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Àŧùl Jan 2016
Playing with one's own body,
It can be the best therapy,
Both for the body and mind.

Stupor comes without drugs,
It helps you forget reality,
And overcome physical pain.

Miraculous effective therapy,
It makes you forget grief,
Cheery is a mood afterwards.

Self-love and respect are born,
Just let the mind go blank,
Just forget all thoughts forlorn.

Engage in self-praise privately,
Let all blue hues slip-off,
It's much easier said than done.
My HP Poem #974
©Atul Kaushal
Paul Butters Sep 2015
Don’t ask me to pass the assonance assessment
Or time my rhyming to make you smile.
Alliterative pieces I’m proud to produce
After pondering, my pretty person.

No I’d rather be free
When I write poetree (lol).
Must write with meaning,
So don’t be demeaning,
Even if you are screaming.

Existence, God, Love, People –
They’re what I write about.
Oft without form.
Just enjoy.

Gorgeous gold glory starts the story
That ends with a tune under the moon…

Paul Butters

© PB 20\9\2015.
Yet another early-morning poem born from working words in my head.
Moon Humor Jan 2015
The lust we share on cold midnights, lucid
and gentle but so passionate and rough
can keep me hypnotized. Translucent blue
eyes shine like moonstone, glinting bright with love
hidden from sight. I want to call you mine
but I know better than to pine over
a man up way too high, stuck on cloud nine
not planning to come down or to get sober.
I’ll let myself get lost a little while
in the forest of curls behind your ears.
I’ll wander your body concealing smiles
that give away feelings that interfere
with the promise to love myself before
someone else. I am who I’m living for.
A sonnet written in iambic pentameter complete with rhyme scheme.
skyblueandblack Dec 2014
He casts his fishing lines into the water and waits patiently
.. what shall be the catch for tonight?
He needs something to breathe life back into himself; get his creative juices flowing again.

This is what feeds the Artist after all.
He does not need food or water;
he needs inspiration.
Good, bad, ugly.. it matters not.
It must be something- someone-
that affects him intensely,
that reaches deep down beyond his self-imposed armour,
and grabs at his soul.
He needs to devour in order to survive.

It is not long before one bites, and then another.. and maybe another.
He gently coaxes, drawing them in with his seductive lures.
He knows this art well.. knows what to say, what to do, who to be.. or not be..

He examines.. tests them..
… a little subtlety here.. more boldness there,
     …… but tempered,
                with a laugh,
                a smile,
                  a chuckle,
                    a wink.

He doesn’t quite want to scare them away,  but he wants to see how far he can go.
What boundaries can he safely breach..?
He pushes, he pulls..
He engages, he retreats..
He shares, he takes..
He tugs, he releases…
     … and the dance continues until his search is satisfied.

And then when he has determined which shall be his catch for the night,
which of these waltz partners is most ready to be broken – open-
he gently releases the others back into the waters…
gently Discarded.

Perhaps they will be led back to his watering hole another day,
and perhaps they will be the ‘one’ at that future time —
or perhaps they will never be seen or heard from again.

It does not matter.

What matters is Now.
What matters!
         is what it takes to feed his desire.
What matters is this moment.
Everything is in this one moment.

This is practice after all.. one must practice in order to perfect the technique.
One must perfect the technique if he wishes to be claimed and devoured by Bliss.
And who does not wish to be devoured by Bliss?

“Enjoy the practice, perfect the technique”.

he says.
http://skyblueandblack.com/2013/09/12/the-fishermans-waltz/
Omar Kawash Dec 2014
Purkyně lux lit lunatics conjure vignettes of geomancy.

There is mischief enchanting the wake: xenophagists fiending tricks.

For invokers, who bathe in moonlight, death is a good nights sleep.
Purkyně is pronounced: pur-kyn-yeh; 3 syllables. Czech.
Elijah Corbeau May 2014
I like these ideas and they fill me with pleasure-
My words like lances, striking this earthly tether,
And transcending common thought, engaging the forever.

For you see, what gives me the pleasure out of poetry,
Is knowing someone has read it, and has experienced me-

They now know my thoughts, what I choose to pen.
A carefully constructed facade, in a truthful, youthful blend;
Open hearts given a start will break apart into words of art,
And all these beautiful things, will end.

However, the end doesn't mean that there won't be a beginning,
There's no falsehood in wonder, questioning isn't sinning.

Poets are the explorers, the builders with words,
They explore the condition, through adjectives and verbs-
They give chase to the worlds flights of fancy,
They are the ones who dream of romancing.

But.... why are we so often, not heard?
A response to the poem Poets by Nikki Bizee!
Hear ye, hear ye;
I uploaded a video touching on Guitar Technique and my personal philosophy regarding Art, Music, and, of course, Guitar.
If ye be so inclined as to peep it, then peep it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTw5Q8QxXqM

I am open to comments and questions, if a question merits it, I shall make a video specifically for that item.

G'day and cheers.
Why the **** is there
all this disdain for varied techniques?

So what if I like altered guitar tunings?
Sorry that all my guitars
are in D Standard or drop C.
Yes, even the ******* Classical guitar.
I never meant to inconvenience you,
your Eminent Prestige!


Maybe it's a problem
on thy knavish behalf
that you can't cope
with variation within the
Sacred realm of Art.

Don't ******* tell me
what to do or how to do it.
Don't ******* tell me
my approach to my Art is wrong.

Don't ******* crawl to me
when you want to learn how it's done
and I won't say I ******* told you so
when you confess your perspective lacks variety.

I will still teach you, though,
that is, if you will listen.
I will still teach you, though,
if, indeed, I can.

I will still teach you, though,
but only if you can teach me, too.
I will still learn from you
despite your rigid adherence to traditionalism.

I will still learn from you
if you don't ******* condescend me
about how I decide to do it
about how it feels most natural
about what I like or why;

just ******* deal with it
like a true Artist;
accept it and bask in it,
that everyone's technique
is unique.

Besides,
be it not that very variation
that lends itself to the plethora of Art
that has been, could be, and will be made?

Be it not that very variation
that leads a school of thought
away from being so incestuous
that it kills itself off?

Be it not that very variation
which makes Democracy feasible?

If Art be neither
democratic or anarchic,
then I guess I'm no Artist.

Just ******* deal with it.
If you can't: then shut the **** up,
and let us, who can deal with it,
just ******* do it.
Sorry to be so profane,
I realize it limits my audience,
but I don't ******* care.

But, ultimately,
what is profanity
but whatsoever we decide?

— The End —