And everyone’s beautiful
When they get bare and honest
There’s a softness to each of them
A crafty humanity, some marks, some scars
Hurt behind vanity
Dreams and buried hopes
Passion disguised as smoke
When you peel away layers
And unbolt the barriers
Everyone I find irritating
is beautiful
I entrusted my heart to someone unworthy,
Now I'm lost in a sea of hurt.
The pain I never invited overwhelms me,
Drowning out life's other blessings.
I sought answers, questioning my own judgment,
But tears fell like relentless rain.
They've stopped welling up in my eyes,
Now they flow through every word I write.
#heartbreak #sorrow #pain #betrayal
#hurt #lostlove #tears #poem
Oil on paper, skies are grey
It’s a windy autumn day
I see linens on the line
Bedsheet swings behind the vine
There's your shirt of navy blue
And my sweater of green hue
And it was so long ago
Where now do we belong?
I’m not sure I can tell
Memory can’t serve that well
Can you recognize the place?
Did we really leave a trace?
Oil on paper, V&A
Sunrays flash impales the grey
Linens, swinging on the line
Through the foliage of time.
Determination defies all odds that any gambler sets
In the end, 'talent will out' ~ sure to lose the bet
the bird on paper,
doesn't sing... but raises
chants,
remember places...
enchants.
..
the bird on paper,
doesn't fly...but reminds wings,
inspires...
free territories to,
thought,
imagination... !
What a difference a few years away make
For granted, rights to privacy, personal space,
Right to lay charges of assault, I did take
Them as given in US if America
I'm no longer shocked at fence, tree removed
To steal tin, "zinc" fir shanty roofing
My yard is to be piached fir vegetables, too
We in south Africa, don't bother The Police
Here i sit on the loveseat
Which is my writing place
Slash and the computer
I sit in stillness and ponder
Which seems like long hours
Wondering what poetry form
I will create next yet
No idea comes to mind
So I sleep on it all night
The Ghost writer speaks
She gives me a title
On paper i write
By my night table
Then I sleep again
Pondering my thoughts
So with the pen and paper
The pen wrote these words
A poem created
Ready for submit
On the coumputer
The bird on paper,
does not sing... but raises
chants,
remember places...
enchants...
The bird on paper,
doesn't fly... but gives wings,
inspires...
free territories to,
thought,
imagination... !
The bird on the paper,
does not sing ... but it raises
memories,
remember places ...
enchants ...
The bird on the paper,
does not fly ... but spread wings,
inspires ...
free territories to
muse,
imagination... ...!
The good witch is still trying hard to collect the future
Nostalgic and post-modern she fondles her crystal ball
With soft hands she embraces Gaia and its sepia hue
Oblivious to oblivion she attempts to elude the inevitable
A monochrome reminder of the future’s soft calling
If the earth was flat warriors would fall of the edges
But her grip remains an illusion of human endeavour
And yet the photographer’s lens refuses acceptance
'My paradigm is one of lingering hope' he seems to allude
The voice of a renegade artist while the shutter is closed
The mind wanders along fantasy’s perambulating soul
Blends out a scream shot phases into caring surrender
Of a world not quite forgotten in hearts of compassion
Tables need turning and sheets hold fragrance of love
Flickering light embraces translucent impermanence
Its not rocket science to kindle an ephemeral candle
With astronauts on the moon and apocalyptic star wars
Prophesy’s calling however resigns to a parallel universe
In which the dark ages have come to haunt humankind
Clairvoyants see photophiles show and the poet must write
29th February 2020
The experience of putting one’s thoughts on paper
for the perusal of others;
offers a certain inner satisfaction
that must be experienced... to be appreciated.
(Arbitrium Divisa)
01/19/2020
Arbitrium Divisa 6 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Gregory R Barden
Derived from "A Poet's Words"
10/26/2019
Drawn on Paper
The small house, mostly quiet.
No one up.
No one to notice anything.
Things just happened.
Magic.
Lights sparkled…
from no where.
The soft sound,
of angel wings,
busy.
The ever so sweet smell,
of chocolate and peppermint,
commingled with apple spice,
permeates the very air.
Pine…
That is (or was) my favorite.
It is still.
I wish that I had been awake.
I wish that I had been there.
The tree was huge,
how did it get inside?
The presents too many to count…
Who were they from?
Wishes, in crayon…
Dear God,
Once, poems on paper.
Books to be marked.
Dog-eared pages,
left open, carried.
Cared for, like a loved one.
All of life in ink.
Poets still write.
No restrictions,
pleading, pandering
or publishers.
Unlimited digital
parking spaces.
Will they be found
in the future?
I have a propensity to write my feelings on paper.
My voice is silent orally.
My feelings locked down
When they are not oozing out of my eyes and cheeks.
I like to think they are put away safely in a
Velvet lined jewel-encrusted crypt, but they are not.
So I let them out onto a blank page with blue lines
And a pink stripe running down the side to show
Me where to start and stop which makes me laugh.
For I am always writing around the corners of a page
Over and under all the lines. I have a propensity to do that too.
I have an inkling that my feelings will be safer on
Paper, than down deep in that velvet crypt, for
Releasing them releases me.
And they don’t stay down long anyway,
Oozing out of my eyes and cheeks
Even when I am silent.
throws herself on paper
reveals heart to strangers
throws herself on paper
identity unrevealed
throws herself on paper
fearless, bold, sensual
throws herself on paper
poet persona unknown to others
unbelievable to those who know her.
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