Words dissolve in a simmering pot~
not soup, but something more.
Each ladle releases a new verse,
a flavor never before tasted.
Some mix their sorrow as deeply as a roux,
while others scatter hope like coarse black pepper.
A smidgen of resentment bitters the broth
while laughter improves the brew.
I bring my scraps, my burnt-edged rhymes,
my half-chewed thoughts still warm.
The pot absolves the awkward lines,
transforming them into poesies.
And when the steam has filled the room,
when my tongue is tinctured,
I leave not fed—but changed, undone~
with someone else’s hunger inside.
I KNOW MY WORLD
Don’t come to my world
Its milk and honey
Are that of excreted inks
A world where
Lines are made into walls
Out of a dancing pen
A world where
Her neighboring villages
Are called stanzas
And her clans
Known for words
A world where
The sound of the battle bell
Is so melodious
To the heart and soul
Where Rhythms commands
The waist of our wrist to twist
As Rhymes provokes
The wrestlers to agitate
The victory that awaits
Don’t come to this world
It is so deep and wide
Deeper than mere imaginations
And travels beyond
Human understanding
A world where
I die a thousand times
And resurrect between my lines
A world where
The wounds of the heart
Is often healed with poesies
A world where
With optical eyes
You seek my romantic interest
But fails, unknowing to you that
I hide behind poetic walls
Don’t come to my world
Else, you’ll get lost
In the mirage of lust love
Please come not to my world.
Had this weak pen those sly Phoenix's powers,
I wouldn't pester Time's much-envied eternities
With blank queries that deaf ages well eschew,
With any other of fate's multi-jigsawed parities.
I would some five hundred ugly monsters kiss,
And with each lip-touch life's bored cares miss.
I would with most fatally feared cannibals play,
And thus remiss spend longevity's primest day.
But that legendary fowl's exaggerated breath
I lack in luck's slow-fading inkwells and quills;
Her survival ruse against death's sinking ploys,
I feign no better than antique anecdoting skills.
Bereft of mystic health plus its fabled might,
I sing and act like one with a rationed height.
Why tire the chained serf's tongue and sinew,
To be outlived by tiniest wings that ever flew?
So let the hour-caged minion to Maidens Nine,
Indite his poesies while life still winks her sign.
Morning is broken.
Electric blue; suffocate my words.
Drowning like a fish, gasping for air.
The hole I will lie in is golden on the outside.
I have no life, I have no time; I have no chance to care.
Underwater bubbles never float into the sky.
Pressure cooker, need a cuddle, beauty begins inside the eyes.
Rip my head apart, I have a cavity;
Unclear to see all three degrees.
I only eat rice from a chessboard.
Skinny love; I overfeed.
You are just a dream to me, I imagine.
Methinks no drink from a grail can remedy.
I am ok without;
I am ok within.
I am ok with you.
I think.
Lizard tongues whisper fables to all with ears.
I have no gun, I have no mouth; I have no choice to speak or to hear.
I suffer in silence as I lie amongst the Guns ‘n’ Roses;
Plant my corpse alongside the mourning plants.
I am done picking flowers and my arm is already full of POEsies.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
If I may, to my fellow would-be poets,
Hereon pose an imperative query
(Yet mostly destitute of the greatest urgency),
Then I who, in the gross majority of my inditings hereon,
Am of quite a Shakespearean and Miltonian bent:
Yet in the years succeeding the terminus of my schooling,
During the everlasting course thereof, I learned many a thing
Indeed an immense preponderancy of such,
And among these congeries of learning, there can be accounted
Even a myriad of the manifold precepts of poetry
And the fiats and decrees, commandments and
Ordinances governing it;
Yet for all of the sufficiency and yet preponderance of
Poetic enlightenment and enrichment, I recall nary a thing
Thereof!
It may be inborn, inherent,
Ingrained, innate...
But do I, who is of a Shakespearean ilk,
To my fellow aspiring poets, writers, and poet-writers ask:
Is this, or aught of my other poems, in anything
Remotely likened to the metrical sort that he and Milton were
Wont to use?
And an it be so,
Beteem me to learn its name,
And an so, is't truly termed by that sobriquet
Known as "iambic pentameter"?
Is it in this that I write?
Are all my poesies thus enwritten?
I skip one stone across the pond,
an oblate onyx dotting i's
in footles of a vagabond
who tiptoes after tiger eyes.
Perhaps the ripples left behind
are teary runes of gray moonstone
by starry sapphires once declined
for poesies of chalcedone.
In unison do pines recite
around the swaying cellophane
with spruce in verses malachite
on tawny-needled counterpane.
Soon aloe waters recompose
an epilogue of silent prose.
11/5/17
Image #1
I like to WRITE in verse- I like to tell stories,
sometimes, I will r h y m e sometimes I shake up my poesies.
Lets take a trip down my m e m o r y lane-
my writing is WILD and crazy at times;
often my P O E T R Y is of nature that chimes.
When I pick up my p e n there is often pain,
I write for ME and you, I write to b r e a k the chain;
why just yesterday, I stopped to write these lines . . .
On a country road-
under a pale h a z y sky;
wild winds r a v a g e my long hair,
wheat S W A Y S and dances,
I could stay here f o r e v e r-
with birds soaring and SCREECHING . . .
___________________________
September 23, 2016
Poetry/Couplet/Rhyme/Sedoka/From My Diary
Copyright Protect, ID 18-831-984-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Three Styles II
sponsor, Laura Loo
First Place
A nexus of poesies..
innovative feelings in intuitive words
she lived in the shadows of life-
on her ,laughter-lines could find no place
Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb
Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet,
I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime,
As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song,
For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game,
And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue,
And triply even more, my soul’s the same.
As hours pass, upon these pages, bare
I stare as if no passion stirs to fly.
To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair
I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby
Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke
Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice.
Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke
Your lilting charms which, magically employs
All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells:
Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace
And Calliope’s trance which softly swells
In finest verse, and in such verse does trace
Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song
Nor for you visiting me, worn with age
No words would spill from out my stricken tongue
And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge.
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Theosophias platonic litany as that of
A nightingales animated song....
Reverberating its set piece melodies amid
The ambient skies unto these poesies!?
Endowed in fascinations charisma while as
Standing at this podium of propagations
Timelasped speakers in telekinetic communications
Penetrating, their stimulated projected senses....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...."Saint Theresa?!"
.
Your written words roll off my tongue, and I savor the taste
Captivating my desires, with your nostalgic embrace
Your verses I desire, your poesies I crave
Your sensual phrases place me in a daze
Rhythmically in sync, steadying the pace
Melodies in motion, no need for haste
Intoxicated by the scent of your lyrical fragrance
My imagination climaxes from your melodic persuasion
Your hypnotic undertones send chills down my spine
It’s like poetic seduction when I read between your lines
Chiquita Chiamaka Baity
^^^cdi^^^
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