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I am losing myself to art

Spilling the chaos on the canvas

I may not remain a whole

For I maybe draped in a hand skill

Stroked with animal hair

Lost in the heat of colors

Seized in an imaginative capture

Transfixed in time

The remnants hard to characterize

Mutilated for an inventive victory

Woven in a verse of triumph

Sometimes discreet in absurdity

Sometimes molested in modernity

I may not remain a whole

Dashes may surface

In exhibits,

It may surround your gaze

Exist as a description

Limited just as a name.
R Tolliday Dec 2020
Today I'm making up for lost time
Towards my dream, years-long
The subject of many years gone resolutions
I've made only a tiny step, in comparison to others
But a step forward, nonetheless

I had to breathe, and unfolded into many different paths
I've had my trials, of consistent lengths, and had to clear those dark clouds
Today I stand on firmer ground
(A ground that I want firm for everyone)

The mountain of my work is tall and long
But no matter it, or the length of my stride; I'm moving forward again
Towards those things I love the most, and of which, the end's not certain.
R Tolliday Nov 2020
Beyond the strain,
Lies a beautiful city
Shopping malls, lights reflecting off surfaces,
whites of mouths grinning, connected
Bustle and sound
Comfort in this, as a youngster
Unseen by tall, eyes yearning for adventure
The store is a place for grown-ups, whom I'll be,
a millenium away

There was a world waiting, beyond adulthood
I'm able to take small grasps

I love being—at this age younger
I could run this surface of a shopping mall,
always find a new meaning at its end
And this is life beyond it too,
As I would only venture to see the lengths beyond this, from where I stand in there.
R Tolliday Nov 2020
His name is Saliue,
He's the king of ghosts,
He's braved this desert, alone, in a suit of armour
He's still alive,
With vengeance on his mind,
Against the gov,
Which took his love away!

He's still in there fighting,
But his fate's still unknown,
To forge his path through this desert,
He’d fight all alone
All for that one bright morning day,
Of his love seemingly so far away,
But if it's for love...

But if it's for love...

But if it's for love...

But if it's for love......

He will never die!
R Tolliday Nov 2020
Those times
Calling me endlessly
Without words
Fragments crystallised
I need sacraments of these
Or resolution:
Untwist my untruths
Into definitive understanding
Encompassing my mind, and actions
No more voice, to wallow in
And become further twisted
Let strands be in correct correlation
Instead of allowing idle indignation
Of such times and things seemingly forgotten...

...But forever crystalised
As my heart will remain,
Until the actions speak of it, and open the door to that part kept clandestine
My inner beauty, which is those times and things that I had forgotten
Travelling down the easier path.
The more I live,
the more I wish
to be that boring guy
at the party who's
too busy and happy
living his life
to be able to tell others
about it...
Timmy Shanti Mar 2020
Put pen to paper
- it's so simple -
And wield the might
Of countless words!

Be brave and daring
Or... be nimble:
Your thoughts can be
As sharp as swords.

Pick up a pencil
- pen a poem -
Enlighten, thrill and entertain!
But once it does spring from your *****,
What sway is there to retain?..

The words you say
Are gone forever!
Life of their own,
So free at last!

By humbly scribbling
You endeavour
To stay the future and the past...

Partake in pleasure
- pure and proper -
Both art and craft, it's eons old!

Tread lightly!
There's a world on offer,
A slew of stories to be told.
Happy World Poetry Day!
21 -iii- 2020
Carl Halling Jul 2019
Oh! With what unspeakable anguish
Do I regret the vocation
I came so close
And so oft to having
The sweet acclamation
That might have been mine.

Had I tried and failed,
That would scarcely concern me,
Yet, I squandered my resources
Time and time again,
And failed so unnecessarily,
That is what so torments me.

I only wish I could contemplate
More than a mere handful
Of past achievements with pride
And satisfaction,
But even this paltry compensation,
Remains stubbornly beyond me.

Oh! With what unspeakable anguish
Do I regret the vocation
I came so close
And so oft to having
The sweet acclamation
That might have been mine.
'Oh! With What Unspeakable Anguish' almost certainly dates from late May 2019, when it was conceived in a state of genuine anguish (as clearly evidenced by the piece’s title), related to my past; although this has since faded, so that I don’t feel it so intensely at the time of writing, viz., a little under two months after it assumed its final shape on the 16th.
I dream a dream of skill,
I gather pictures of best practice
(methods best enacted off the couch.)
I house,
crisp corners, soaring beams and posts
where gawkers marvel, ‘cos
the high is feeling good. I see
the woods
and watch the owners.
(What good grip they have! enough to claim
what they could never care for-
let the lessers sing their lives!)
I drive a drive
not fast enough for fastness-makers,
flaunting logos, polished chrome,
I drive a loan.

None say it, none will ever hear
these soft confessions to
the “here” I hold right now
in its un-good. I slip
a “should” on, halfway,
dumping it for snacks and cons -
I run for miles
to lose it on the lawn.

And as I break, I pause to
watch a bit to see how not to fail.
I land in jail. The wardens
never speak to me,
the only copy of the key
described in stories, but
they’ve scattered every page.
And every day I fail
to reconstruct it out of naught,
I age.
Terry Collett Aug 2018
The taxi dropped me off
at the end of the drive.

I wanted to walk up
the avenue of trees
to the monastery
and leave the outer world
by a slow walk.

It was September
and the August
warmth remained
and birds flew overhead.

Half way up the drive,
I saw three black robed monks
walking towards me.

I knew them all
from my previous visits.

This time it was to stay
and take my place
amidst them all.

Words of welcome
and enquiries of my health
and state of mind
and humour to relax me
as we entered
the porter's lodge
of the abbey.

A sense
of nervousness
entered me.

The world and its works
left behind and the inner world
of this desert would
shape me and prepare me.

After the introduction
and cheer, a brother took me
to my room or cell
as it was called
and watched and talked
as I unpacked my things.

He studied the books
I unpacked: Story of a Soul,
Confessions of St Augustine,
one Bible and poems of Hopkins.

He left me and said
he would return later for me
for the Office of None;
two others came
so I wasn't alone.
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