Every snip feels off.
I stare at my own hair.
The sides are sharp today.
The top does not feel right.
I run my fingers through.
It is different, maybe odd.
I pause, not sure I like it.
I hope it grows on me.
Maybe they will like it.
It could be a better look.
Could even catch some smiles.
The girls might notice too.
The mirror feels more kind.
The cut starts to take shape.
Maybe it just needs time.
It might be working out.
I take a breath, step back.
Maybe it is bold, maybe fun.
A quiet pat on my back.
Light catches every line.
I let myself smile a little.
It may be different, but I like it.
I own this change, I own the cut.
It feels good, it feels like me.
I walk away with a small grin.
Feeling good about what I see.
Different, yes, but bold.
I like this new cut on me.
Ideas of an orchestral poem have spilled onto a page.
The story is tuneful and very poetic at this very stage.
A poem to be a rhapsody, of instruments with violins.
Instruments take shape, and as the symphony begins.
The tempo builds, with brightest intensity to engage.
Words follow the beat, to a crescendo of intense rage.
Now, as the kettle drums implode within their skins.
The conductor is in full control, as his baton spins.
The percussion again, joins, as the woodwind slows.
lyrics soften, and the flute’s melody gently flows.
The story is tuneful and very poetic at this very stage.
Ideas of an orchestral poem have spilled onto a page.
The space the distance the mind
where do i stand howe close am i
to carry my sins as far as possible
grow my brains clear of mistakes
and a place where i can pretend
so, i can just dance and let
my insanity take shape and grow
into the true moment of despair.
My true desire the fight within my fire
forests of lies deep voices and satire
lanterns in the sky fly my desire
what is it like to be buried on the moon
would my pain and stress forever rest
decomposed my bones will fly through the space
my lies will terrorize new worlds above.
I stand at the edge of time, where yesterday weaves into today in an eternal dance,
I gaze upon the uncharted path that stretches like a blank canvas, waiting to be painted by my steps,
The wind whispers secretly, like an old confidant, of a future lurking beyond the horizon's line,
Where unspoken dreams take shape and color in the silence of evening that descends upon the world.
The sunset casts its golden curtain over the day, and the last glimmer of light fades like a forgotten dream,
Shadows dance upon the stage of darkness, like phantoms dissolving in the wake of a dreamer,
The stars, those beacons of the universe, light up one by one, guiding me toward the open sky,
Silent witnesses to my inner journey, they watch over me, offering courage to press on.
I yearn to soar on eagle's wings, to feel the cold air cut my breath and give me life anew,
To sail upon the waves where sea and heart sing together in a duet of eternity,
To dance freely beneath a starry curtain, where dreams become real and tangible,
To discover the magic that lies beyond the light, where the soul finds its solace and peace.
a poet’s heart is stitched with ghosts
inked in sorrow, bled in prose
each word a whisper, a breath, a sigh
woven from shadows that never die
by candle’s flicker, by midnight’s call
the verses rise, the echoes fall
secrets carved in tattered rhyme
lingering past the reach of time
the quill, a blade, it cuts so deep
wounds that fester, wounds that weep
yet in the dark, the lines take shape
a ghostly hand, a silken scrape
no rest for souls that write in pain
their voices spill like autumn rain
trapped in pages, bound in ink
forever speaking from the brink
so read these words but read them well
for poets live where phantoms dwell
their hearts still beat in lines they weave
even in death, they never leave
Heroes don’t always wear a cape
I was rescued during a hasty escape
Trouble brewed and I knew everything
Until coming face-to-face with perishing
A brave soul enabled my life to take shape
I have power at my fingertips,
Hands that scratch lyrics on paper.
A story I once knew -
Now it’s just art.
Rhythms. Twists.
Stanzas, words -
Cut and placed with care.
The poet is me - simple, complex.
Layers, knots -untold.
Pieces of who I am, what I represent.
Each word a fragment.
Some shared, others buried.
I say too much,
Then veil it behind smoke and shadows.
I don’t want to be a poem.
I’ve been silent too long,
Moulded for others -
A statue with cracks too deep to fill.
But my story?
It’s mine.
Words take shape in my hands,
Soft as wax, fierce as flames.
You can praise me.
Despise me.
Think I’m broken,
Or the answer - your angel in disguise.
But don’t lock me down.
I’m fluid. I shift.
Not always good. Not always bad.
I’ve disappointed enough.
But still, I breathe fire.
Still, I let the ink drip,
Every word a piece of my spine.
Look closer, if you dare.
You opened your heart for me
on a Friday evening
after I worked in Green Bay.
My friend who lived near
Milwaukee said you
were the best place
to be in Wisconsin,
the forests
and tourist shops
that lay between
the bay and Lake Michigan.
I glanced to my right and knew
the lake was there
the endless waters and sky
but as I was driving
to Sturgeon Bay
I looked to the clouds
I was calling out to you
to take me on a greater journey
somewhere beyond the stars.
As I turned to go downtown
a bow of a ship appeared
the frame yet to take shape.
I remembered my younger days
spent along the shores
of The Great Lakes.
Patrons at a tourist bar
near the shipyard
as the jukebox played
proclaimed your sons and daughters
built the iron vessels
with their study hands—
it was a way of life to them.
The bartender said
explorers and sailors
died in your waters
as I finished my drink.
Streetlights twinkled
as I said goodnight to you
and my tires sang as I drove.
When I turned off the radio
I heard a whisper
the sound of your voice
calling me back.
Author Dana Redricks
November 23, 2024
When I see you, I see the puzzle pieces of your life slowly taking shape as your life begins to take shape and the pain begins to be replaced to reveal the beauty that was hidden.
When I see you, I see the puzzle pieces of your life, edges worn, yet steadfast, Slowly finding where they belong, a picture emerging from the chaos of the past.
Each fragment tells a story of pain endured, of love misplaced, yet now they shift, guided by a quiet hand, into a pattern that feels like grace.
Your life begins to take its form, not bound by what was lost or broken, but by what you’ve chosen to rebuild the pain once sharp, now soft, replaced by truths you’ve finally spoken.
And as the beauty reveals itself, no longer hidden beneath the weight of this world, I see not just the bruises and brokenness, but the strength in every piece, as your life puzzle begins to come together as you find a new release, and you finally feel at peace.
Eight Words Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
To my loving husband on our loving wedding day
Happiness will always EMANATE from us, I say
For what once was a wild river is now a calm bay
We'll BLOSSOM together until we're old and grey
Our SWIRLING eyes dancing with each other's way
We'll never lose that rhythm or have our hearts stray
The years and tides may change but our love will stay
The Destiny of Diamonds no ILLUSION but our doorway
Our rainbow eyes shunning SYNTHETIC skies, the archway
Babe, our house will be on the bay, our nest, our gateway
The forest, foliage, and our future will be a fairytale play
Will toast the RUSTIC tranquility and our cache
Today is the beginning, a seed planted as we speak and lay
Nine months from now joy to the world, we'll ballet
The TIMELESS roots will take shape and grow, I pray
The SILENCE of the baby room soon to sound our way, so let's merry away
Maybe tomorrow my ink won’t be sticky
A verse will take shape as it flows
I’ll see what I’ve written and won’t be too picky
From now on it’s anything goes
Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about sorrow
Keep ‘funny’ for some other day
My pen will find ideas to sneakily borrow
No copyright shall bar its way
Maybe tomorrow my pen will advise me
By writing two letters: ‘A.I.’
My scruples tell me I could never agree
So, maybe I’ll pass that one by
Maybe tomorrow my pen shall not wander
Alas it shall write not at all
Integrity isn’t a value to squander
A man and his pen must stand tall
Maybe tomorrow I’ll find inspiration
My pen shall be truly enthralled
I’ll write a whole poem, to my consternation
Lest my pen should be quite appalled
Maybe tomorrow my pen will run loose
With notions, some free and some weird
Maybe my pen will shrug off all abuse
And write silly stuff less afeared
Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an idea
That my pen can pick up and run with
About an aardvark that went into IKEA
I’m a poet… so live and let live!
Every day this life of mine is changing
It seems like every day my life has to be rearranged
It seems like I never know what to expect
And what will be the final effect
I know it's time to move forward
Even though times it might feel awkward
It might be the right move
But I will decide that I choose
There may be a lot of bumps in the road
And I know there will be a lot of mistakes
But in the end, I know my life will take shape
I hope all these lessons that I learn
Will someday give me a big return
So I ask myself what is next?
All I can say it will be one big test
The laptop screen flickers
as I turn to you.
A dream lingers
and a branch outside
my window waves.
I browse posts and comments
and I’m connected.
A bird off somewhere sings
a world waits outside my window.
I wonder what to poem
and what to share.
In quiet moments
reflections take shape
to fill empty pages.
Although we’ve never met
we’ve always been friends.
I must let you know
regardless of how far I’ve travelled
I’ve always come home.
The sun pokes through clouds
a touch of gold.
And the sky above—
it’s an endless ocean.
In the shadow of the night, mysteries take shape,
The woman with eyes that shine like celestial stars,
And men tremble in the face of her fiery love,
For they feel the warmth that emanates from her depths.
She is like a deep ocean, with tumultuous waves,
In which the weak of heart drown,
But for the courageous, she is the most precious treasure,
To be found in the search for life.
Men feel the thrill of an intense passion,
Moving through the woman's veins like a wild river,
Intimidated by the power that lies within her heart,
Yet, drawn like moths to a flame.
They long to get lost in her labyrinth of love,
To feel the warmth of her body embracing their soul,
Only then do they truly feel alive,
In their perfect union, in divine fullness.
But only he who conquers fear is worthy,
To face the storm of passion that the woman brings,
To gaze into her eyes, aflame with desire and devotion,
And feel the warmth of his heart melting into a dedicated solitude.
So, woman, bestow your gift of love,
Upon a man who has overcome his fear and ego,
For only he will truly appreciate,
The magic and depth of your love, in eternal intimacy.
Light again
forms take shape
cool flows caress
across my skin
day again
I realize
and yesterday
returns again
fragments flee
colored bits
words are lost
touch is not
clarity was not
within the night
within the dreams
naught was found
I would not seek
again this day
I would run
and flee away
dark roads lie
within my day
and I must choose
even to flee
I did not seek
nor have I found
answers are not
within the night
the warmth of night
within I would stay
in world of dreams
asylum seek
shut out the light
ignore the chill
flee from the day
back in to night
last night I ran
and fled away
seek to be lost
and darkness find
oh would I find
within my dreams
another world
where answers lie
where questions simple
and answers quick
without the grays
just black and white
but dreams are lost
visions not found
and from the night
I am cast out
and now in light
darkness I find
questions unanswered
again I face
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