Staring at her reflection in
ocular mirrors, learning my
last blessings, creeping past
poltergeists during marauder
inspections while I transcribe
her flesh on caesura, pleading
with the Pleiades for soprano
notes to stay on his alto clefs,
hanging gardens in her image
Obambulate mistress, with
Black Narcissus as my witness
Extravagant solivagant born
from river spirits, lascivious
nymphs want to hear their
voice echo in mountain cliffs
carried by arid winds to the
place the gods’ garments
ripped, convicting her Prince
There once was a guy who crafted a poem;
it’s possible that you might even know him.
It seems that he had a way with the verse;
he wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t the worst.
They’d come in a flurry, the bad and the good;
he’d try to transcribe them as fast as he could.
Inevitably, there’d be a cessation;
it seems his muse would go on vacation.
It was times like these, when the words weren’t flowing,
he decided to try his hand at rowing.
With a handle and chain instead of an oar,
he got in good shape and built up his core.
With thousands of others, he entered a race,
and managed to snag an age group first place.
He thought maybe then that he might see his muse;
the subject of rowing perhaps could be used.
Return of the linguist: on fire, on fleek!
Alas, but instead, just the paddle-less creek.
Now bound and determined to settle a score,
he’s sulking and sculling towards some distant shore.
if tears of the sun were the metaphorical keys
to unlock twisted trinkets of the searing sky
would you feel the festering forest~
homing arctic orchids within these veins?
or am I to remain detached and numb;
caged in a cursed collision
like an evanescent epiphany
of a misled marionette ~
screaming for a cathartic elixir….
tonight my intuition is a passive-aggressive gaslighter
manipulating the inner voice ~ like a pathological liar
freezing the floral clairvoyance…
while curiosity keeps crawling
amidst crestfallen opium
I ponder: do frost and flame, as I breathe in bleakness~
transcribe how the echo
within the fog filters reality
curated in the midst of melted angst
fluctuating like stone-blind blackness~
a drop-dead delirium kissed by the darkness
of a silent sepulcher?
I’m a prisoner of splitting supernovae
caught in polarized pyretic disruptions
for everything feels like exaggerated deceit
when truth seems like a mere dot above~
a hyphen of irrational ratios
carved from calculated confusions,
betrayed by the violent strings
of my violin heart…
In a cold world, you are the warmth that comforts me
In the darkness of nights, you are the light that allows me to see
Such preciousness that cannot be set to a price
And there's nothing else that will suffice
A diamond glittering amongst seas of coal
My heart starts beating out of control
The only word that can describe
Such beauty that cannot transcribe
Is a treasure that I'll forever hold dear
As you whisper sweetness in my ear
My treasure is worth dying for
A thousand times over and more
sleep feels like an abandoned lover;
heart weeps like a wilted flower..
wings of the sun, soaked with sapphire dust,
rise and sparkle; like sea salt in the air,
twilight cascades upon my skin~
wearing your perfumed memories,
I long to see your silken silhouette,
swirling behind the thick veil of shimmering silence,
but I do not know the lyrics,
to sing these thoughts in spellbinding melodies,
so like always, I sit and scribble,
your name in rosy refrains and messy metaphors,
too vague for those almond eyes..
perhaps, citrine stars would transcribe these emotions,
for I’ve long been writing in seclusion,
of the lotus moon in your midnight skies,
of the constellations of butterflies…
Yet, I am the unvoiced verse,
nestled within the waltzing lines
of timeless nostalgia~woven from flawless feathers…
Dear Diary words
When I first started being a Poet, I always wondered how my words sound?
Was I meant to be a Poet?
Do I have the need and purpose to write?
It was a life learning situation
Finding my own observation
The courage within
Determined then
Knowing writing wasn’t a sin
Inspiration always in doing words transform
That’s the norm
It took a little longer from the very beginning
I thought I would never compose in transcribe
I was scare beyond compare
As a Poet, one must measure individually up
Through strength from my Grandfather’s wisdom
I became the Poet you see today
Improved ways
Being a Poet ok
Diary reminder, “A Poet who can, there’s a shall.
If I were a poet
it wouldn't even be content
not sad...
I could live just passing by...
floating in the air,
flying in the feathers of the breeze...
but since I'm normal,
not even a bridge
nor way...
I feel what I feel...
wishes,
longing,
jealousy...!
But how can I not be a poet?
I deny everything... and I suffer...
But I don't transmit anything, nor transcribe...
I'm not a poet... I'm not satisfied
in this life without you...!
Have a seat
As I transcribe
A jolt down
The bench and sit
The weather was perfect for it
Sky words with the sun warmth
Here and there
Difference beyond compare
Mind lair
Moments to share
Every bench
Observation alert
Words suddenly come to mind
Every movement, a reason with a purpose
Need to write
I am giving the reader to look and it’s an invite
Totally relaxed
The vibes just right
The source of my compose write
No complain
Not even lame
The bench seat green
Words being lean
Write is with a write on
Long nights
transcribe me into a clacking music.
Harpsichord bones and broken keys,
nailed to an out of time tune.
A somnambulant self-winding
pipe-organ, whistles
as it pushes moments around
as if time could be saved
for later use.
A mind-locked keyboard
is stuck in the middle
of a revolving thought.
I lay down in the back row
of a horn belching bedlam;
wave weary hands at the ceiling
conducting curse words
in the dark.
#OH MY GAWDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!
"I'VE BEEN WILD CAUGHT!"
Who would have thought???
Something soooooooooooooo savory, utterly most delicious and immensely tasty could be sooooooooooo
A M A Z I N G :-). Enough to transcribe and describe this INCREDIBLE, SUBJECTIVE "ELECTIVE" {SMILE} brought to you by
-TASTE BUDS FROM THIS POETESS!
Allow me to address...
If today were my last day on earth and I was absolutely certain {intuitively} it were...
I would request for Breakfast, can you please heat me up some pizza from the day before, it has PINEAPPLE, FRESH BASIL AND SHRIMP ON IT!...OH YES! AND...
THANK YOU, MUCH OBLIGE :-)
Lunch: SAME, THANK YOU, MUCH OBLIGE :-)
DINNER: SAME, THANK YOU, MUCH OBLIGE :-)
AFTERLIFE: FIRST DAY...
SAME, THANK YOU DEAR CREATOR, AND
*ALWAYS*...MUCH OBLIGE :-)
NEXT DAY: BREAKFAST...HEAVEN MADE WAFFLE AND OUT OF THIS WORLD MAPLE SYRUP..."PLEASE! KINDLY!" :-)
AFTER THAT, ANY GIVEN TIME...
HINT*....IT'S ON "RE-SET***" {S M I L E}
©Renee D. Gross {GHPPR} March 2023#
*Image of POETRY SOUP logo/avatar.
Poetry Soup
Presence of a plethora of patron poetesses and poets, Welcome!
Openhanded optimism is offered.
Exciting endeavors of extending enrolments blessed the multitudes.
Translate and transcribe text, and transpose them and be of good cheer.
Read and review others, and be blessed.
Yearning yesterday yields today, blessed am I.
Satisfaction soothes and savors me.
Only Oneness am I true.
Universal and unpretentious am I.
People pleasing penner!
2022 August 09
*3rd Place*
POETRY SOUP BEYOND ITS NAME
~~Beata Agustin: Judged 2022 September 25
Words are birds
flying against the sun,
fly and come from heaven
to the ground...
words acquire ink
with the rain and the air,
ending in poetry
that I transcribe them here...
stoically!
The poet's hands are tied by written words,
inking emotions in-between the lines.
Nature's creatures, like butterflies and birds,
oft get reduced to colors and outlines
only observable from the sidelines.
Poets induce feelings through abstract thoughts
trusting the reader to connect the dots,
but struggle to transcribe a smile or frown,
for the weight of fledgling words, holds them down.
Feelings untethered from reality
can cause a communications breakdown,
when a poet pens sensuality.
(Dizain)
6/08/2021
The Poet's Hands Are Tied Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Came looking for a verse to transcribe
Couldn’t think of anything to inscribe
Mind wasn’t directing any orderly lyrics
Composedly accepting everything as is
No ripples of thoughts, no dilemmas,
No judgements, no opinions,
No portrayals of any sorts
“Why does anything need description?” was its question
“Just be” was its proposition
Decided to ruminate on that
A feeling of freedom came just like that.
Smita Kulkarni
02/11/2021
The Proseman’s¹ Guide
By the fruits of the Poeter’s vocation
The courtship of mental tinkerings & its written translation
Of one’s inner and outer feelings; a mentally intoxicating libation
Of nuances; pouring from the point of creation;
A quill, a pen…used to spell out this notation
Come alive; to form the tapestry of written constellations
For it may take time to see life’s sedimentation
And take note of a thought’s conceptualization
From beginning to end and transcribe the dictation
verbatim; to ensure there is no unwanted obfuscation
that in this process; there are interludes; brief stagnations
not seen in this polished work of written elocution;
is the exploration & experimentation not found in each line; just it’s summation
of the ebb & flow of this poetical concoction
for if this meandering of prose was archaic; it would need a furthering; illumination
and more likely than not a soft touch of preservation
and a fair bit of the Reader’s intellectual navigation
Hence, leaving the mind’s eye more open for future inspiration
-25NOV20
¹ Proseman: a prose writer —opposed to poet
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/proseman
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