What are the twists
And turns of a string?
How many threads are
Hidden within?
What parts do we see
And what parts do we not?
Is this string the same one
Or have we picked up
Another?

How can we depend on
Our eyes and mind that
Alter images to the very
Moment they are seen...

from the bank
I see the ghost of a pier
old posts standing solitaire
a ramp rotted, long gone

moored to one stubborn beam,
a bass boat, tethered to time, rocking
with the whims of the waters
fickle, but steady

storms upriver may hasten
the current, bloat the stream
though the flow never ends,
lapping against the hull

hiding inside are more ghosts:
phantom footfalls of fishermen,
odors as old as Eden, sounds
which once made songs

by those who cranked the motor,
manned the rudder and cast the lines
into the depths, seeking a tug--a pull
that meant dinner, a small success

a simple surrender of one species
to another, from beneath the surface
into the sun, a sublime suffocation,
then stillness before the gutting

many a day ended this way
the boat buoyed again to the dock
bellies then filled from the sacrifice,
the waters licking long the wood

I quote a quote
That puts price on freedom,
Ever wondered
If words had a price
Would nonsense be affordable,
Or either be a
World of critics?


The world changes
Day by day to it we owe a debt
In life we have a price tag
All at the stack to numerous
Qualities.



The window of opportunity no Longer exist,
Opportunities lack in the mist
That many only dare to explore,
To survive we live
To read between the line.


There's a catch to life
In this second hand world
Were we live to die by the trend,
Yet nothing works to perfections.


That a ***** little secret
Is much sweeter
Than the TRUE value of words.


We're eating from a tipped table
To succeed an accomplishment
Is worth nothing,
Unless they are accomplishments
Whereas we barely get anything
Of our sweet fruits of success
Devoured by the greedy,
Yet they struggle to get in touch with reality.


In this world
Much can get you by
A quote of inspiration,
A valid dream,
Or the billions of wars  
We fight in a day to
Come out victories either  
Defeated.


It’s a cruel world but,
Yet we have to remember


I quote a quote
“Nobody cares what you have to say
Unless it important"
Yet nobody cares what you do
Unless you’re making a change
In their lives and the world.


BY; POET KIRI
STATUS RATED ®.

©Hansmind, 2015

I
write
for the pleasure
when all that is pent up is
let free
I
write
for cleansing
of the things within
that fracture a heart and cloud a
thought
to
solace
a lone soul that longs for
a home
I
write
for understanding
to forget as much as I can
to forgive as I’m able the wrong that is done
to neutralize hurt before it roots
into hate
I
write
for healing
to touch and be touched
as written words can only do when all else has been used  
and no one comes
through
I
write
to listen
to hear what needs to be
heard
I
write
what I see
because it moves me
and what inspires me might inspire
those who take time to read what I write
I
write
because I must
if I don’t it doesn’t feel right
thus I pen what I feel
as a result of what I am
a writer
so…
I
will write
and
write, 'til
there’s
no

more

Life

Love and all its bandits
steal lives
and souls
and hearts.
No discrimination--
Won't tell good or bad apart.
With an arrow at their fingertips,
a bow that's poised to draw;
Love and all its bandits
steal
and give
to all.

Her hair:
  is the wind itself, a tumbling, wild,
  beautiful thing, soft through my
  fingers like the leaves of a tree
Her eyes:
  are candles; soft, glimmering candles
  that light a dark room, that beckon
  and call with mischievous warmth
Her lips:
  they are like holly berries in winter;
  bright red and sweet, hidden behind
  leaves and concealed under frost
Her smile:
  is the sun breaking through the
  clouds on a gloomy day, splintering
  into rays and touching the earth
Her skin:
  is the paper on which she writes her
  story with bruises and ballpoint
  pens and smudged red lipstick
Her touch:
  it is an electric shock, a paint-
  brush to my art, like raindrops
  falling onto my arms and face
Her voice:
  is the ocean crashing against the
  shore, wind chimes tinkling in the
  breeze, a sigh, a gasp, a sonata
Her laugh:
  is joy; a piece played on a fiddle in
  the middle of a cobblestone square
  while people dance jubilantly to it
Her words:
  are written in cursive on my mind, a
  beautiful, tragic poem, an unfinished
  sentence in her lovely handwriting
Her love:
  is a warm blanket in the winter, a
  mug of hot tea; like jumping into the
  cold, salty ocean; it is a lightning strike,
  a drunken state from which I cannot
  escape, a blissful euphoria
Her destiny:
  is not mine; it is far away on a
  train somewhere with a camera and
  a map and a touch of apprehension;
  it is my quiet house and my cold,
  empty bed and lonely, broken soul