Skipping stones along a crumbling ground
How does it work with no one around?
If there is no one to read
What do I write for?
If there is no one writing
What do I read?
Ambition against the machine
Flesh gives to the metal
A pen’s work is easily destroyed
The cloud is forever
Art is human
Art is mine
But wherefore art thou reader?
When mine art is displayed?
It seems
At least to me
That…..they
Are always there
Hidden in those instants
Wherein I lose my focus
Drift into “un-thinking”
Move without my own consent
Call ‘em what you will
Imps, trolls, the Billy goats Gruff
A synaptic surfer
Washed ashore
Popcorn scattered on the beach
Pursued by satiations seagulls
An off-key note
Sabotaging a symphony
A keyboard cannibal
Consuming all thought
Hunting in the alphabetic jungle
Of scrambled words
I have cursed them and cajoled them
All to no avail
An effort less successful
Than a dog chasing its tail
I guess I'm just that floater friend,
Who floats around in the wind.
Waiting for someone to catch me,
So I can help the best way I can.
I'll be useful to you when you're bored,
It's okay though,
That's a role I adore.
Being picked up and dropped off constantly,
Gives me a headache.
As long as you guys are happy,
It's worth the ache.
I feel like a dying flower,
Which gives its seeds so that others
can grow.
It's an act that goes unnoticed,
Just
Like
Me.
Thoughts and feelings written in words….how powerful you are
I vent, you listen, you stay silent….without opinion
No expectations, no judgement, no disappointment
Readily available….you are one in a million!
I notice the things everyone else overlooks
while they are busy trying to grab content.
Hindered by a host of hot button hooks
it’s the details that memorex sentiment.
Phantom scent you will not taste again
keeps coming back until you write it out.
A fierce ache waits to transform your pen.
Trace it behind your eyes with pink neon
so it is crystal clear when the day is done.
Catching the line that was slightly jagged
changed that repro into a masterpiece.
The flash of brilliance my eyes snagged
served only to let the zeitgeist increase.
All five of my senses remain on high alert,
it’s hard to put into words a poet’s intuition.
Fantasy and reality inspire when they flirt.
Something inconsequential as you walk by
is that writer’s high in such short supply.
Do you see the serenity of my
misshaped machete?
A moment mistaken for a musical mystery,
Hold no hopes for this ballad my blade sings to you;
She only reflects the dreams on a dimmed dawn you once drew,
Foolishly flourishing for the finely crafted chaos,
When the writings on her walls bleed for the bruises you prey on,
Rest on the reflection she wove for you,
A closet you’ve locked, she wiggled her way into,
Do the realistic corners of what you seek have no light?
Did my mahogany mirror make you feel a little fright?
Was holding the hands of an echo a suggestive thrill?
Or would you rather have a minute and relearn the drill?
Dare not blame my beastly blade, wear no shade, since you stayed,
So lay your cards and pay the price you played.
Vivid scrolls,
in tantalising yarns,
fantastic that reveal,
exotic envelopes of vista,
that have me transfixed,
and transported,
my brown hazel eyed,
gladsone gaze,
oe’r lush depiction,
bold brushstroke of,
myriad science fiction,
vibrant character snapshots,
that dispel monotony,
douse mundane patterns,
gap-filler of trite,
vacuous daily plod,
as I clasp otherworld,
enchantment in a dash,
novelists who exude,
endowed flourish with,
pockets of fly plots,
misleading labyrinth,
convoluted and intricate,
shady, cagy, fly-by-night,
side routes veering off,
adding riddles shadowy,
step by echoe’d step,
in hair-raising soundscape,
rushes of exhilaration,
stoke and fire,
iridescent wonderland,
escape into mythic mists,
entwined flames of romance,
laced with sumptuous,
dream moon flotillas,
a swooning heart march past,
yet I bystander engrossed,
by segue after segue.
A pocket full of smooth, round
stones,
A beetle crawling in the grass,
The tallest tree that I can climb,
And watching fluffy clouds
pass.
A secret kept by my best friend,
The perfect song to clear my
head,
A locked diary beneath the
floor,
And all the words left unsaid.
A quiet house before the dawn,
The monthly rent paid right on
time,
A steady hand to hold my own,
And mountains I still hope to
climb.
The health of those I love the
most,
A peaceful night of restful
sleep,
The quiet joy of letting go,
And memories I get to keep.
The warmth of sun upon my
face,
A rocking chair, a cup of tea,
A long and winding story told,
And knowing they'll remember
me.
I sit
Fingers poised
The keyboard trembles
IT waits
Secretly spying
Anticipating
My words
Incontinently alliterative
Dashing ahead
Stalking
Hesitant fingertips
IT is helpless
In the battle
To outwit the witless
IT is a mimic
A naked mime
Seeking a voice
A barefoot tap dancer
Lacking a heel toe rhythm
That I
A poet
Dare to challenge
As I sit
Fingers poised
Caressing the keyboard
I
confess
love I had
misunderstood
the poem put on page
memories shaping lines
I find forever embraced
They ask me what is race —
I say: a border drawn in skin,
a lie that learned to breathe,
A wicked seed planted from within.
It’s not blood. Blood doesn’t know color.
It’s not bone. Bone doesn’t hold grudges.
It’s a story — told so long,
so loud, so often,
we mistook the telling for the truth.
Race is a costume
A made up competition
Of existence.
HIS-Story made us wear.
Prejudice is the cousin
Of racism for they both go hand in hand.
While they prevent every color and creed from coming together and joining hands.
Some days it fits like armor,
some days it cuts like wire,
but underneath it, every time,
is just a person
asking to be free
of the box somebody else built.
So don’t ask me what race is.
Ask what it costs.
Ask who it protects.
Ask why we’re still drawing lines
on a map that was never really there.
Gathering fantasies over here
Warm holiday books feat setting near
Stomping crimson red grapes
Imagining romantic fate
Characters dreaming of cupid's spear
"Read away and let your imagination soar." By Poet......
I love books both new and old,
did you know there is power between the pages?
A book is made up of paper and ink,
the words give power to the fiction.
As a reader one can go many places,
learning about life and living.
Reading can bring one's imagination to life,
as you turn the pages reading away.
We can place ourselves and feelings in the story,
as we become one of the characters.
Sometimes it will take our breath away,
other times it may put us to sleep.
As a writer our imagination comes alive,
when the ink hits the paper.
The power of fiction,
can take us over as we write.
The letters become words,
then the words become sentences.
Our story becomes alive for the reader to enjoy,
after all we write for our readers.
As we write happy or sad,
the reader's feelings will come out.
We hope the reader will enjoy,
our vision for the poem or book.
You are as real to me as any other living thing
I can see. Alive and indestructible
Words are one of very few things that cannot
be taken from us
Even if conditions are such
that those words must only live
inside our minds.
Even before the completion
of one work of art on paper,
you have already been born somewhere
in my psyche
Until it's time to knock on the door and
come out
You
have always been with me
You are one reason I was born
to express you, share you
We, together, touch others
with honesty, beauty, smiles, tears,
even regret or angst
Whatever it is they need most
at the time
Your rhyme so satisfies me
like nothing else. We are a team
To write is better than the best dream
It's the closest I am able to come to eternity
There is no time. Time does not exist when
we are composing.
There is nothing else and
nothing I want for
when I'm with you
When I leave this limited space,
we will float away together
a feather
for the future
Whatever it may be
Thank you, Poetry
There’s a guy with the funniest chair,
and an unfortunate lacking of hair.
He always plants his ass
in the back of the class,
and his name is Dave Crandall. So, there.
They say Dave was a major in math,
but his life took an alternate path.
He suffered boredom, severe,
in an IT career,
and, on retiring, felt need for a bath.
Being no longer youthful or limber,
he moved to Leisure World one September,
where, as an old fart,
he found writing and art.
At least, that’s what he can remember.
If he was lost on a deserted isle,
art and writing would not make him smile.
He’d need folk music for that
and a wide-brimmed straw hat
to shield his head in this lone domicile.
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