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Virginia Eden Nov 2019
What we call magic
is merely the set of tools left over
from the spiraling eddies of Creation
and picked up by Poets.
Poets, who can transmute the dross and tedium of life
into the gold of enduring art,
who can sing the sky into existence
and the stars to sleep
whose words are eventually eaten up by ravenous Time
and spit out like sour grapes onto the ground,
left to rot.
Poets, who will write
until the only ones left to read
are languishing gods
and unraveling stardust.
Torrents of creativity sweat through me,
And with the rapacity of cities
I dare to opine
To the heavens
And to all those who confront my assertion.
Thus, that a pursuit more lofty
Than that of the artist is not to be found.
Neither in oneself nor the matter that surrounds.
For to make one’s stance
In the wailing void
Demarking the known, but not grasped,
From the unknown, but most visceral,
Is indeed a mirror —
A demonstration of our likeness to Him
Who inspires with lightning bolts of revelation
The slice of a master-painter or the choice cut of a bard.

By design we, who occupy the medium,
Live in constant states of semi consciousness
On the border between sanity and lucidity
Chasing fires for the burnt offerings of our attachments
And the emancipation of our better-selves;
Ascertaining horrors and delights most penetrating
Alongside the lusts that course through these gnawing bones.
Of all the vocations and avocations
Is not the quintessence of sentience to be found in the arts?
Is not that the lodestar to our infinite horizons?
Manan sheel Nov 2019
A single evil thought, has the potential
to destroy centuries of creation, in a second,

Still, a single drop of creation, a little thought to create,
is worth more than oceans of destruction...

© Manan sheel.
Yitkbel Nov 2019
Chorus:

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

I. Spring:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
A wave of pastel colors, returning swallows
Peck the hedges with petals of my soul
Blue and shattered, into the poetry it goes
What is without, escapes, imprints on the folds
Of time and space, as the stream of consciousness flows
Till, without me purposefully noticing
It captures within my thoughts an eternal Spring
And remains
Subtly felt but
Unseen

!

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

The Poet's Dream Follows the Season's Calls:

When the world exterior is abundant with
Life and the breathing, palpitating all
I capture in my mind, thoughts and words
With wonders and troubles
Of the nature
Without

When the world exterior crumbles and falls
Hidden and blanketed, asleep by the winter's call
The opening beyond Plato's cave gradually thaws
I am suddenly privy and drawn
To the nature
Within

II. Summer:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
Between the boulders of lichens
Upon the emerald streams
Floats the vessel of my soul
Gathering seagrass and pollocks, it goes
What is within, the nature time briefly holds
Is now words of mine, to be told
Before the grass fields are eclipsed by the gold
It captures my thoughts evergreen
And remains
Brilliant with eternal warmth
Read and felt yet
Unseen

!

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

III. Autumn:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
A twilight dance of leaves and boughs
First it blushes, ruddy, timid but bold
Then, it undresses, melancholy, bare in its fallen maple soul
A chilling gale gloats, pallid night wallows
In the anticipation of the impending revelation
What is without, dreaming its withering dreams,
Is now traversing through the wilting wintry plain
Soon to reach the delusive emptiness above
The hidden valley of invisible plenty
And be captured by my thoughts, reason and faith in harmony
With its dazzling orange and red, cerulean velvet behind emerald fringes
Forever vivid
In my poetry, to remain
Deeply felt, though
Unseen

!

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

IV. Winter:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
The snow covered barren streets
A tattered overcoat suddenly greets
In a moment, by it I was brought to a place
BLOOMING with intrigue, I navigated this maze
And found the GREEN hedge of will and fate
Rich with HARVEST fruits of reason and faith
Like the SNOWFALL, that steals all
I became a glutton of light, in spite of the shadow wall
What is within, bursts from my mind's seams
And overflows
Not into the nature beyond, without
But nature of my mind and dreams within
And is captured by my words
Mirrored from my thoughts
In my poetry, it remains
Enlightened by and enlightening
All who seek and think, every being
With truth evidently felt
However
Unseen

Conclusion:

The poet of autumn, summer, and spring
To the exterior objective nature sings
The poet of winter, withered and plain
From the interior subjective nature, essence springs

The seasoned poet blossoms regardless
Whenever, wherever, timeless
Among
Fleeting fields of earthly gold
Or eternal pastures of souls
The Seasoned Poet Reaps Truth with His Soul
By: Yitkbel Yue Xing ****
Date of completion: Friday, November 15, 2019 1:38 AM
Started sometime after/around 10:00 PM Thursday, November 14, 2019
Hunter Green Nov 2019
This medium of art is a vice in my heart,
The softness of the canvas, paints a potent addiction.
Emotions flow even below the eyes,
Somehow the smallest brushstrokes pull me in and wrap themselves around me.
Can I separate the profession from my own creation?
Or will this easel I approach, trap me wear I stand?
Lou Romano Nov 2019
Sometimes,
when the world is quiet
I let my mind free
To wander where it will go

And sometimes,
when the silence lingers
my soul escapes it bonds
And dances with my heart

Sometimes,
As my heart and soul dance
I feel a rhythm flowing
And I’m caught up in its currents

And sometimes,
I capture the essence of that rhythm
and for one glorious moment
I can surf upon the waves of creation
John H Dillinger Nov 2019
art
What was, what is and what could be,
all at once coming to a focus,
breathing through the eternal moment,
being yours to create,
allusions, illusions and delusions,
at play, together.
This one just came to a focus...
Emma Langford Nov 2019
In the beginning there was matter and God thought “What can I make out of this?”
“Let there be light” he said as he sauteed together Hydrogen and Helium.
Then the water by folding together more hydrogen and also oxygen.
Then sky came from whipped nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon.
“Now let them be divided. This shall be known as Earth.” He said with great wave of his hand bringing dry land into existence.
Many years later when civilizations grew and animals were domesticated, God looked at his creation and thought, “What can I make out of this?”
He desired to refocus his creation after the millions of years it had spent becoming cluttered in the oven.
To show his creation how powerful he was he sent hurricanes and droughts and war.
To show his creation how much he loved it he sent families, laughter and love.
This was his creation.
It had baked for millions of years in the dark oven and never burnt.
He found that unlike his people, his creation as not perfected with age.
Patterson Nov 2019
Para mí el futuro es una página en blanco
y yo agarro el bolígrafo.
No es seguro donde vaya o qué vea
y no se quíen encuentre en mi viaje.
Pero caminaré y esperaré
-al bosque donde soñaré.

Tal vez cambiaré mucho
y no reconoceré la persona en el espejo.
Puede ser que ore por días y años
y al final reciba la lluvia.
Me imagino que muchas cosas podrán pasar:
buena suerte, congoja, victoria y derrota temporal
Pero el futuro es mío
y es mío para crear.
Excuse the utter simplicity of this poem...
I am studying languages at the moment, and although I'm a long way from fluent, I do nearly like this homework assignment. You see, everyone is asking me about what I plan to do with my life - and in truth, I really have no idea or any semblance of a plan.
So maybe this poem is my response.
Poetic T Oct 2019
Death is always silent,
          but you screamed...


           for life was your, muffled scream....
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