Was there something I was not supposed to be
Standing tattered against an abrasive wind
The sandblast nature of living that shapes
the sculpted figure that stands within our mind
Which tears washed away the cuttings
and which cut the structure of my soul
Tethered as much to a past as we are to a future
Perhaps what is strewn behind us
is also strewn out ahead of us
This imperfect assemblage of matter and ethos
The pains and the joys woven together as strands
of a web that truss both heart and soul
Was there something I was not supposed to be....
the broken sky melted
through his fingers
my face cupped in his hands
old tears faded
turned frosted turquoise
or silent pink
and i wonder
- do angels collect vintage
in crystal cups? -
if broken is precious
and rusty is gold
what happened to yesteryear's tears?
when silence breeds discontent
and critics ensnare your feet
in a morass of minutiae
amplify your truth
when gossip makes
a mischief of reality
stand your ground
command all energy
never relent because
others seek to mold you
in their stale likeness
never submit to quietude
when you are gifted
a poetic voice
It's your obligation
to subjugate negation
and contort vexation
into your own narration
toward personal salvation
Your thoughts, your creation
only your fingers, the translation
Never submit to false authority
lies, malice do not signify you
hold your head high
Look to the stars
and dream in words
HP is a safe haven for poetry and creative expression, and we have a responsibility to protect this hallowed ground as a place to think, share, and dream. This poem is my pledge to remain true to our mission as poets. Never let others' opinions falsely define you. Dare to be authentically, unapologetically yourself.
Words are the cheapest ******* thing on the planet
Yet within the pen of a poet
They offer riches to the heart, mind and soul
The give and take of a poem
Perspective of angles and of voice
What echos inside, sometimes with force
Flows through the pen and bleeds out onto the pages of life....
Listen to the tipping-down
of branches, after rain, after rain.
Listen to the world-wash,
to the yes of blossom, to the anxious
out-stretching, to the notes
born from a dream.
Listen to the inside silences
and speak them to the sky.
Listen to the stone wish to
be softened, to the earth wish
to be held.
Listen to the bluebird’s warble,
to the looming hum of bees.
Listen to dawn light deepening,
to the flutter of soft-sheathed wings.
Listen as the stream remembers clarity,
Listen to the strange complexity of beauty.
Hear the one design of motion as it sings.