____________
Dedicated to my work
Eager to create things others will love
Thrilled about a satisfying finished product
An ambitious woman
Insecure sometimes
Lively about my creations
Each element created with perfection
Didactic about my passions.
_____________

I know poems does not have to be rhyme, but I am rhyming mine.

It is just a preference that everyone has the right,
But rhyme or not rhyme a poem is poem when author recites.

Some are composed deep, imaginative or metaphoric,
Some are written simple, nonfigurative or realistic.

However it is wrote,
However it is composed,
Your gift of writing deserved to be exposed.

Let the words just flow,
Let your pen and paper do its work,
Someone might need and enjoy it folk,
So continue on, for you're doing great work.

Never stop creating for there are people waiting, appreciating and needing,
You are part of the community that will keep artistry living.

Yes, you heard it right,
you are an artist, just if you keep it alive,
If you read this, received this pat on the shoulder, for you from mine.

A careful cut, it is the stuff,
Of which our world is made,
Utility and art are fused,
The noblest of the trades,

A sturdy chair of solid wood,
Yet sturdier the heart,
Passion, vision, faithful work,
The noblest of the arts.

As I embark on my bucket-list travels,

There is something I wish to unravel,

To see my skills at penning poetry,

Over which currently I have no mastery



My family kept goading me,

To shed my lethargy,

And make a beginning,

Which in hindsight, was a self- awakening



It was on a fine morning in sunny Spain,

That I decided to make some meaningful gains,

In penning my first few lines,

Without allowing my mind to work overtime



While walking down the streets of Seville,

You see people wanting to do what they will,

It's a wonderful feeling of being stress-free,

Which makes me think "is this what life is meant to be"?



The street restaurants are a gourmets' delight,

That's  sheer heavenly bliss in every bite,

The menu variety is the joy of any epicurean,

And the task to choose makes it no less Herculean



Street cafes abound in no small measure,

With people flocking in droves to seek hedonistic pleasure,

The wining and dining carry on past midnight,

And makes you wonder whether the end is ever in sight



Beating the heat with a cool retreat,

Are ice creams and sorbets in an array of treats,

The flavors on display makes one spoilt for choice,

But once decided, it is a matter to rejoice



The popular flea market on Sundays,

Is a rarity not seen everyday,

Hawkers displaying their unique wares,

A sight not beholden everywhere



The ornamental antiques,

Embrace the mystique,

To the ardent art lovers' gazing eye,

There is so much stuff that money can buy



To the connoisseur philatelist,

There were no stamps that did not exist,

To the persevering numismatist,

The jingle of coins was a means to co-exist,

The rustle of currency, an erstwhile pleasure to the notaphilists,  

Such a variety of notes no longer exists



Amazing to listen to the ceaseless chatter,

The noisy banter, little did it matter,

Price haggling was no laughing matter,

Achieving the end result was all that did matter



The Triana sector famous for its ceramic ware,

Artistic glazed tiles, pottery and curios discerned just about everywhere,

Such is the craftsmanship excelling in intricate designs,

The wide variety on display just blows away your mind



Meandering through streets and alleys was a pleasure,

Whilst enjoying the local traditions in no small measure,

The staccato Spanish chatter of passers by,

Was a joy to listen- an unique experience that money can't buy



The number of cathedrals was definitely aplenty,

Each with a history extending to posterity,

The majestic domes and sprawling structures,

Bore  ample testimony to ancient and contemporary cultures



The  numerous horse carriages sauntering on the cobblestone paths,

Were a sight to behold with their inimitable trot,

The tourists and locals alike beamed as they rode by,

Responding to the constant cheers of passers-by



As the day dawned on our leaving Seville,

It was more out of compulsion than our own free will,

That with a heavy heart we had to bid adieu,

Knowing fully well that such a feeling was not anew

Dripping sweat, from the days slaving away
Carving, the blood and frustration into a mask

Each chip, which shaves and thins, is paid in flesh
This facade can capture many faces, or no face at all

But when placed upon the brow, the craftsman disappears
For in this tribute to false faces, the true being surfaces

I have never known myself, until I dawned this mask
I breathe air which has never been my own, I am alive.

lonely autumn nights
blisters and calluses
forming on my stiff
cold hands

(pure cotton
is forgiving of
hasty tendencies
or picky forms)

wrapped and wound
tightly around my fingers
every loop an attempt
at controlling chaos

(thinking about
how i'm not
an outcast and
i never was)

i'm the shoe in the pair
that is slightly too tight
on the one foot that's a
bit larger than the other

or the shirt that you
keep wearing for years
because it fits but you
don't really like it

i am the paint on your
windowframe that's just
fine except for the white
flecks it left on the glass

(i've never been
an outcast
i've always been
different?)

i don't like to say
i'm different because
we're all different
i was just different
enough to be a slight
nuisance or distraction

i apologize too much
for what's not my fault
and too little for what i
should take ownership of

*(something about my personality
maybe just misplaced anxiety
dictates that all things must be
stacked and aligned perfectly.)