The blank pages
Invite the poetic wanderer
With a wanderlust heart
Visiting undisclosed locations
In search of rare experiences
Roaming the edges of known
Where the real adventure is
Gathering some rare pieces
Strewn here and there
Not oblivious to poetic eyes
Allure of the blank pages
Is difficult to ignore
For all the adventures
Of the wanderlust heart
Waiting to be chronicled
Sore feet and tired soul
Heals when the muse smiles
After all the secret journeys
Poetic heart will return to
The blank pages

Soon, the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And maybe in your dreams discover
Words and lines to keep.

For the darkness is a tunnel
Straight to Heaven’s door,
There a thousand poets wait for you -
A thousand gone before,
Before their works were finished,
Before their jobs were through
Now creation of the masterpiece
Is solely up to you.

Hear their spirit, poet!
Listen very close.
You’ve been chosen as the protégé
But do not brag or boast
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like hell-fire, burns you up,
Leaves you thirsting for some water
And reaching for a cup,
That crumbles when you grab it.
While the water turns to dust,
But still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

Feel their breath, oh poet!
Cool upon your skin,
Though sweat and perspiration
Reveal the torment trapped within.
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like a pen that’s out of ink,
Leaves you reaching for a pencil,
And needing time to think,
But both ends are erasers
Now your passion turned to lust
So still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

For the darkness is a tunnel
A tunnel straight to Hell
There a thousand poets wait for you -
At a long abandoned well,
Before their works were finished,
The waters all ran dry
There will be no masterpiece
If all the poets die.

Shh, soon the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And a thousand poets after you
Will search for words and lines to keep.
Phil Lindsey 6/9/15

Wasted
Alone in a land of wishes
Wanting to be wanted
Needing to be loved
Never realizing
It is in the very air
Taken in with every breathe
Waiting
In a world of half truths
And make believe
For a fairytale dream
Afraid to be dreamt
Longing
For what was deemed undeserved
In a life suffering in settlement
Searching
Through nightmares
For a pinpoint of light
For an alternate reality
For some semblance of home
Finding
What has always existed
What was birthed side by side
Created from the very same dust
Before time
Through time
Knowing
Loneliness no longer exists

This was written in the dark.
Whispered in the night.

It was wished upon a rising sun,  
Released in morning light.

Less a poem than a prayer,
A whimper more than scream.

Born as naked hope and watered,  
Grown from faint idea to dream.

Now the sound of summer coming;
Breezes rustling greening leaves,

Leaves us knowing things as growing,
Be it flowers, crops or trees.

Painless birth from earth to air,
Summer; springtime's daughter

Laughs and sings to sunkissed things,
Wet with broken water.

I have observed brightly lit stores...
window displays welcome
with wide open arms.
Kaleidoscope of colours,
dancing to catchy music...
adding on to the allure and charm.

Droves of shoppers have identified this
as their slice of heaven.
Flagging retail therapy
and finding their
pocket of Eden.

I have observed some laying down.
Relaxing...
unwinding...
On patches of grass.
They stare at the sky
with much adoration,
as wispy clouds float on by.

These skygazers have chosen this
to be their little slice of heaven.
With the ground on their backs,
grass between their toes
and azure as their witness...
this is their pocket of Eden.

I have observed a couple of lovebirds,
seated at a café...
immersed deeply in conversation.
In their own private universe,
their own little bubble.
Employing hugs and frequent pecks as punctuation.

There's nowhere else they'd rather be.
From their eyes I know,
they've found their unique slice of heaven.
In each other
they've found their pocket of Eden.

I have observed myself...
I thought myself to be lost
for the longest time.
Seeking a place
for the voice in my head
that only spoke in rhyme.

All is not lost when
I finally found that place.
My little slice of heaven.
For almost a year ago today
I decided on Hello Poetry
as my pocket of Eden.

Yes, only a mother, truly knows,
The true extent of her child’s woes.
Pain blossoming so deep inside,
Hurting so, while trying to hide
From a mother’s, knowing eyes,
Confident that mother, never pries.

Instead she gives her sound advice,
Being agreeable, saying how nice,
The flower garden looks today,
While in a sublime, pleasant way,
She soothes the inner aching pain,
Removing all the stress and strain.

She sees the strengths, weaknesses,
Gifts with which the child is blessed,
The nature of all burdensome traits,
Heart’s desires, the loves, the hates,
Character blooming through the years,
Sharing laughter, along with the tears.

Reflected within the child’s face,
Throughout awkward early grace,
She herself soon becomes exposed,
And as intrinsic recognition shows,
She gathers to her humbled breast
A tireless love that knows no rest.

The child hoards with thoughtless ease,
Bumps and bruises and skinned knees,
And if the hurts are too much to bear,
A child knows mother is always there,
Her calming words soon gently caress,
Soothing all troubles with tenderness.

The child grows and finds another
Person to love as much as mother,
But the bond of life remains forever,
Cannot be broken, not now, not ever,
And the child realizes as it grows,
Yes, only a mother; truly knows.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

They shut my lips when
I was a kid. I was raised
to not say a word not to
have an opinion. To be
controlled like a robot.
To be taught to stay
silenced. They shut my
lips with black coloured threads.
So i don't say my thoughts
out loud I was locked in a
prison cell. And it was a
living hell. No privacy was
allowed just a bunch of
weird rules. No internet
after midnight. No boys
or noise. They said the
poetry I write is just crap
and a waste of time as
they claimed that they
hate my rhymes. I think
they said that cause of
the knowledge they lack.
Twenty years was all it
took to snap the threads
one at a time. To breathe
to talk and to be free
again* ~

Yellow , glowing
Softness , soothing
There . . . never a sound

Somewhere between
A cloud and ground
Between lips and thought

Somewhere , where there is a nowhere
Somehow when we don't know-how
Somewhat of an after thought

As silently as a whisper
From an owl
In the darkest reaches

Of loneliness hidden in the
Corners of sorrow
Hide tiny tears

Painful tears
Too small to see streaks
Upon those cheeks

The cloud is all fluff
Vapor and dust
Come cloud my memories away

whispers flowing gently
  'tween the softness of fallen rain
celebrating each bittersweet moment,
breathing in the exhales of fiery fate
mulling over a cuppa fresh brewed coffee
         in spaces of last night's frenzy,
a dreamt recollection of poetry &
   appreciation of a brand new dawning
sense of anticipation in realizations'
  mysteries of experience are sublimely reverent,
   as the knowledge that pauses serves a purpose
      in the seemingly simple complexities
           of honoring loving indulgences