Most times I find myself lost
Lost in times, places,
Held captive in my thoughts
It's ok it's ok it's ok
The grass helps me forget
As I lay absorbed in its warmth.
There is smoke in the distance,
Or is it right next to me?
I don't know anymore
Nor do I care
I just let myself go off most times
I love to go off most times,
As much as I loved my family
Who stood by my side 'til their end.
My dear sister was quite the artist
Quite the artist indeed
She had this distinct flight in her work,
Or was it flow?
I'm getting lost again.
These colors they did cling to each other
As if they've known each other since long ago.
I would get lost in these paintings
And would remember the times I saw these colors,
Like the blue in the bay
Protected by the army,
Like the brown windmill
That I climbed with my best friend,
Damn I forgot he was there with me,
Like the yellow in my dog's eyes
When she and I saw a man burn to death.
It's too bad Auntie hid those paintings
Beyond the basement.
My father died in the Korean War,
Oh captain, my captain
You failed to return
But don't fret
I raised my flag for you this morning
And every morning,
Waiting for your safe return.
You had dark eyes, right?
Yes, you had to have dark eyes
Only dark men have dark eyes, but
You did it for a good cause dear father
And for your country you swam on that iron boat
And died just like your sweet daughter:
Hanging yourself because you could not find success with your art.
Wait, that's not right.
Your art was success, Sun Tzu would be proud
Of your noble smooth sacrifice,
All the while taking on the pitter-patter of rain.
My mother died just now,
Yeah just now in front of my eyes.
It's weird to see her like this
All old, cold, and stiff.
Maybe she's nervous, don't know why
She's going to a good place.
Might just be the rigor mortis kicking in,
My mother was always a speedy one
Never skipping a beat
Funny for her to be sitting
Directing phone calls
Which would end up being lost anyway
Because no one knew how to talk back then,
Not after the Korean War.
There was one song my mom would sing,
Not sing actually just hum
I don't know what song it was
I believed she made it up,
Which was so brilliant.
Sometimes I would close my eyes
(Like I'm doing right now)
And insert words into my mother's song.
I would sing things like:
How long are you gonna let it rain
Shifting through the tides of pain
You lost yourself for good this time
Dear boy you got yourself a rhyme.
That's what music sounded like to me back then,
Hell it still does.
Guess that means I'm still lost then, huh?
My life to me seems a movie
In which I play a part
Not an award winner by any means
The film, some may call it art
It does have a bit of adventure
Some comedy with rhyme
Also it's had it's share of drama
That I myself consider a crime
I've also starred in other peoples movies
In some, bit parts are all I've played
More times though I've been a stand in
With nothing much to say
If you've seen the way I act at times
I'm clearly not a leading man
And as far as romantic movies go
That's just not who it is I am
If I take the time to think about
Comedy is what I do best
If you ask my friends and family though
What I consider funny should stay inside my head
Because once it goes into production
And acted out in scene
It's not quite as humorous as first thought
The moment it hits the big screen
So although my life...the movie
Has had its share of flops
I'll continue on with my acting
Until the movie play reel stops
Keep this heart,
let down so far,
by letting me see
me whilst standing still
dizzied by her beauty.
Keep me in my shelter,
this tormented cell
that wrestles reason,
sealed tight in bony congress;
if but one wish achieves clarity,
it shall be that treasure
of absolute pleasure
to hold her softly
where a complete man
should be allowed to die and dwell
and leave the stage with dignity.
Keep this life of mine,
slave to refuge of time,
where my words on wayward tongue
sought to show you love through rhyme.
The scent of promise within seduction
of eyes unseen, flesh without kiss,
made apparent by misery of chimes
now heard in echoes
of death's affliction!
Life is more than just time
It's more of poem with less of a rhyme.
Sky blue, trees brown, grass green....
You know what I mean?
Maybe it's not coming out right...trying to explain the meaning of life
But like.....who's knows what it is?
And the answer is:
This space is just for experience.
30 to 90 years of just feeling it.
Doing the things that you need to do,
and giving things back instead of just stealing shit.
You walk through the world just learning.
I sit in class just yearning,
"I need to be out there and I want to see."
My thought wheels keep turning.
And I try to be more than just one...
Because we weren't put on this world just for fun.
We are here for a reason.
But even that's hard to believe because we're suffering treason.
Like the kids these days.
Playing with fire
"You snaze, you laze."
But I digress.
Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah,
Printing these stories about celebrities who quite frankly,
Just don't mean shit to me.
I mean, shouldn't we be focusing on something else for a change?
How about how the earth's climate has changed?
There are animals who are dying,
Their kind is shrinking.
Oh, and the water level is rising...
And we are still sinking.
Looks like no one is gonna build us a boat
So we all might have to hold onto our breath
And float on...like that band said.
"To be or not to be." Like that man said.
Right? Because our generation is so "stupid"
We have nothing to show because we don't do shit?
Well you just wait and see.
And for that you'll need patience and tenacity.
How about another subject? cause we have plenty of time.
A few years i'd say, but no...that won't fit in the rhyme.
So how about the mind?
It's a brilliant thing.
It controls us all like an ancient king.
Like for example, King Tut.
And i'd go on but you know what?
I just remembered I was talking about life, am I right?
It's already dark out, and as it turns out, I don't have all night.
So i'm going to leave you with this little piece.
And out of everything this is what i'd like you to take with you, please,
People don't get through it easy
But we are strong.
I mean, we're on top...right where we belong.
So really just...do what you gotta do.
I know the advice may be disappointing
But it's all that you'll need, dude.
As long as you do the things that you need
You have nothing to worry about and you will succeed.
So i guess life really ain't much
We talk and maybe think of it as such
You know what, forget all the rhymes.
Maybe life really is just...nothing but time.
She hides at times
Leaving no words
My muse is seductive
in her charms
Planting only tiny seeds
That blow on the winds
A word seeps inside
a colorful breeze
my muse flutters by
leaving my mind dry
Silently planting words
by the wayside
Hopefully to grow
Sprouting to a poem
Coloring my mind as shadows
My muse seems to live among
That so plague my mind
Where she playfully laughs
inside the tears
By Weeping willow
Poetry is just a tool
To speak your mind, not serve as rule.
Constructed help to bear one's soul,
Declare one's love, or friend console.
To speak in verse is but a scheme,
A packaging for fancy dream.
Fixing meter's common place,
But it's up to the writer's taste.
To rhyme, to pair these simple sounds,
To fuel the whimsy, feed these hounds,
Can sometimes be itself a crutch,
Or hind'rance if it's used too much.
The feeling and it's heartfelt message,
Speak more than some structured presage;
Create your voice from humble words,
An ode or sonnet, praise or gird.
Loose your arrows, verbal arcs,
And dot the Earth with sharp remarks
And when the last launched barb should fall,
Who minds if they should rhyme at all?
Through a garden bedecked in the finest façade
In a natural beauty of eons compiled
An assault to the senses which quickens the pulse
Yet soothing the detail, organically styled
Its borders haphazard yet clearly defined
By a frenzied assortment of pollen clad blooms
Enhancing creation with lust and a craving
With nectar, ambrosia scented perfume
The thickets and bushes, with industry cloaked
A sprawling utopia thriving therein
With bees and with butterflies drinking their fill
And drizzled in webs which the spiderfolk spin
A meandering trail through flourishing life
An encouraging push from the sun to my rear
Entrancing, the chill of the dew underfoot
Yet thrusting itself like an ice laden spear
My sight is attracted by hidden desire
To a door at the crest of a flurry of stairs
And the stone of the flight is as fire to my soles
After languishing still as the midsummer glares
The door is ajar and within comes the sound
Of a single piano, adeptly caressed
Each note sends a shiver rebounding around me
In purity soaked and perfection possessed
I make my way forward and darkness inside
Removes me of sight as my pupils adjust
And the air is intense as a northerly breeze
And shimmers in motes cut of sunlight and dust
My eyes become clear and before me they see
Cascading and dancing a musical frieze
A picture in motion, a fairytale path
In a spectrum of tones and a myriad keys
Inspiration her name and the course she describes
Is a poem in light to beguile the mind
She speaks with her body, a wordless refrain
Of a mystery poets have clamoured to find
A pipe cuts a harmony no one could play
Distilling forever the passage of time
And though such a symphony draws at the tongue
Causality never once utters a rhyme
A pattern of shimmering images form
Behind inspiration and quickening pace
To fade with the music and ever be lost
Lest the pen of a poet can hold them in place
Most fickle of muses and teaser of tongues
To flirt with despair and to promise elation
We chase but remaining just out of out reach
Is the ghost of a girl which we call ‘Inspiration’
In the sun
On the run
It can pick
With its beak
That can hold
Its belly can
Definition: Poetry that does not rhyme or have a regular meter
Free verse is not just poetry
Free verse is an expression
Free verse is an escape
The beauty in free verse poetry is it's lawlessness
Poets become Jesse and Billy; they break rules, they break hearts, they break tradition.
The difference is their words are far more cutting than a bullet can ever be.
The beauty in free verse poetry is it's adventure
Poets become Columbus and Sacagewea; they break barriers, they explore new lands, they become wild.
They explore the boundless blank page rather than the limited natural world.
But the real beauty in free verse poetry, is it's structure.
The structure of a free verse poem is new and varying every single time.
The reader not only yearns to find the meaning of the poem, but the dual meaning of the structure.
Definition: self-expression and puzzlement of the mind and for the soul