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 Mar 2017 Michael Parish
Hope
Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.
the woes
the woes
of the poets did
compound
for there were many woes
around

the woes they couldn't
surmount
woes that stayed on the estate's  
mount

poets tormented by woes
day and night
and there was no respite
for their plight

the woes were never
ending
the woes not ever
suspending

the woes such as
plagiarists
taking works in pilfering
fists

so too the trolls on
patrol
on them no firm
control

woes
woes
woes
besetting
the
poetry
community
woes
woes
woes
permitted
to
act
with
licensed
impunity
woes
woes
woes
of
them
not
much
immunity    
woes
woes
woes
1384

Praise it—’tis dead—
It cannot glow—
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here—
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust—
Remitted—since it flitted it
In recusance august.
Spit on me with your mind
And dissect me with your eyes.
Decipher this very self, less
Orientated being that simply exists.

Plunder your skin around
My thoughts without effort or
Worry. Everyday without knowing,
Show harshly, I do not matter.

Lie inside of my ribs, caged
In a blanket of spring. Warm
And numb in a cornucopia
Of love whilst it howls outside.

Please, stop recalling time as
if it is the oxygen you breathe.
We have until the last sheep
verbally dismembers me cold.

I feel I only have a little left.
Yet only a fraction has been
Taken. Hurry, find me, and
allow me to climb out of my brain.
Open to interpretation.
2nd to rise, she enquires
you ready for coffee?

it's only 6:22am

if you're having, I'm having...

she quiet disappears

thinking coffee's coming,
when to this layabout,
it occurs,
she's making
coffee in the ****?

get up, make myself presentable,
track her,
the coffee aroma pulsating,
radar signal emitting

sure enough,
coffee in the ****,
grinding, dripping...percolating

but what I see is
contrast and
definition

appliance white
stainless
steel chrome gleaming,
walnut wood cabinetry warming in
Vermeer sunlight window in-streaming,
a Chagall and Botticelli duet,
freshly filtered
thru a Manhattan sky
and flesh,
freshly filtered

flesh
is not a Crayola color,
or
if it is,
it's more a spectrum,
than a single shade

but this moment morning
flesh is more realized,
as if recognized for the first time,
by a newborn old timer,
who senses the
comprehension tension of circumspection
circumcised differentiation,
flesh knowledge gradation gained

this poem,
a first attempt at
painting a ****
in words

appreciating  task enormity,
for there are currently
insufficient words,
too many striations,
all cannot be straitjacketed to the
vocabulary palette

this then,
but my first definition of many,
of
flesh

so many canvasses,
so many undiscovered shadings
awaiting
****** recognition definition,
composition
July 22, 2015 7:26am
Did you ever wonder,
Like I always wondered,
What kind of love
Story you would have?

It was hard to imagine,
I've come from so far away...
We are surrounded by war,
But we make each other laugh.

We laugh,
We laugh,
We laugh,
We laugh...

She is the color
Of the sun when it sets,
A hazy bronze hue-
She is my breath.

She's from the desert
Far beyond the sea-
She could be from Heaven.
She is an Angel to me.

To me,
To me,
To me,
To me...

I'm just a man.
I came here to find my way.
Our families won't approve.
We'll love each other anyway

(We love each other any- anyway.)

Our customs are different.
As different as night from day.
Traverse the dymensions.
I'll meet you halfway.

We shoot across the sky,
And answer the riddle.
How could we make love?
We kiss in the middle.

Kiss in the middle,
Kiss in the middle,
Kiss in the middle,
Kiss in the middle.
A few days ago, a friend e-mailed me a musical recording that he and his brother had worked up. He gave me a working title of Kiss in the middle and an idea of a long-distance relationship. I was invited to write a treatment for the lyrics. I had the idea of star-crossed lovers over a cultural divide. The narrator is perhaps American or British...he joins the military to venture out in the world and find himself. He ends up in the sands of the war-torn middle east. That is where he meets his love. Moreover, he is a mere man at heart but. Feels she is inbued with a celestial purity. The first two verses he is telling the reader about it. The last verse, he is encouraging very directly to his love that they meet on a cultural median where they Kiss in the Middle. This is a first draft, and as it is further collaborated will probably change drastically. I hope you like it. Copyrights to lyrics by Cecil Miller. 5/15/2015
Why ask why I like your poem? Be courageous in your ideas and ideals. Be confident enough to know that your work is true to your vision. Artists of all kinds, but especially poets, are the philosophers and prophets of their generation. A revelation does not passive-aggressively seek to be worthy. It just is. Revelators, in the converse, often are compelled to seek praise with false humility via the age old pretentious depreciation of the value of their work in order to reap praise, which is the expected polite response. It is a waltz I choose to sit out. I feel it is less than honest and a disrespect to the poet and the poem to revel in such frivolity. Write for the sake of revelation, not for the accolades of topical praise. It is no business of the poet why a poem strykes chords with a reader. Simply allow it to happen. Talent and truth are not always equatable, nor are beauty and integrity always comparable. In the heart, a poet knows he is a poet. By the very construct of your words, Poet, may you be the caster of many spells. Thank-you for sharing a bit of yourself with me. I bid thee Love and Light.
I am a voracious consumer of the poetry using on this site. Just accept the compliment of a read or a like without having to examine it.
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