By the sunset, you were ploughed
In a new tableau of color for every sun's new goodbye—
Life's bright glow on my skin fades now.
On my face, faith has known better days—
Smoothed stones— a walk through the past;
Wringed like my hands in his picture's pain.
Running track
Light cast
Set aback
By the sunset, you were ploughed,
Smoothed stones— a walk through the past,
Set aback.
----
Watching his tears the day after in sunset rain,
God, guard the course...
No timeless room for new blame.
His ghostly squeeze now with my heart—
For his endearing hope in me snatched,
By his fire's ending of the dark.
Likewise glass
Sun catch
Lasts
Watching his tears the day after in sunset rain,
For his endearing hope in me snatched
Lasts.
Categories:
wringed, childhood, cry, dad, death,
Form: Rhyme
DO NOT MISS THE MOON, WHILE COUNTING THE STARS
Do not be carried away by the deceit,
Of an oozing chant of a back palm’s stew;
For the meat that source and house it,
Will slip and off it will drift like dew;
So, do not miss the sun,
While counting the smiles of the stars,
Kafkaesque!
Most magic moments oblique,
The conscientiousness to tame,
And the illusionary shadow’s of blame.
Sometimes, I don’t want,
You to know what I think,
That’s why I hide it in a plant,
A tarred bowdlerize wink;
So, do not stay too long....
Looking at the sun, especially her eclipse.
Alas! The jaded aglet corpse!
I have wringed wet maelstroms,
What you have in your palm,
Is bigger than the shadow storms,
So, do not waste hours counting,
Those deceitful stars__
When all you need is the moon!
For this is an overweening;
Err that mar many: a raconteur.
~ Tile
Categories:
wringed, africa, anxiety, caregiving, day,
Form: Blank verse
The Masked Singer is an entertainer on stage in masquerade
A baker by day; a singer by night with accolade
The Masked Singer dresses as a male and sometimes female
He is a ***** but with many personalities of a strong male
The masked one bakes bread in the morning
Before dawn donates bread in an orphanage
That's what he does in bright days of living
Sings and dance in the evening passage
The masked male renders songs of praise
To God and to all of humane haste
Once he was awarded in the Hall of Craze
Disguising as a singing pauper on streets of blaze
It's a short-lived life narrated about the masked singer
Who died shortly after a sponsored-play with a ringer
A runaway train in the dark that ran over
His untenable body wringed and flattened headless
Yards away from the rail... a rolling head of the masked singer
"I dedicate this simple poem to a friend representing all other hardworking LGBTQs of the World who offer more than enough of themselves in saving other people's lives."
(Prosebite)
Categories:
wringed, giving, image, inspirational, uplifting,
Form: Narrative
Weakened by the illnesses of life my body required
assistance to breath. It progressed to the machine
totally doing all the work.
Life can wear you out to the point of a wringed out
towel at times that does not allow anymore
absorbtion. Then another has to sponge up the
moistures of your daily life.
Incredible are the healing abilities of our creative
bodies. But in the space of time lost could it be
possible to forget something one was never
taught to do?
Time to breath on my own now but strangely I needed
a reminder every couple of seconds as the machine
was slowly turned off.
And for the briefest half second there was a moment
of panic in not knowing how. But then it returned.
As the sunlight of healings clarity shinned the
appreciation of the necessity to unfold that towel, wash it, jo
hang it up to dry and dry off my daily mist of
life's responsibility's.
Valuing the ability to breath. .
Categories:
wringed, hope,
Form: Free verse
My body’s wringed from sacrifice,
Crazed soul locked within,
An offering that can’t please your gods.
This sharp pain strikes me,
Turning me into mucky ashes.
And, look, the dark is knotting
In crispy curls over my spirit.
This whiter night is pulsing
Inside me, suffocating
My existence.
I feel the savor of younger flesh,
Diving in my womb.
Just let me burn in sacrifice.
It’s unfair and piteous
How I end a life
That’s biting out of me too soon.
© 2009 Stefania Carmen Misaila
Categories:
wringed, depression, sadme, me,
Form: Free verse
The river called my name,
Whispering softly into my mind,
The trees consumed my fears,
Taking away all unsure anxiety,
The rocks grabbed my soul,
And wringed it of all frustration,
The birds sang to my heart,
With a melody so pure,
The wind took the tension,
And molded it beautifully into reality,
Nature itself stared me in the eyes,
Confronting me,
Attacking my pain and anguish,
Leaving me with sincerity and truth,
Freedom...
Categories:
wringed, art, nature, nostalgia, me,
Form: Free verse