I’m reading a book of poetry
it's nine hundred pages long,
penned by a man of many dreams
whose words are historical songs.

I remember reading those words
when we studied him back in school,
the class was "American Lit"
masters of the "poets pool".

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
whose work has endured the years,
ole "Wordy Wadsworth” he was named
by the men who were his peers.

His writings contain many musings
spanning the centuries of time,
my favorite story of all
a narrative poem, "Evangeline".

This particular poem, a masterpiece
blending talent, knowledge, and heart,
containing pathos, love, and history
t’was recounting the “Cajun” start.

Numerous stories he's told
using plenty more words, or few,
tales wringing either hard, or soft
embellished with wondrous hues.

Spellbound, in awe of his words
I'm carried away on the wings,
of thoughts, dreams and fantasies
to where his poetic muse springs.

This was written one night after one of my many time of reading "Evangeline".
it’s such a beautiful story and touches my heart so deep, I have never been
able to get through it without crying my eyes out.

There's a certain imperative
That must be met to be one who writes about the affairs of the heart
It takes courage, to confront your emotions
To stare down the truth you harbor in your spirit
If you can search your soul and let it drip out of your fingers as art
Then you can truly be a masterpiece

I am your poem.

From that mountain hole
Too many pains left
And from the island of the vexation
A little pleasure on the journey twinkle They made  a missiles
I was fabricated just below your heart
And I am the part of it

Just by planting a tree farm
Trouble dirts your hands
I was penned from composition of roughness
And I am the stanzza of it

Thunder thrown out of your eyes
They are more expensive than pearls
Drinking  nano water
I was  masterminded
And I am the Masterpiece of it

The debt too scared by itself
Searching for fertilizer tissue
Selling the blood of your own
I was painted from the words of penalty
And I am the same book of it

Momma ! I'm not a poetess
I am your poetry ....

I am the product of plenty of sufferings ,and vexation that momma suffers
I am her words falling and rolling in the real life   ,pattern of her language
And I am her whole book
xaiv vos Nov 19

you claim that I'm a masterpiece

I wonder if it's because I let you study every layer
and better yet
let you leave your mark

I handed you my heart in the early spring
carving your initials in my bark before I could fully grow leaves

I let you storm my temple
and graffiti my walls
making yourself feel right at home

I felt no need to stop you
completely captivated by your ability to paint me in every color

you could claim me as your masterpiece

Aleeza Nov 16

if there is anything in this world that I know
it is that sadness doesn’t just leave
it prefers to hang itself on my almost-sure shoulders
it prefers to kiss my knuckles when I am at peace

if there is anything in this world that I know
it is that darkness doesn’t disappear during the day
it loves sneaking into the cracks in my troubled thoughts
it loves the solace of my empty bones

if there is anything in this world that I know
it is that nothing will ever be quiet for me
there are the words I shove back down my windpipe
there are the blue symphonies crying for me

but then again
there are early-morning greetings
and the promise of a cup of coffee that I won’t touch
the chill of the morning seeping into my pajamas with the stars

then again
there are tangles of phrases between my fingers
and the music of leaves dancing
the sun turning my eyes into different worlds

then again
there’s your shadow on the vandalized walls of this city
and the tilt of your smile that I’ve tattooed somewhere in my mind
the tug of your hands on my wrists

so for days that I stopped counting
all that I was sure of was the way I belonged in the crook of your neck
I felt the uncertainty unclasp itself from my spine
the choke of my tears faded into a memory

the dusk paints masterpieces on your serene features
you weave another story of your day
I hold onto your words like they are the only magic I know
I hold onto the bumping of our shoulders in the dying light

the dawn illuminates your drowsy stumbling through the streets
I hold you as we walk through abandonment
you laugh at the sound of your name
and I laugh at the thought of what we could be

for a time that I all but forgot
the sunshine somewhere in me ceased the rain
all the songs sang of you that I found
it was I who kissed your shaky hands

and still time finds a way through the ties around our wrists
maybe it was a lost cause from the beginning
how we fall into each other to fill in the gaps the universe has left
and how once again all of who I am is too much

the promises we made during midday hazes
the dreams that we recited with every flower we picked
the hope we had instilled in each other
the goodbyes that I knew would never be the end

and now all I know
is that the unquiet will never leave me
even when you do.

JcA Nov 13

I cannot paint, but if I could, I would simply set your face to canvas and show the the world the masterpiece you are.

Alexander Oct 25

I can paint no sky,
Nor sing any melodies.
What I can do however,
Is create life, from where, there is none.

I offer you no timeless pieces,
Or ceiling paintings in grand chapels.
What I offer you is so much more,
Yet so little if you can’t feel.

I offer you entire worlds.
Oceans of words and
Mountains of thought.
Hills and fields of love,
An entire sky of hope.

Every cloud, grass and leaf
I’ve made for you.
All the rivers which flow and the rains which fall,
I’ve crafted with these two hands.

My work I give to you,
Motley, live and lush.
For you to read and to live through,
In any way you’d like.

Be careful however,
For my reality is vast,
But still is made out of yellow paper.
It burns easily,
And my heart is full of sparks ready to start a blaze.
Unlike any forest fire,
My love,
Will never,

Star BG Oct 21

I mold and remold myself
with the clay of God.

My sculpture tools
are the breath,
intention, compassion,
and love.

The excess clay
in structure from programming
of hate, greed, separation,
I dig out and it falls away
To disintegrate.

I look in mirror  
and see the greatness before me
smiling, grateful, full of life force energy.

A God's masterpiece in motion
ready to mold all my dreams
into reality.

Inspired by Kainat Rasheed's poem
I am clay , you are clay She is a gift and I am grateful to her.

When I make a masterpiece that I would not like to show,
When I do something that makes the ones I know,
"Giggle" and say "Wow",
Blush and hide me and my pride,
When people just don't care,
Say, It is horrible "tare off my ears",
My tears become quite clear,
The saying, "As quiet as a mouse" I wish applied to me

I am very bashful just look at my profile, and me presenting this to the web.

The Classic (Horror)

You dumb
Don't know how to do this?

You fool
Don't know what it is?

You shithead
You don't know anything
Waste of a life

I wondered if
I'm good for at least eating.

He's your master
And THAT is his masterpiece
What have you got to show?
Go to him again.
Wait till he ratify you
My father brainwashed

Determined, I went back to the sir
I want to have my masterpiece

And soon I did have
My masterpiece
Not one.
Not two.
But many.


Since then
My master wasn't seen
By none

Any doubts?

Dedicated to master of macabre and king of humour poetry, Raj Arumugam sir
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