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 Mar 2016 Cecelia Francis
A Lopez
Some poets will
W
   R
  I
T
  E,
Just for the
F
A
M
E.
Having
To
Send
Requests,
For someone
To like their poem's
Again. They'll befriend,
And put on a smile,
While asking by inbox
'Can you share my poesía for a while'.
Yet poesía isn't inboxing
To get a quick like,
That's just new
Age poesía, sickening to my
Dislike, I understand if one
Wants to get known,
Though just send us your
poesía, other poet's who like it
Will surely make you known.
I will speak out
Against this invasion-------of the sending and begging
For the liking
For the gain of many's
Own self wanting ambitions.
I will no longer share
Anyone's writes
Who beg for me to share,
If one has to beg
poesía isn't your fair.
Noone else will speak out
So I will do dare.
Poesía, if we like
We'll click and we'll compare.
Poesía isn't sending a write
To every rhymester and
Imploring. Poesía shares itself
In the world of poetry
That's been mourning.
So please I ask kindly
No more entreating me with inboxed writes,
If others like, we will share
As we're together
In this fight.
I have seen noone speak out on this I don't hate anyone who does this though it happens to me alot and know it does with so many people, there are a few here that the only reason they do get a like, is by sending their poesìa to every man and woman here, and to be honest that isn't poesìa, it has nothing to do with trolling as many have sickeningly called me that, this has to do with poetry as a whole. In poesía if anyone studies old world poetry the will see the best poets who ever existed never considered themselves as poets, and never asked or wanted anyone to like their poems, they just wrote to their little hearts content. And people years later decided -hey- these speakers are amazing and made for the world of poesía, I have no issue sharing ones piece that isn't known, or wants to get themselves on their feet. Though to be honest, my inbox is filled with more than one person, many know who they are, that send us daily on a scheduled basis, the poems they create, and say please read, meaning you got to give it a like, as why many get the popular votes on hellopoetry, while the unknown artist starves and doesn't get one daily or even a view . let's stand up to this. Yet respect those doing it. And letting them know poesía isn't begging for a like, it's helping another out in this community by sharing.
Gracias

Quick note taken
If get unfollowed or unliked for stating facts, OK with me. I will still continue to like their writes, if I like their poems and choose to do so. If one doesn't like my poesía for this, I say oh well, and won't exchange hate for hate, but replace hate with love. And share others writes that deserve to be shared . even if they don't like mine. Every poet has their own preference. =D
 Feb 2016 Cecelia Francis
Jevaugn
I.

Juxtapose this
Elusive
Visage of
Arranged poetry with the
Unfortunate
Gnaws at
Nothingness

II.

During the evening mirage of reasoning.
Giovanni lusts for lost "love" that supplements
The density of his ego whilst
Vaughn is the song she sung since the
Morning after evening-
A collage of images in the heart
Both a compromise of selfishness

III.

Left jagged in vagueness
"I gave. I gave. I gave,"
And now I am an ageless
Jaunty night that troubles
The mind soul.
"You took. You took. You took,"
And left collective utterances
Juxtaposed in an acrostic and now,
A present beau.

A note to self.
In the end, this was sorta fun.
You started to leave as the cold nose of Winter
bulldozed through Guy Fawks skies
and Christmas silent nights.

Your nearness was a far plane
of slumped reflection, deliberation,
contemplation of your plight, so mine.

Suspicion stirred in morning tea
and pre-work niceties.
You watched me when I turned my back,
your head buried in the ‘Daily Mail’,
too close to the print.

Denial hugged me a long while, dismissing
the cosseted phone and obsessive hygiene.

Giggling-head days, home-fire Wednesdays,
pledges in sweat daze
all rolling around
on a distant carousel.
I hoped you could see,
but hope could not override
your turning tide.

Your eyes begged for the ‘talk’,
so you could bring it up
like rancid *****.

Coward

You left in a yellow haze with the daffodils,
and I hated you

with all the love anyone could imagine.
View the video of this poem here
https://movingpoemsintopictures.wordpress.com/2016/01/18/leaving-the-carousel/
 Jan 2016 Cecelia Francis
Jevaugn
I am an endless cycle of why
Searching for sincerity, and in it
An everlasting truth indifferent
To the seasonal nocturnes of the
Mind ajar occupies the space as a
Reprise.

I am open to your revisiting.
Are you open to my staying?
 Jan 2016 Cecelia Francis
Q
wish i never smoked
my lungs into the color
of my shadow soul


*s.q.
i guess i turned to find you in our world but we both got lost alone
 Jan 2016 Cecelia Francis
Q
?
 Jan 2016 Cecelia Francis
Q
?
the worst is not knowing what was real
which "i love you"
which deep, longing gaze into my eyes
which last kiss with hopes of another
which caress that wasn't meant for another
i wish i could hold on to the good
but what was a lie
what was a dream
what was us


*s.q.
everything ok?
 Jan 2016 Cecelia Francis
Aisling
I see birds sitting on chimneys
And telephone wires
And rooftops.
I wonder what it feels like to be up so high
Without an ounce of fear.
To be so close to everything beautiful that gets caught in the air
The stars and the moon and the sun
And have complete freedom
Peace
I want to borrow the raven's wings
The scarlet feathers from the robin
To disguise myself
To escape to the sky for a weekend.

I have always been terrified of birds
But I'm beginning to wonder why exactly that is.
Envy is the only conclusion I can come to.
I will never be that close to the stars until I become one
I will never fly through the clouds without being encased in a metal casket.

I want to fly with the birds.
They will lend me their feathers so I don't get cold
They will sit in their nests
Watching me
Like proud parents.
They will hope I never return.

The loss of their feathers is temporary
They will grow back, and when they do
Maybe the birds will think of me
Maybe they will continue to donate their wings to the landlocked girls with wanderlust.
I can't write I hate this
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