Mar 2016 Kuzhur Wilson

She resembles a Mosaic,
The pieces define her.
Collected from different walks,
Each shaped her,
For the better or worse.
The experience and knowledge
Make her what she is today.
A true piece of art!

sunshine and the bicycle move as one
threading a narrow path among the leaves
fast as wind light as feather
the asphalt flows underneath me
pushing me forward and further
past yet another sequence of streets
past yet another world for me to glimpse
leaving me as young as the man i used to be
filled with the promise of what i will never have
sketch the tale in my heart as the miles melt behind
fair haired and overflowing with joys unabated
that is what i could see from my seated adventure
faster and faster on my shiny machine
leaving behind the people and places of the past
looking forever for that bright future
in the palm of my hand

the rapture of a souls song plays out inside the mind
as she sits quietly reading in a late fall moonlight
trading the falling leaves for the keys to the kingdom of pain
she scours the printed page for flaws to crow about in the dawn
but she fails to see the falling tears and the raging snowstorm
she feels but refuses to see
all our childhood dreams lined up as toy soldiers
on a battlefield of right and wrong
of love and despair
with one absent minded finger dancing in her hair
she fumbles for the meanings in the steady rain
she feels out the sentences written in summer skies
the novella there in between the covers are the story she reads
but its the long silence in the room between two people
that shapes her fate
writes her tears
the rapture of souls song plays out
with a beautiful melody
and such heartfelt lyrics
but no beautiful song lasts forever
anywhere but in the heart
and her song still plays for me

My aching flesh
Handprints on me are reddish
Your blanket of fire
Cold silk expose desire
Pressed against you to learn
How slow and heavy we burn

Shared on Hello Poetry on January 27, 2016.
Copywrite under Bianca Reyes
All Rights Reserved
Blah blah blah
 Jan 2016 Kuzhur Wilson
MS Lim

What have I planted today
but the seeds of words in my mind's garden?
would they germinate and grow
would they beautify?  and gladden

the heart in verse and song? I'll not fail you
  my love,  as it was you who gave me
the seeds with your white tender hands
which I kissed--your love I'll enshrine forever in my poetry.

Align: right.
Now look at these sentences
Look at how they stick out from the right of the page like that.
Pretty cool, huh?
They look like icicles or some shit.
I should write a poem about icicles
And then everyone would think I'm smart
Because I'm making a metaphor with the very text on the page.

Or I could write a poem
About my mental process as I'm thinking this
And people will think I'm double smart
For being so meta or some shit.
Fuck yea!

we men are taught to want your clit on tap
like beer, thirsty
as fucking fish.

 Jan 2016 Kuzhur Wilson
Emily B

i sat alone at a civil war battlefield
in a picnic shelter
at dusk in the fading light.
i sang old songs
to amuse myself.
my voice is not golden
but there was no one
to annoy.
i noticed
at the far end of the shelter
the faded out shape
of a man
and then another
and another.
there must have been
a dozen in the end.
i suppose
it had been
a goodly number of years
since the old soldiers
had heard a woman
i sang all the old songs
i knew.
the sound of a car
and headlights
diverted my attention
when i looked back
the company was gone

 Jan 2016 Kuzhur Wilson

There you are – all of you
Standing at attention
Ready for an inspection.
Are your jackets clean, dust free?
But I see a speck here and a little there.

Does History precede Fiction (or Is History made of Fiction)?
Does Poetry weigh the same as Narrative?
Biography and Comics?

Philosophy beckons with a cynical smile – To be or…
Languages jostle for priority
Religion advises “Let It Be”

All these are mere ripples.
For Emily and Elizabeth stand silent
Within they are the stormy sisters.
Richard and Bill nod in agreement.
Howard and Sylvia know it’s definitely zoo time
Not a Lazarus back from the grave.

Tony and Eric are composed
For they celebrate uncommon people.
Sophie, not to be left out, asserts it’s her world.

But Anne, dear Anne, cries
“Let me out, where there’s fresh air and laughter.”

Time, that little winged bird, flies with me by its side
In hand with my treasures,my sumptuous feast of words.

One of the most beautiful thing
I have ever seen
Is in your eyes

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