In the circular lily pond--
desolate, surrounded by lush growth of
tall, entangled ***** pine plants
spewing amorous scent
in to the humid tropical air
from musky flowers, golden yellow.
hunted by swarms of bees,
                                        --  you step in.
Peeling off  your clothes to the last bit,
with a jubilance freedom bestows
you spring down, delve deep
to take bathe, knowing, I the owl
that has an eye on you always
keep watching you from the other end
in a stunned surprise to see you ****
for the first time, after long last!

In a fix you are now about my presence
when  celebrating the freedom
of a village belle, that comes rarely
on such occasions, away from all eyes that pry-

You swim a few laps, my water nymph
on your back you glide, setting the water aflame
now, you pretend to see me all of a sudden,
then, swim towards me as if your secret plan, did succeed,
I am caught in your net of love, but your ploy is different,
plead not to look at you as you swim naked,
a wily love cat, you are,  that knows her alley well.

If only, I were a water lily,I'd pretend to be your waist band
made of the stem, supple soft; the petals would jealously conceal
the secrets of your lotus, while circling the slender waist  tenderly.

I can't escape this hell
So many times i've tried
But i'm still caged inside
Somebody get me through this nightmare
I can't control myself

So what if you can see the darkest side of me?
No one will ever change this animal I have become
Help me believe it's not the real me
Somebody help me tame this animal

The earth with out art is just eh,
and the words I am spewing is music to the ears of all who hear,
poetry is my art,
and it is the art of the broken,
the art of the hurt,
the art of all of us who need to be heard.
Art is the building block of everything in existence,
there is art in the wind and in the clouds,
there is art in your hair and your clothes,
there is art everywhere.
When you can no longer hear the poetry of the world,
and see the art in the earth,
it is then when you lose hope,
you don't see the leaves cascading down in the fall like rain in the spring and snow in winter,
and you don't hear the symphonies of the cars passing by,
and the whistling of the wind whispering to you,
telling you about the beauty the world has to offer.
You see nothing,
and all you hear is silence,
because someone killed your art,
they murdered your poetry in cold blood,
and in the process made you draw blood,
they broke you down with every painful word,
and they chipped away with razor blades,
they tried to make your art disappear,
they tried to cut your poetry out,
but they just just cut you up.
When they tell you your poetry is nothing special,
and your art is just eh,
they are slowly attacking it, attacking you,
your music and art and poetry is you,
when they **** it,
they are killing little pieces of you.
But it is your art,
it is extraordinary,
and your poetry has little pieces of you in it,
so it must be special,
if you let those parts be killed there is just less of you to love,
because someone will think your art is amazing,
and your poetry is genius,
and if you let those pieces be killed and you be scarred,
there will be a little bit less of you for them to love.

Softly flows the sunset colors
painted on tired skies with fire
Igniting a wafting cloud in orchid tints,
the fresh scent of pine lingering within its escape

Drowsy horizons boast their claim
along seaside waverings in salted mist
Romance swims on shorelines engulfed
with all of the pageantry a white cap stanza can bring

And I whistle as I walk along,
taking in this wonder that has followed me home
Resting on a porch swing, feet off the ground
as morning glories sleep beyond white painted balustrades

Satin fingers intertwine with mine,
milk pudding lips bring their flavor to me
Luscious frosting in a whipped frenzy
coating my mouth in sugary mass

I point to the sky, the stars they beckon,
heart shaped constellations for two
Twinkling in your twilight eyes
as I reach for my pen and pad

Only to realize that this indeed is my imagination,
lounging on a worn out sofa, tattered cushions,
empty beer cans acting like so many wishes
leaving wet rings on a table, but who cares

There was a time when poetry flowed
from these lonely fingers
in paisley emotions and violet scentings
climbing the arbor of love

But since you left,
leaving behind the shadows which claim my eyes
my ink is dry and my paper tossed, tiny ***** in random patterns
on a floor that begs carpeting, but only bares soiled footprints

As I struggle to my feet, to the front window
desperately waiting for the grass to grow and daisies…
I stab the wooden sill with my pen, I need it no more, for…
there is no poetry without you…and never will be again

just a few days after Beethoven was buried
the local drunk heard
music over the composer's grave;
the priest came running
and he said a few prayers
and crossed the air and his chest;
the Mayor came running
and wondered if
this would be it: big dollars and tourism


and so they called for an expert in music
who listened with them
to the ninth Symphony being played
inside the grave
but backward;
and then each other symphony
from the eighth
to the first,
each played backward -
and then, duly composed, the guest expert
made his proclamation:
*There is nothing to worry
about this phenomenon
and this will end soon:
it is  merely Beethoven decomposing

///

It has rounded
when you can't see the end of the road
you seem those eyes have a limit
but you see the sky that moves beyond the limit

It has looped
when you loved her first since you have been missing over the life
you are growing older
but you can't see the end that is beyond the death

It has dreamed again
when autumn is glowing with shrubs of white flowers
you have looped within your dreams
dreams are running with drifted white clouds, its gravity beyond the imagination

It grew love
when you told me a simple word, its feeling is more than the love
now the toys of early day's have broken
but still the broken gadgets have glittered beyond the lights of hope

///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

To keep a poet happy
First off... naturally...
You must give him time
Time to write
Time to rhyme
And three square stanzas
Every day
Keeping his writer's block
At bay...

His pen and paper
Must be fixed
Or a computer
In the mix
A thesaurus
A rhyming dictionary
Or perhaps the classic writing
Of a visionary...

Don't forget the light
To see his words
You also have to listen
He wants to be heard!
Some structure and a clock
To see the time
Avoid writer's block
And help him rhyme...

Here is the recipe
For his feeding
If he has the block
He needs to be eating!
A pinch of metaphor
A splash of color
An image or two
Then add another!

But dissing folks
Has NO allure...

Nobody wants to eat

MANURE !!!


The Girl Who Loved.You
SoulSurvivor
(C) October 10, 2014