realising you may know me best,
Yet I have not met you still.
I will grant you eternal life,
Something I don’t have the power to give,
So long as you always look in my eyes
And never drop your gaze.
You look different the longer I watch you;
The more I take note of your features—
Count every individual freckle on your face.
In my eyes, you become someone else;
Somebody no one else will ever see—
Slowly, you become mine,
As I become yours.
I have memorised every speck of brown
In your green eyes; every strand of your hair.
When I look in your eyes,
I see only truth and a chance to be new again;
A chance to be exactly who I was born to be.
Yet, the burning in my skin holds me back.
Perhaps it is a reflex,
Something I could never control,
That forces me to eventually look away
From the face I know and love so silently.
Historically the books are written by a well-known writer
The characters are formed to choose the sense of flight or fighter
The library of the mind stows away the facts from the fiction
The sequence of events unfold, memorised with restriction
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
The imagery of barricades in a crowded stark front room
Foreboding silence and tension create a sense of doom
In the old terraced house, there’s a closure of ranks
As the fighter steps forward and the other flanks
The pushing and shoving in the silent stark room
The circle decreases and a flash warps the plume
The memories jagged as they cut like a knife
As she’s hit by the boxer and fights for her life
The dry autumnal street carpets red and gold
The crunch of the leaves cushioned the blow
The flash of the memory vivid and sharp
Innocence held with such disregard
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
HUMPTY DUMPTY
Just close to main gate in front of entry,
where standing the tall eucalyptus tree,
sat on the wall fatty Humpty Dumpty
in egg-shaped uniform : The king’s sentry.
All the king’s men under Humpty Dumpty
served him seventeen cups of hot green tea.
He asked for food and snacks from king’s pantry.
Prompt came chocolates, cake, cookies, pastry.
Next he ordered seven eggs from poultry.
Taking food he memorised poetry.
By look he may be funny, yet pretty.
He is intelligent, smart and witty.
Memories come in many forms
Books letters scraps of paper galore
The special wine glass sitting on its own
The glass held memories as lips touch its edge
Sips or a large gulp all well known
Your hand caresses as if an old friend
Treasured memories visit with every caress
That fateful day when a careless hand
Tipped the glass, a scream filled the air
It lay shattered, all memories gone
Picked up the broken glass
Spoken words of apology followed
Glass was placed back on its shelf
Although broken it deserved its place
The years drifted by your name was called
Friends gathered to say their farewells
Many a tear fell as the glass was placed on view
All knew its stories as it received its farewell
Unseen unknown the glass was removed to a new home
The broken glass still sits proudly
Amongst its new found friends
It sees it hears new memories
Goodbyes all seen and memorised
Locked away until the end.
I am wounded
I looked out the window
The light, streaming down
Amongst the trees
Reflecting on me
To walk amongst the trees,
A simple pleasure
Fresh scent of pine
Mind, at ease
I heard birds,
shadows flying from tree to tree
My hand to touch
This roughness of bark
Such thoughts , absurd
How the deepening light,
changes the colour of the trees
I have seen this view
Three thousand and six hundred and fifty times
Memorised it too
Always a delight
The physical bonds that hold me,
are permanent...
Ten years ago, the bullets shattered my spine in a contact
The broken back,
shackled me so
I am amongst the trees
I never went away
For, the mind is always free
Living another forest day
I cannot move,
The way I used to
The mind is never chained,
yet in this chair,
my body remained
To walk amongst the trees,
a simple pleasure
Thoughts to treasure
One day....
Please....
I feel,
Yet I cannot touch
The trees
I feel the wind
Blowing through
I wish I could too
Slow silent tears fall,
The light streaming down
Amongst the trees
I never went away
I visited you
every day...
Short forms have beauty & clarity having succinctness and thus are more easily memorised having the capacity to both show & tell,especially when sequenced into longer variations.And some forms like acrostic,kyrielle, terzanelle, villanelle&pantoum are useful 'learning
the trade' exercise devices just as scales are used to teach piano.They tend however to be too contrived,repetitive and so mechanical.
The danger with longer verse ( labelled as 'free' ) is the lack of ' poetry ' therein ie no cadence and thereby visually difficult to both read and recite . In this digital device age ,this bain thereof 'the 'wrap around' long lines , which all too often,are in reality ,prose 'masquerading' as verse.
The golden rule of poetry ,whether reading or reciting any verse is one 'breath limitation' factor,naturally inherent in the human being.
A VW Beetle
An unloaded thirty eight
In the passenger seat
And out through the gate
A briefcase of secrets
Chained to the wrist
Memorized instructions
From an unwritten list.
In the event of an ambush
Just pop five rounds in:
The only trouble was
They were sealed in a tin.
We weren't even sure
The rounds were live anymore
The tin was dated
Nineteen Fourty Four
These were the days
Before mobile phone
Just the courier and driver
Out on their own.
I suppose in a way
It was a bit of fun
Time out of the office
When you did the Courier Run
It never happened of course.
And we delivered to the Yanks
Who took our case
Without any thanks.
They treated us
With such disrespect
You’d think they’d decided
They’d be fighting us next.”
Briefcase of new secrets
Chained to the wrist,
Memorised directions
From that unwritten list.
A VW Beetle,
Unloaded Thirty eight
In the passenger seat
And back out of the gate.
A sweet memory of our school days
We walked to school everyday
With a light school bag
Under a blue sky
With rain or sunshine abound
Only a few books in the school bag
But many flowers pluck
Or junk food bought along the way
We only had to finished our homework
Before we're free to play
We memorised lessons for our tests
Which were simple and straight forward questions
Never got tuition
We're left to learn and recite ourselves
Till we remembered
A simple style of school life
But with confidence,independence and wisdom
A nature lover
A love for freedom
A love for a simple life
what’s the price of a poem
in cash, blood, sweat and tears
what experience suffered
how many months and years
what’s it worth to you
and will you be touched, pleased
will it explain, elucidate
will all your fears be eased
and did you see it coming
and appreciate it’s being
I think I wrote it for you
you are seeing what you’re seeing
if everything I ever
wrote, thought, memorised
came flooding back to haunt
I would be traumatised
and the pain that brings
the poem, screaming
tricks me into thinking
I was only ever dreaming
so, what’s the price of a poem
a collection of words skewed
up, down, all over the place
studied, read, discarded, viewed
it’s not the sentiment you leave
when you close the book
that moment came, happened, went
and you had to look
poems? ten a penny
a sad f*cker scribbling
giving his best, his darkest
and left dribbling
psst, want to buy a poem?
it’s price is negotiable
it won’t change your world
and is not guaranteed reliable.
18.1.2020 11:13am
Once there was a time when I used to be the starred message of your folder.
Now what I become is an ignored spam message residing in the furthest corner.
What awaits in the future is that you would relocate me in the trash bin sector.
I still can’t believe there used to be a time,
when I used to be in your archived folder.
You would have read me ample times
while having diet coke and fritters.
Memorised even my long quotes and the sub-texts written underneath the letters.
Yes, there used to be a time when it felt like
you were the bee and I was the nectar.
But now everything has changed.
You have lost your zeal and I have lost my thunder.
Probably I have done many mistakes but you too have done few Blunders.
What you created inside my heart is a big deep crater.
I am just now a neglected message
Waiting to be deleted from your trash bin folder
life without water
could not ever be sustained
thank the spring showers
water cascades... rain
distilled... early morning dew
winter confetti
no water... no frogs
deathly silence... then it rained
the sound of splashes
all life dependent
some dance for water... it rains
sustaining splashes
the shape of water
drips in profusion... shapes rain
land submerged... flooding
the shape of water
precipitation... shapes rain
land submerged... flooding
water... anhydrous
nature now fickle... confused
life... it has no choice
clean water... yes clean
stop polluting... life's dying
each spring... disasters
LIFE
oceans...earth's mirrors
past images... memorised
of life... fossilised ...
The book I could read every day;
you seduced me in such a way.
A romantic one, I must say.
Midst your covers, I yearned to play,
on adventures I wished to stay.
When my tortured soul was bleeding
and for comfort I was pleading,
all my hungers, you were feeding;
when your pages I was reading.
I memorised chapter and verse.
Today, it seems almost a curse,
as I follow the long black hearse.
Your place, having turned the last page;
marked with tear stains, lilacs and sage.
I loved you cover to cover.
I look, where you used to lay
and long, from you to be reading.
From memory, then I emerse;
absorbing page after page.
A better book, I'll not discover.
02/19/2018
Contest: minuanetta
Sponsor: Gregory R. Barden
It is
probably better
after all
for us
to be
on frigid terms
for illogical reasons
do not contact me
got your number
memorised mesmerized
I will
perhaps
ring back
My world, as rosy as the daisy
Revolving around my moods, sweetly
Some days are high on creativity
Some days lag behind with adversity
My battles, the basis of my portrait
To win some I put forward my best trait
To lose some, I let go of my bait
In the end, my world opens to my own gate!
Never ephemeral, filled to its depth
With sensitivy and pain to its very length
Never totally grey, as angels fill my only heath
With the comfort I shall seek at the time of death!
My world, with its hidden secrets
Not to be memorised like the alphabets
Yet those remain my valuable assets
To be recounted through merry ballets!
My world, that of a broken poet
Seeking the vision of her love pet
Sweet it is at times, through the sunny clime
Though misunderstanding remains its prime!
Placed 6th in the contest Paint the World
Sponsored by : Tracie the Indigo Dreamweaver
Related Poems