You made it
onto my paper
from
in between my ribs
to
in between my lines
&
all I can do
is sharpen my pencil
every time
I reach the end
of each stanza

Wondering
in foreign streets
I find myself
engulfed
with muses
aching to find
themselves
on paper
in another
world

Sometimes I take my pen
and hold it to the sky.

I like to pretend that
I can write poems on the atmosphere
And draw shapes in the clouds.

I guess that's just my way of
trying to change the world.

Star BG Sep 18

A poem,
is brushed upon canvas-like page,
as witter dips into paint-can of creative mind.

Colorful phases get mixed for
perfect hue of expression,
to match their feelings.

Brush strokes, get dabbled
across fields of white
until the perfect vision is accomplished.

And then...after working their craft
born is a masterpiece
like that of Michael Angelo and Rembrandt.

Blessings to the poet, who is in a class of their own.

Quote of day got transformed into more nourishing detail. LOL
Quote is ...A poem is written when one dips into a paint can of creative jargon and splashes it onto a page.
Star BG Sep 16

Some people wake up and shower into their day.
Other people eat breakfast to sooth stomach.
While still others mount
their horse of challengers
to ride moment.

Me, I write
scribing thoughts destined for page
Thoughts,
as poet within revs up
motor of heartbeats
to celebrate day.

Did you hear the tale of the writer who contracted writer's block?
He had a slight blockage in his pen's ink stock.

Hence words wouldn't flow onto the parchment.
Where he had expressed his non involvement.

Liam Ryan Sep 15

underneath strewn Fall
scholar sticks and poetry,
lay at ease, most glad.

Liam Ryan Sep 15

on the canvas
i drew her
across, around
within, without
in all colour and shade
of great cities
and their country.

her eyes as London
and the cheeks as Tanzania;
her palms as Athens
and the shoulders all
Himalaya -

every bone or edge in
wonderful chromatic.

the canvas changed and bled,
as did i but
by year’s end, the mosaic,
worldly woman was now
rested there in full.

stood in blank
dark
mossy room
covered in art and age
i called upon her name

but alas
i could no longer remember.

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