gown thyself in coats of many riotous colors, banish ‘never’ and ‘hope’ from thy lexicon, and begin with a smile always a smile as you walk the streets as if to say open open says me, open sesame and let the good works begin, for having found your captain of the muses, your Calliope, your rosebud, lucky you! you will need not write
Crack my bones like dry kindling and make more room for some logs. Then set them on fire watch my body burn hotter than any star. If you feel queasy at how I burn so easy then maybe turn away. Let me die out with the flames. Don't douse me. But my dignity is something you're not willing to give. So you take the water and toss it on me. A fire put out, can't die on its own. I'm just embers and ashes that you leave out in the open. A day and night passes and you return to the spot to poke a stick at my cinder heart. You're shivering, are you cold? It's too bad I have no bones left to warm your icy soul. I'm a fire put out, can't die on my own. I'll see you home.
I questioned why I post on HP..many left Maybe I should too
** lots of techincal probs on hp many left many not post no more , anyway it’s been a frequent question I keep asking myself I’ve been debating it a a lot lately just think maybe I should finally lie down my pen , Ive wrote over three thousand short poems wow that’s a lot lol and life’s busy as per and focusing on family as always ;** Thank you though for those who have read me you will remain forever in my heart always❤️ It’s hard leaving you all but family calls , new adventures await , positivity as always xxxx Hope u enjoyed my poetry but it’s time for me to stop writing ❤️❤️❤️ My poems will remain here on hp ❤️ Mwah ❤️
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”
“just because” that’s the best excuse you got girl?
cause be-ing just is a **** good one
way back in March wrote a declaration^ to all those just beginning with an iota of courage and a good story telling way of seeing and the secret sauce-way to spin my imagination in my eye sockets with their well words, for I am a drinker of the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes of young poets
words welling springing from between the oohs and ahs and the damns - I wish I had wrote that...
so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more? so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you, and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?
and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?
use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,” “whistle me like a stray dog following,” for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits” requires, for this old scribbler is now:
“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough to crack the whip over her head if ever went to war with myself. A confidant that won't run, won't offer half truth when the whole of it is all that actually matters.”
so write with that window light on and wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea from which I crawled out of croaking... to read you rightly