She easily admits to having many flaws,
has no humour except when writing about furry things with claws;
she has tons of poetic talent with her pen,
words just flow onto paper again and again.
Oh gosh, she has so much self-taught poetic skill,
I love her poems and her creative inspired quill;
and she can draw, paint and take photographs- so artistic,
she wins lots of contest but is never, ever egotistic.
She has been my friend for years and we are stuck like glue,
I like how she is always looking for a hobby new;
she has many, many, many goals,
a list that is as long as the dead sea scrolls.
I never saw a person with so many different dictionaries,
told me she gets them as rejects from libraries;
she is always, always in a journal writing and writing,
but it is like another language when trying to read her handwriting.
I admire how she is always doing things to improve,
she lives her life her way and does not require anyone to approve;
she is forgiving, loving and kind,
and surrounds herself with friends of like mind.
Three years he took delight in the embrace of his mother.
He lived, his mother's love and care replaced by no other
Love for God and every being grew with him as he grew.
As desert daisies and blissful birds, divine care he knew
From his teachers and nature, the teacher, wisdom he gained
In credence, courage, honour, and humbleness, he got trained.
Love for uprightness and joy of freedom dawned day by day.
The null and void earthly life too choked him in every way.
He penned something always. Did he know what he truly wrote?
On seas of fancies, like a weightless wood, he used to float.
He might be a bit reckless and foolish in his dealings.
He's not crooked yet; he's sensitive to others' feelings.
Right, not might and concord of physique and psyche, he knew
From the fairness of all beings, his source of life, he drew.
In his love and care for the poor and weak, he's not blinded.
Like tigers, lions, wolves, bears, and beavers, he's single-minded.
Elegant lady, graceful, majestic
Mathematician and analytic.
Lover of literature and music.
Friendly, helpful, compassionate, frolic.
Reasonable rational and righteous,
honors moral values, not religious.
Impulsive, prompt, acting spontaneous.
Dutiful, dynamic and courageous.
Optimist ! Ambitions not to give up.
Inherited brilliance owning brain sharp.
Drinking dreamy desires from hopeful cup.
Endures failure taking an easy burp.
Takes life as a challenge at every step.
Path of life not even, may take an odd shape.
Ready to confront, never to escape.
Peace -loving, yet on need, ready to skelp.
A scientist once took to the skies,
With aerospace dreams and questioning whys.
He'd listen intently, a thoughtful façade,
Then go his own way—decisions, unflawed.
"Don’t argue!" he'd say, with wisdom so spry,
Yet soon he'd be caught in a passionate reply.
Papers unwritten, his ideas took flight,
But work clipped his wings before he could write.
He painted once, under a teacher’s gaze,
Brushed fleeting moments, like love’s passing phase.
Hearts he would chase with romantic embrace,
But Cupid, it seemed, had a brisker pace.
He speaks of greatness, of lessons profound,
Then segues to laundry and chores all around.
A couch-bound dreamer with active intent,
Age is the anchor; his will's not spent.
An inspiration wrapped in quirks and delight,
A tale of ambition, humor, and light.
Through all of his whims, one truth is clear:
Life's vibrant spark shines in him, year to year.
Strange thought just entered my head
What if I critiqued my own poems
D'ya think I'd really be tough on myself
Or would you detect a slight bias tone
Tried using the criteria of accepted norms
I'd be down at the bottom, no bones
But for humorous verse and originality
Call me Oliver Wendell Holmes
First I followed time honoured patterns
Of poets that have gone before
But that's not what makes a poet of note
Originality is what raises his score
So go ahead and break all the rules
That have been in place forever
Develop your style of creative writing
And be proud of your endeavour
You will shrug, leaving the talk
I will measure the mannerism,
Your prejudice, your reluctant mood
And then the omniscient third person
Will whisper,” Are you done, finally?”
she is the shield
slaying i
i might just die
***
Step aside,slightly,
from a beach beside
cold moving water.
A sighting in rain,
hooked on a line,
empty as a fallen bell,
an open window, opaque.
If I am distant to myself
I am lost, aware
of room, the soft crunch of shingle.
Steps of a known stranger, a shell.
I feel the sweat of a race not run
and hold the clench of a stomach churned,
as I crumble and fall, using artifice to
fool this world of my consummate ease
This daily pulse has blood flow restricted,
like the sparrow evading the falcons dance.
And I, in the third person try so hard
to solicit speech from this frozen mouth
My time has come to stand upon this stage
and fill the pledge to tickets bought.
And to earn my daily crust, whilst hoping
the ink of fear does not write upon my face
And by the end of day to feel
like an egg dashed against a wall,
breaking into a thousand ruined nerves,
killing all the life within this rain - soaked
hesitant voice
To begin this all again tomorrow.
This troubled journey of wornboards
and featureless landscapes trapped by
a scream hidden in fog
It's very hard for me to write in the third person, especially to think and describe with poetic imagery the thoughts and feelings of others.
With my soul burning, like california wildfires.
soul screaming, asking why,
bipolar mind panicking through crisis of historical proportions
it's very hard for me to think or observe the third person
but at least I had that observation.
Strangest thought just entered my head
What if I critiqued my own poems
D'ya think I'd really be tough on myself
Or would you detect a slight bias tone
Using the criteria of accepted norms
I'd be down at the bottom, no bones
But for humorous verse and originality
Call me Oliver Wendell Holmes
First I followed time honoured patterns
Of poets that have gone on before
But that's not what makes a poet of note
Originality is what raises his score
So go ahead and break all the rules
That have been in place forever
Develop your style of creative writing
And be proud of your endeavour
(My apologies to Oliver Wendell Holmes!)
© Jack Ellison 2013
Are you having an affair she asked?
The response was a quick yes
Do you love her?
Again he said yes
Do you see her often?
As much as possible came the reply
Do I know who she is?
Yes you do he said
Will you tell me… please?
It’s you
Thundering skies make me remember the night,
when your eyes flashed in agony of pure joy.
For every and each drop of that rain I would fight,
and have it all again before my heart could ever coy.
But time is not a friend, an enemy that all destroy,
and the drops still fall on you, hurting me to death.
My soul can’t imprint a single power to annoy,
and stop the way the drops violate your body path.
Hope is all gone as I look what my hand hath,
emptiness and loneliness are so concrete to fulfill,
the dark and deep hole with my sick and warped breath.
I give in, drops of a holy spirit of wrath, I’m ill
from what I’ve seen and that anymore I’ll touch,
The whole person you now got and love so much.
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