2h Liz Balise

Diwali is here
Lights and colour everywhere
A boom and a bang
gifts and joys to share

Little girls and little boys
Dancing around with joy
Watching them from a distance
Was the little shoe shine boy

With his grubby hands and tattered wear
Black lined face and dirty hair
All he wanted was a little toy
But who would share with a poor shoe shine boy

His mother sewed clothes
Father, he had none
His house was a hovel
Clothes he had but one

His stomach growled
Hunger gnawing at the pit
looked at the rich people eating
And Shuffled his feet

The car door opened
He was called aloud
His heart froze and trembled
Wer they to shout?

They gave a 20 rupee note
smiled and said "No shoe to shine".
The lil boy stared and thought
"Is this a dream of mine?"

So with his bag, brush and dirty rag
Leapt the lil boy high in the air
His happiness knew no bounds
He had his joy to share

Ran to his home, to the little tattered hut
Forgetting about hunger and toy
He walked in a rich man
That happy little shoe shine boy!

  17h Liz Balise

I kneel in a field of wheat grass
catching grasshoppers.

I scoop underhand into my jar, another
at the height of its jump, a third.

I put my jar by the stream, pull one
out and I grab it, force my barbed steel
hook through the belly still trembling.

I cast long loops of line into the drift
below rocks where current
froths and whirls.

I stand mechanically slightly ashamed, uncomfortable on that shaded bank
where trout strike hard.

I let them swim, then hold fast, reeling one, exhausting him, wrenching him
into air, his tail drumming against the sky.

Hanging  from the line
his fat belly flinches.

All his life of riding rapids, hiding
in flats embraced by waters’ fast flow,
by red rainbows in his scales.

I didn’t expect that open mouth,
that whiteness, the gills stop twitching,
the eyes caught in that open stare.

If I could stop
The jot of my brains rot
I would walk away
From what my pen taught
As I ponder the thought
Of the will power sought
There may be, the hope lost
If I stop
What would be the cost of my souls want
Where will my words go and rearrange plots
If I could stop
The poet in me
I would walk away
And never be touched
For all I've written
Was never enough

I'm pretty sure this my last post
I appreciate the poets who took the time to read. Most of my poems hardly get 60 to 80 views with very few liking them haha Most that like are just being kind but I realize I will never be a true poet like everyone else here with my odd style And Eliot isn't showing my poems to the thousands that are on the site. I can't stop the addiction to write but I see no reason to post when very few can relate or get any value from them
The truth hurts but that's how the cookie crumbles maybe I'll try basket making y'all haha Seriously thank you all for even entertaining the fact I've written anything worth reading

In a scented garden
Bees bow into

Pigment on canvas
Leaves drying points
To scratch the

A woman places herself
In this scene.

Precipitous buildings cling,
Spider on a wall

And long tree line between.

Reddish brown mingle
Subtle essence of

Birds bow,
Bees bow
And man too bows-

Adoration of
Mysterious earth
And miraculous



It to be good

But it is is not?

Late rose
That moist rot rot
But beautitiful still.

My old ladies.


a mockingbird strips the night
of quiet
opens a portal in my soul
to let what was in    out
what was out    in

to make an exchange of balances

just so does the cave Lechuguilla
suck air through her vagina
in the desert near Carlsbad
balancing air pressure
in great    orgasmic puffs that make her moan
like a lover satisfied

or perhaps not

perhaps she groans and sighs
for the rape of her million-year solitude
for the loss of her art-full loneness
perhaps Lechuguilla sounds
to stem the contagion of sobs
daily growing in her heart
each sob feeding off the one before
marking like guideposts
the descent she now takes into oblivion
searching    searching

searching for herself

the story of a princess
scratches at the edge of my mind
a princess whose ability was as rare
as the sight of an egret flying against the star-crusted night
she mounted to the roof of her palace
each night    there to repose
to light the whole city
with her radiance

everything begins in the imagined

you donned your suit of lights
to woo me from myself
to court my innocence from its cave
now    head down    pawing dust into fog
I charge    bristling    and snorting threats
through my nose

you    beautiful in light-catching suit
send my barbs like adorned words
into my flesh and soul
I bleed the last of my happiness down my back
into the dry soil
of our We
our glances nick    then slide away
drawing more passion
to coagulate in tidal pools at our feet

I cannot be your imaginal woman

I am my own
I speak in wordchunks like charcoal
hiding fire within
I beat my rhythms to music you do not hear

because you have no reck of me

c. 1994/2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

Lechuguilla is pronounced letch-oo-gee-ya
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