Perchance blank sheets had choice,
they’d refuse the stain of ink.
Yet ink delights in spoiling emptiness,
like palm-oil staining white cloth.
That defiance—
to create and keep records,
to write poems for posterity—
perhaps, or perhaps not,
like smoke beneath a cover,
escaping what time cannot cage.
Sometimes poems sing into thin air,
with no eardrum to soothe.
Other times they endure the test of time,
speaking as soliloquy to the unborn,
through wisdom and well-chosen words—
like echoes billowing through valleys.
Few then recall the ink
that shaped such classics,
long dried and discarded,
like footprints blurred by rain.
It is the paper that blows the kisses,
absorbs the tears,
and wears the credits given.
So paper may delight,
while ink grows dispirited.
For obscurity never veils real visions—
a passing cloud misguides the senses
from knowing who holds true honour.
So paper may rejoice,
and ink fall into silence.
Yet vision does not drown in shadows—
like sunlight veiled by dust,
truth will still gleam through,
to honour ink that turns blankness to beauty.
Reading papers books
Calm cool delightful reading
No screening problems
___" Paper and Pens " . . .
She found paper and a pen,
then wrote down her feelings,
creating something amazing.
She got lost in writing,
or you could say, poetry.
The purple lands
reading the daily papers
following others leads
A message from your editor
The Sunshine is low
the air rarefied
but every friend is now your enemy
no matter the end
and the rest is mere interest
across some arcane wind
It's just a poem
Oft I write about heartbroken,
When I haven't gone through one.
How luxury and beautiful love could be; I scribed,
but never been loved with the nature so spectacular.
It's just a poem, only a poem.
Introvert I Am, in reality. My worries; an unspoken sea,
But in papers a well known outspoken writer.
Never for once have I ever taste a kind and honey moonlight
But I give almost all of it with my pen so sacred.
It's just a poem, only a poem.
Often I impersonate voiceless and poor
Their worries, sorrows I tell them to the world
When nobody ever touched the wound so
Suited as mine.
All, a poem- just a poem.
Birthday wishes in my ink so reside
When nobody knows my natal day.
I dodge the snow and the Muse
But they always find me. Why?
It's just a poem, only a poem.
I drizzle the worldly mirrors,
When nobody knows what I look like.
My poetry, a motivation
Whilst noone cares to motivate me.
It's just a poem, Only a poem.
Grant me more I’m all excitement.
I should’ve long thought of it: Chastisement;
Find a reason to not pay all of them:
“Some have to my poor firm pushed their problem.”
He who flies off the handle I’ll handle:
Very simple: the Sack Fire kindle.
I will have blown out hoped-on candle
For the clear lover of thread and spindle…
Has any staff killed boss who’d failed to pay
And it was his signal he should not stay?
If it’s in the papers note the day
And acquire bullets you might just spray!
We store important papers
In a fire-proof metal box,
Which isn’t really that secure,
Not having codes or locks.
It’s where we keep our passports,
Title to the car and deed,
Plus a bunch of envelopes with notes
That we no longer need.
But it was fun to sort through
Items sitting there for years,
Like certificates and paperwork
From both of our careers.
My favorite find contained a list
Of wedding gifts galore
We received from friends and family,
Many on this earth no more.
A coffee pot, a vase, a wok
And an electric knife
And lots of checks both large and small
To start our married life.
We tossed outdated papers
But I couldn’t quite resist
Holding on to just a few, including
Our old wedding list.
If I cared more, I would see the dream that should be,
Lanes wouldn’t be filled with worries,
Schools would cater to the educators well,
Institutions wouldn’t make graduates dwell.
Music is dull and paintings are monotone.
No voices are heard, and eyes are closed alone,
Where’s the compassion gone?
Folded papers were all done,
And forever it will be.
Fraud voices initiate to make hopeful people happy.
I care only remorseful late,
One wrong move and found each other a bate.
What color of a man makes a difference?
Leaders who seem to divide the countrymen.
Have we chosen the wrong shepherd?
Might be a carnivore who devours just to lead.
How many bloods let come to shed,
To attain the greatness country thought of ahead?
Wrote millions to catch an eye, people asked now, “why?”
Folded papers are now end up fried.
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My poems, torn papers
they are lost treasures,
endangered animals...
These yellowed bits are all I have
It's all that remains of the past
In days of yore, who could have thought
They'd be the only ones to persist.
With every piece that's touched and felt
A bygone fragment I revive.
The little hands that wrote on them
wave at me,
On their faces a gentle smile.
With welled up eyes, I look at them
and kindly I do wave.
Then turn away and off I stride
Leaving those bits preserved.
Papers cannot be
not now that I've found your light
no I cannot sign
The vines' tips grow slow, lime green, still no petal.
My plants are in pots, my garden is empty.
I'm on the move, and I hear the airplane groove.
My wedding finger smells of rusty metal.
The laundry spirals, hungry, with just one sock,
If I choose home, am I Hansel or Gretel?
Time to make a cake, I buzz the microwave.
My house mothers the sweet sting of cooked nettle,
Nothing nailed to the walls for these come with me.
And I hear the airplane groove, I'm on the move.
Like thin oil in water, I never settle.
May. 24th., 2021.
A new Abracadabra poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
Spill on grey papers,
black inks won't spell trees' graces
above greediness.
The lying newspapers
To vote in Britain is a strange affair
since it is class-based, every class only read
what is of their interest,
doing the best to denigrate the enemies party leaders
but since the owners of newspapers are usually
right-wing the conservative party often wins.
There is an exception the Guardian can at time
the sound left-wing, but then they get cold feet and join
the shrieking of the right.
The popular press also called the gutter press destroy
peoples reputation, say “Corburn” an excellent politician
belonging to the left of the labour party.
What is scary is that working/class readers get influenced
by the constant lies and vote for a party
that is no good for them and the country.
This comes down to lack of education not being able
to read between the line and think independently.
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