Georgia, USA    1966 -    600 followers
"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that
without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.”
― Pearl S. Buck

© all poems are intellectual property of Neva Flores
"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that
without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.”
― Pearl S. Buck

© all poems are intellectual property of Neva Flores
Neva Flores Smith
Neva Flores Smith
1 day ago      23 hours ago

I love the way he looks at me
every time his heart feels
the night's embrace.
And my body desires to dance for him
until morning falls
upon his face

I watch him drink each hour
from a cup of moonlight ecstasy.
While my hands touch his skin
as a breeze...........
that whispers me.

The morning finds me holding on
to a cup
of memories.
My heart drinks them in
as Dawn.....
kisses me.

Copyright @2014  - Neva Flores Smith

I found it very hard to write a poem like this when I am not in love and it is not about anyone.....but I tried.
  Reposted by Neva Flores Smith  ·  1 day ago
Kurt Kanawa
Kurt Kanawa
2 days ago

underneath the blue ocean,
deep in god's eternal gaze,
inside a woman's emotion,
wandering the evergreen maze,

between a bird's beak and feather,
behind the ancient cellar door,
through seams of velvet and leather,
swimming the seas of salvador,

in the taste of honey sweet,
across the valleys of a face,
on the bottom of a lady's feet,
dancing on the clouds with grace,

beautiful worlds in beautiful words,
my true heart's pleasure,
beautiful worlds in beautiful words,
my true mind's treasure.

using all the words i think sound nice.
#words   #rhyme  
  Reposted by Neva Flores Smith  ·  1 day ago
Eileen Auger
3 days ago

The years of memories
pile up like cord-wood
stacked randomly,
a Jenga game of blocks
balanced  precariously,
verging on toppling
when a piece near the bottom
is removed too carelessly.


Memories must dwell in the past,
forever in the life of the mind.
They cannot be pulled out,
touched and held,
nor lived over and over again,
except perhaps in dreams.

Eileen Auger
3/22/14

  Reposted by Neva Flores Smith  ·  2 days ago
Marshal Gebbie
Marshal Gebbie
3 days ago      2 days ago

Weathered oak of ancient age
Sandblasted by Sirocco storm
Ribbed and dry and redly sage
Deep corrugated graining, worn.

Grown on hillside far away
Far, in England’s verdant land,
Hewn by artisan of old
Hewn by axe and sinewed hand.

Hauled across a raging sea
By barque of seaman’s sail and hope,
Washed by salted wave and gale
Lashed to deck by weathered rope.

Dragged across hot dunes of sand
To a land called Galilee,
Hauled by He, betrayed by man,
Upon the hill of Calvary.

Hoisted high by Roman hand
Stark against a leaden sky,
Red blood stains on oaken cross
On which His Crown of Thorns shall cry.



M.
Easter Sunday 2014

  Reposted by Neva Flores Smith  ·  3 days ago
r
r
4 days ago      2 days ago

It's not the rain
that makes my eyes wet.
It hasn't rained in forty days.
Nights are long and quiet.
The silence cuts to bone.

It wasn't rain that quenched the fire.
It hasn't rained in forty nights.
The well is dry... so am I.
Nights I sit in silence
while it rains.

r ~ 4/19/14

  Reposted by Neva Flores Smith  ·  3 days ago
Jack
Jack
4 days ago      2 days ago

~

And I fall…down

As the sunset of life reaches out to me
in marmalade swirls…orange sherbet dreams
I follow in loose footsteps,
not sure of the bridges I cross
or those burned in the process

Alone I stumble on braided pebbles,
scattered on this serpentine path,
feeding my mind with thoughts
Peering back on what was,
crying when your picture finds me

Dark tangerine tints line the sky now
for the day…this day…my life
shall soon disappear beyond the horizon
Fading to a tiny speck,
hiding in plain sight where no one can see…or care

Finality sings its sad melody
in fractured bar chords and minor notes
As I again find you invading my soul,
reaching down from my heart,
the place you still reside

And I whisper I am sorry…for the pain
Collections of hurt I did not realize I carried
beneath shiny bows and pretty paper
Sending you away from me…my precious gift,
the loss of all that was me…you

Quicker my steps drive
to that straight line illusion beckoning
Darker still as minutes pass
for I know this end is mine alone
as the moon crests the sea and I fall…down

  Reposted by Neva Flores Smith  ·  3 days ago
Silent Fingers
Silent Fingers
4 days ago      4 days ago

In my photo frame you still dance.
On the face of the man behind me.
In the smile of the child beside me.
Yes, in my photo frame you still dance.

How many years have passed
walking down the dim alley of age's stretched old town?
The sunsets often stopping
and leaning onto the walls of memories' warm shoulders,
like an old man pausing to rest awhile;
walking every dawn to the mosque,
thinking his destined grave would find him
before the next prayer-call.
How many evenings were spent,
sitting on my verandah
listening to the songbirds
and counting the silver strands in my hair,
that kept breeding like songs laying eggs
upon the beaks of perched birds,
to hatch into morning "raagas".

Yes, in my photo frame you still dance.
Upon the cold gaze in the man's eyes.
Upon the soft blush on the child's cheek.
In my photo frame you still dance.

Today again I lighted a suicidal candle
in your name
that coughed and puffed it's chubby light
into a swirl of smoke;
whirling like the breaths in my chest
when ever I smell the jasmine in my garden,
that you once had picked
to make garlands for our hair.
And, in the corridors running to hug the courtyard,
I still sit by the stagnant water
of the turquoise and lapis fountain  
and listen to the squeaky gramophone that runs round and round;
hanging onto one old song
that still clings onto the memories
of your swift "mizrab" on your Sitar strings....
.... like hope, still lingering
onto the vow you took to bid my life farewell.

Yes, in my photo frame you still dance.
In the wet gleam hanging onto the corner of my eyes.
On the brooding pain stitched to the contour of my smile.
In my photo frame you still dance.

Ages have passed
with your thoughts writing poetry on my mind
after every night's sleep --
like cooing doves....
like crowing roosters....
that never forget to cease,
like the first rays of morning light.
Yes, ages have passed ...
Let us tear off this numbered page now
that's left blank like a mistake
between the crippled chapters of my life-story;
pouring out red drops of sacrifices
that smells like rusty iron in fresh water.
Now, the dream too
that swirled in the abyss of my graying iris
has slashed the pulses breathing on it's wrist.
So that the eyes you once kissed;
secretly every night
behind a wooden gate of an old abode;
can be put in a coffin and laid to sleep
with its only dream that you gave me as "love's alms"....
which I saved, and carefully kept in a corner
of every black and white picture I took
without you by my side to smile.

Yes, in my photo frame you still dance.
In my photo frame you still breathe.


...... Silent Fingers  (Ishtar Zikr)

*
A silent echo of a heart, to be written twenty years from now. In silence and in prayers, life often becomes a moment we once forgot to live.
*
- raaga : a form of classical Indian music
- mizrab : a piece worn on finger as a striker to pluck the strings when playing "sitar"
- sitar : an Iranian/Indian musical instrument
.
 
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