Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
James Rives May 5
Night stirs, stars surging
in the hushed & vigorous
darkness.
That void, ambient
in its design, holds artistry
and grace. Stars burst through veil
and shadow,
highlighting an ebony spire,
whose apex threatens
with beauty beyond
comprehension.
Their juxtaposition, a dance,
of heat and light and dark.
a poem inspired by Van Gogh's A Starry Night
James Rives May 4
My sunlight burgeons,
burns, brightens, sears, and sees all.
I'm the son of light.
James Rives Apr 25
I pick and poke
and **** for meaning
and find it on shelves,
in the broken dashboard
of my old car,
and in the pain of glaring
directly at the sun.
In doubling up on ramen packs
and drinking Corona past 10pm
because I’m drifting.
In swiping left and right
in search of something
I’m not sure I want or need.
In searching for meaning where, sometimes, there is none.
I pick and poke and ****
to find a reason to care.
A real poet
Is not different from
A pregnant mother
About to deliver
She cannot rest
Neither sleep
Until when
The baby
Is out!
Poets are dedicated people. They have the duty to tell the world.
James Rives Apr 23
I refuse to let my artistry
be ignored,
broken, beaten,
bruised, or forgotten.
These words hold my truth,
deeper than any flagship
can carry.
I must be butter today, cuz I'm on a roll. I hope to continue to find inspiration in the words that surround us all.
James Rives Apr 22
A water bottle perched
on a desk, cluttered
with papers. Old writing,
portfolios of work half-forgotten.
A hand grips the bottle,
untwists the cap,
sips. Right now,
her words
are her only friend.
James Rives Apr 22
The canister fell, its contents spilling.
Paint-infused water covered the floor,
permeating the cracks of the tile,
staining it.
Brushes lay wet and askew.
The artist stares blankly,
briefly.
He picks up the container
and carries it to the sink.
There is little water left,
and what is there, is quickly
poured.
He watches it swirl downward,
indiscriminately,
into the drain. A fleeting
spiral.
He is finding the beauty in small things.
This is a slightly reworked version of the poem that is much closer to the original in form and content. I couldn't bear to share the fully original version, as I really don't feel like it's aged well at all.
Next page