She stood on the edge of a cliff,
looking out to a world that didn't exist-
while waiting for the winds kiss

hard facade
soft edges
blurred depressions
precipitous slopes

fragile points of origin

no shape
a heavy space
dappling of light
eyes a fusion into the mind

a focus approaches

my forehead meets my finger tips
thumbs caress my ears
nose peeks out for air
tension builds across my neck

the day is bestirring

a haunting commences
the stirring street clamours
my feet embrace the floor
the bathroom draws me near

the bus door shushes close

my hand finds a bar to hold
an unanswered welcoming smile in the crowd
the window fog of mortal breath
ting, my inescapable stop

my watch prompts me to toil

the briefcase opens amongst discarded papers
lunch makes it to the drawer
password…. needs changing
emails overflow the inbox

an empty outbox

unpaid demands
crossed out scribbles
a match of a pencil
smell of an unlaundered shirt

the clamour of the phone
a deadline agreed
the digital clock hoots in red at my predicament
the editor hot, the ink is cold

lame excuses unworthy of air

time to recant
elbows take my weight as I bow
pray-full fingers encamp on my face
eyelids close

here a place for shapes of my imagination

I'm a poet, but not a conversationalist
All these thoughts going through my head
But really, I don't talk a lot
"Why you so quiet"
My tongue is caught in a knot
I'll probably turn into a different person
After another shot
-
I'm a thinker, not a speaker
If you want to get know me
You'll probably have to dig deeper
Analyzing my every response
Before finding a simple one
That might hopefully reach you
-
I'm a poet, I'm a thinker
I'm not a conversationalist, I'm not a speaker
If you approach me
I'll probably keep it brief
Maybe it's a blessing or maybe it's a curse
But if you want to get to know me
I'll have to let you into my conscious first
-
Lowkie©

Are you crying from lying I'm desperately trying to understand your brain.
There is a part I'm never buying and I know I'm not insane.
You say you want to prove this wrong but you know it's not the same!
I want to carry the message along as life is not a game.

when
everyone else
is asleep
the thinkers
write down
their thoughts

In a posture of a Thinker i do
Sit; my head perched on a fist which is
Attached to an arm which concludes
In an elbow which rests on my knee; the
Tile is aquamarine; the door is ajar for
There is some problem with some hinges;
Not enough-ajar to see but sufficient
Enough to notice some discontent on
The visage; the pipe is running through
My place; beginning and ending though
Beyond my sight; so the rest of it does not
Exist; and so my head is proped up and in
My bowels the strife not for life but for
Death cannot come to the conclusion;
No truce is possible i presume; as if
Someone wrings my intestines both large
And small; the wamble or a growl crumbles
My entrails and shakes them trying to
Displace then; all exertions are to no
Good ******* right was Tolstoy as
Always that there is only two truly
Important plights: good health and clear
Conscious; ******* the old man was
Right all along; though when I imagine him
In his loo of the 19th century doubling up
On his throne holding perhaps to the walls
In the moment of the endeavor to push to
Push to push O God to push forward O
Man that connotés to you something
But doesn’t change the fact that you are
Still in that tiled room with no means of
Escape but to fight and push your way
Through Oh there it goes like in the
Hospital they say to you Don’t go to
The white light but go now you must it
Is your time my man come on we’ve been
Through so much so come on go and be
And throes are in the way but that is okay
For This is the Way **** let it be and ohhhh
Bloop; Friction; Flush; off we go and may
Our paths shall never cross

To take a thought or some emotion,
and to convert it to the written word.
To have a voice unspoken,
and to know it yet may be heard.

To place before the audience
some learning or to simply share a view.
To tell of things, of love or pain,
and to give a glimpse of you.

To remove an outer layer,
or remove a mental crutch.
To open up your soul,
and expose it to their touch.

To etch into the mind,
of someone never met.
A hope a dream or some idea,
that they will not forget.

Each and every poet,
writes of what they have lived and feel.
And from their own experience and dreams,
they paint for us unseen worlds to real.

Through conveyance by the written word,
that great poets have oft expressed in rhyme.
Casting forward thoughts of love and wisdom,
to become unforgotten and to be heard for all of time.

I wonder what they wonder
These people same my age
I wonder how they think
Is it deep like my depth?

or maybe
I'm just an old soul
trapped in a young body