There was a private reception at the professor's house
Half a century ago for his senior-level creative writing poetry class
It was attended by the visiting poet, on campus at his invitation
The doctor's prescription for the nourishment of his fledglings
Some students were eager to share a few lines with the guest of honor
But there was a quiet one hanging about the periphery, alone in thought
Not one who who sought an audience with the Master, with the Elder
As the evening wore on some nibbled, some scribbled
Some continued to pursue the Poet
But the quiet one kept largely to himself, lost in thought
Or maybe… just lost
And as the soiree drew to a close the Poet approached him
He said, "Is something troubling you?"
"Oh… not really," he responded, unconvincingly
"Well…" the Poet said, "You've got a lot to do in this life,
But you're gonna do it good."
The quiet one thanked him, smiled,
And thought about grammatic structure, poetic lisence, and why he'd been singled out
And he thought about all those things that were really troubling him
Courage, encourage, discourage
Word he'd… worried
I'm in an 'I care a toss for you' world.
My words seem as though they are empuzzled.
Social, I say. Society, I say.
On policies, like a donkey, I bray.
Who hears? Who cares? Only my weak nib breaks.
What else do I gain except acute aches?
I do not stop yet. Do waves fail to break?
When it's essential, doesn't the earth quake?
Shouldn't tsunamis reset sea-foundations?
Shouldn't volcanoes bring land formations?
Conscience and consciousness should harmonize.
Each poem of mine should be a sunrise.
Can you not be what you made me to see?
My siren song of woven poesy—
Sealing my choice on your brand with a roar—
Am I right, or have you blinded my core?
You are my mountains, my rivers, my hills.
Why, then, indictment after your cheap thrills?
Honeyed lips lie behind lipstick and paint;
My verdure, my air, my people you taint.
Your essence of playful epiphanies,
Perfect, filtered, adjusted sanctities,
Are the dreads of death in the heart of hearths—
A cavernous gloom of illusive arts.
And upon that stand, blow the Judas Kiss:
If repentance fails, who would be your tryst?
poesy curse of hanging fruit strings
a pool topped up to the brim
will spill over
to
endless
drips
of
drivel
slops
.
ooooh
one poet will tell ya
'thuh water iz
cold
another
thuh flowerz are
prettiest pink
i'm hear tuh tell
y'all
her toez are taut
unto
hern butt's
crease
and her sister'z
unto
hern wink
There are some people I’ve not met
Yet think of them without regret
as they have left a mark on me
with distant words they let go free
to thrash about the atmosphere
come close enough for me to hear
the tone of hope the angst of fear
the silence of a long-dried tear
a wind that tickles funny bones
catastrophes with ice cream cones
of kith and kin of now and then
of dancing on life’s ice so thin
we meet in passing every day
as unseen breezes they can’t stay
yet touch the edges of our worlds
with a poesy of rhythmic swirls
John G. Lawless
©7/28/2022
Bliss for the poetry I create
this offer granted by heaven
increase feelings with leven
in poetical space written fate
In search of hue
That departed my grey shadow,
and headed towards a grave
which's long due.
There's someone powerful visible
Like you.
Enjoying the land of deads,
Aren't you through?
I continued to row,
In search of cascading fountains of truth,
To replenish my arid aura
whilst streaming through the oceans,
That's swirling with lies and truth.
I am following it,
Destroyed and withered,
Because it will take me,
To an aurora that once shimmered.
With a scattered soul,
that longs for the orange glory of the light,
to weave me in it’s glistening dew,
And snowflakes of boundless delight.
I am still rowing,
In a myriad of tints,
My under-toned emotions
Floating in an infinite stream.
I must revive them.
The symphonies and hollow chimes,
That sparkles my dark brown eyes,
While playing a choir in my heart,
In order to regain my trust.
Now, I must run.
To catch the wilderness,
Lost in a conjured boulevard,
Of falsehood and fairy tales.
I must open the door to my soul,
Locked by an empty spell
Before it freezes my bosoms,
In a timeless well.
Poesy and song are all about
rhythm and flow, and tunes and tones;
how every rise and fall throughout
make melody within the zones
and forms of verse without fade-out
to listener's tympanic bones.
Measure’s a trick of deft poets,
who know the cadence of their feet
gives lines their tempo. And so it’s
like Poesy’s pulsating heartbeat;
it’s hypnotic (and you know it’s
rhythmic),—so feel its potent beat.
Together, Poesy's clear measure
(the crests and troughs of its music,
the highs and lows of its leisure)
can roar like a score symphonic,
an orchestra of high pleasure
with counterpoint so harmonic!
A little light entertainment on another wistful people distancing day...
The Owl and the Puddycat went to sleep
tucked up cosy and warm
Till Little Boy Blue come blasting his horn
causing a raucous storm
The Cat and the Fiddle
both jumped sky high
Mary and her Little Lamb, startled
began to cry
Jack and Jill both tumbled downhill
their pail of water rolled on overspill
Baa, Baa Black Sheep trembled with fear
He guessed it was time for wool being sheared
The Queen of Hearts dropped all her tarts
Twenty four blackbirds bit the crust
they were lucky, weren’t they just
Little Jack Horner, tucking into his pie
bit hard on the thumb he’d mistook for a plumb
screaming “what kind of fool am I"
Yankee Doodle from his pony vaulted
lost the feather he’d put in his cap
as the poor scared pony bolted.
26th November 2020
If poesy is health, then I should be hale:
no invalid, but a bard whose high time
nears, whose destiny only God can tell.
Till then, I faithfully live by every rhyme.
If poesy is wealth, then I should be rich:
for I, now like a king of immense treasure,
am but a pauper who has found his niche,
a kingdom and realm of rhythm and measure.
If poesy is wisdom, then I should be wise:
for, through songs like these, even the dull and blind
(nourished with truthful, lovely rhymes) can rise
to higher ethereal states of mind!
If wisdom and poesy are thus absolving,
then I still should be happy and evolving.
When you are with no companion
and no one can read your very silence
When you are brimmed with joy
and you find no sign of warmth
When your solitude is lonely
and you cease to feel the wonder
When no single wave in the air
and you have a longing to breathe
When your heart denies its throbs
and your tone becomes still and cold
When none can hear the drops of your wounds
and you can't even swallow your sighs
When the night has no stars in his sky
and no dream dares showing a face
When no other alluring path to walk
and no thirst to reach satiating founts
When both, mind and heart share your pen
and no single paper in your den
How couldn't there be a life
that would save lives!
How can I envision my world
without you, my poesy!
Chrysanthemum whispers
gird clouds of winter.
Frost spells inhume heart
deep into the valley of silence
Loud and mournful poesy
scribbled the souls
enchaining the last rays.
Misty dawn shone owing
to shades of night
And My Daffodil awaits
for the shades of blush.
Poesy
prints me marks
while I write
and type it...
I don't do poetry,
she is the one who makes me
poet...!
Changing my life
One page at a time
Creating and sharing
Unveiling my heart
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~DARK CLOUDS~ 2020
Submitted on May 3, 2019 for contest MAY 2019 PREMIER 2 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - HONORABLE MENTION
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