Nov 2014 Antonena Ishkova
unwritten

she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)

this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
Antonena Ishkova Aug 2014

Broken spirited and trying to find a purpose to my life.
Maybe I'll fling myself into Africa or India and and spend my days being of some use,
Attempting to heal the sick and feed the poor,
Building homes for the homeless and finding families for the orphans.
Spend my days fixing the broken-especially after the storm,
Either made of water or wind or human greed.
Maybe I'll spend my days learning a new language as I dig wells for the thirsty.
Or learn a new culture as I thatch roof to clay huts.

What if I stay here and learn to be content with what is around me,
And learn to be of some use to my family and community?
Maybe I'll heal the sick here while mending their roofs
Or find homes for the orphans as I save them from the storm,
Either made of water or wind or human greed.

Antonena Ishkova Jul 2014

You painted this beautiful mirage of me
Flawless, just the way you saw me
I danced in the shadows of the image you created
Until you asked something you never thought of asking
My answer was like many dark lines of charcoal,
Forever ruining your priceless art

It was done to spite you
To prove my carelessness, my independence.
Do I need someone? I might, but I don’t need you!
Out of hostility, I spat in your face.
Out of fear, all the doors and windows have been barred
And I no longer have the strength to free myself

Your question was the court room-
My answer the death sentence/penalty
And that painting you guarded with such pride
Forever displaying all that perfection,
I stole it away and destroyed it with a small collection
Of simple words

a bedtime story

In the distance stands a lighthouse
seeing all with cyclops eye
once a beacon, now a hollow,
dead in misted moonlit sky.

Proudly once she ruled the headland,
warning all of crag and shoal
trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs,
smugglers caught within her glow.

Beauty lived as Keepers mistress
'till one day her love did bloom
walking clifftops with her lover
brought her ending, far too soon.

Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged
screaming for the life she craved,
Beauty held her rounded belly
As fury deep hit waters grave.

Beauty stands alone in darkness
there above the tempest sea
bloated souls of those who perished
now her only company.

 When the moon is high above us
wrapped in rags and witching stare
Beauty stands atop the catwalk
weeds 'a winding through her hair.

My Grandad always told the best bedtime stories about his hometown, he used to love to scare us before bed then smile as he turned out the lights.
  May 2014 Antonena Ishkova
JB Mathias

Ears to hear, to hear others in their plight
Eyes to see, but who really needs sight.

Eyes that pierce the heart of man.
A mind that knows what no human can.

Feet to go, to go where it’s best.
A mind to think, to think without rest

Shoulders to bear all that one can.
A heart to care, and love once again.

  May 2014 Antonena Ishkova
Sweetheart

people are like houses.
they may look perfect on the outside
but they might be messed up on the inside.

and you'll never know
unless they open up the door
and you step inside.

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