Writes Poems

The Ambassador of Ferrara Writes to His Prince About a Cool Party in 1572

Such throaty timbres – oboes and bassoons –           
such gowns!  My Lady, apricot and plum,
her sleeves ablaze with blue October moons –     
for one short night, her villa had become          

The Girl Who Writes Love Poems v2

The girl who writes love poems
Finally became the muse
She was so wrapped up in her delusion
She didn't see she was being used.

She poured out her heart into stanzas and rhymes
And basked in the warmth of his gaze
Little did she know the time that she’d waste
Would haunt her the rest of her days. 

Though she spent

My Muse Writes

Relaxed while my muse writes, I watch her think
and link words that ignites
with creative verse insights.
Her thoughts then with me unites.

Time Writes in Rhythms of Light

there were times when I did not understand him
times when I fought with my heart, to remember
time would not forget the days that were so grim

it wouldn’t be that long, just before December
he would tell us that love had come to his life
years after this, I’d see that stirring ember

sparks of hope divine to heal

he writes like he speaks

His writing was pompous and verbose
Why wouldn’t it be?
He writes like he speaks
He appears to be a loquacious windbag which he is

She Writes Them Now

She's never loved broken love poems,
but now she writes them.
She's always feared swollen heads and broken tones,
yet now she finds she fights them.
Despite her mother's devotion,
she's forgotten the taste of oxytocin -
broken bonds within the unspoken, spoken.
Now emotion runs frozen
underneath hollow motions.
These days she spends her time playing theologian.
Here's my question:
No one cares to know

boy diva writes about?

butterfights
on butterfly'd
stopping goodbyes
without saying
i has a song
not in your garden 
long time you spent
washing all the dirts
evidence

"let miss thang be in control"
just as long as she's around

"but the old dead tree!"
what about it?
"it is gonna squish my house"
so your not protected?
"your right i should use my words"
yes i am right
that crooked witch uses the whips
and

A Ghost Writes

in the stillness of the night
where shadows weave their tales
an envelope drifts weightless through silence
ancient parchment frayed
by the breath of time

it bears no return address
only the faint aroma
of forgotten dreams and echoes
a whisper carried
on the back of the wind

i unfold the letter
my fingers trembling
as ink flows like liquid night
each word a spectral sigh
a whisper traced

One Poet Writes

One Poet Writes

Within a quiescent memory enchanted in light 
could a loving epiphany lie at your side
 With sympathy and intrusion a love he portrays
 that in a tranquil moment one love  might stay
 Immersed in silence one poet writes
 he forges on with loving delight 
he sips from the river and scoops from

The Spirit writes'

The Spirit writes of true life..The temporal world resists
In its lines of strife.' Yet the victory is before you and very
Clear trust in nothing of the world never fear.' Trust in God
Through Jesus name, find in heaven your home and all gain.'

Because The Monster Writes Poetry

The Monster is massive

with fangs and with claws

all lacquered and sharpened 

sticking out from its jaws

 

The Monster is ghoulish

with deep, sunken eyes

it speaks whispers of wicked

and paranoid lies

 

The Monster is cruel

it sneers and it spits

always waiting for something

to tear into bits

 

The Monster is hidden

from inside its dark lair

just plotting and pacing

in the

The Boy Who Writes Alone

needs no introduction
nor permission  
to be anything.  
He does not request  
to spread his arms wide  
and reach the heavens.  
His words are unmoored.  
They flow and change,  
remaking things  
before the world sees them.  
His hand—  
a gesture suspended  
by Gleti, between slumber

Glenn Writes for Us

I sent Glenn Hughes a letter
requesting him to write a song
for me and my beloved 

Will he shadow his grace 
amongst us
and drive the tunes to space

I can only imagine
the words we would deliver
and the beautiful tones of his voice 
as he sings of our true love

What better place is there to be
than in the

In his cage of thoughts, the captive man writes with wings of ink

In his cage of thoughts, the captive man writes with wings of ink,
surrounded by crumpled parchments like autumn leaves, he dreams,
of things seen through his tarnished window, a portal to the world beyond,
where the vast ocean whispers its stories with waves of longing.
His canvases are giant ships carrying on their decks free souls,
with the will

Monster Writes in Nigh

The rot of humanity's shadow is not in the ink, 
but in the darkness that fuels the pen,
gruesome daggers, dripping honeyed poison.

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