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Harmony Nov 2015
tangy taste of pickle
with hot white fluffy rice
from your  rice cooker
Harmony Nov 2015
Speak up is what poets do
Speed up attention  
To a matter of Concern
With all honesty

Unknown ears open
To reflect in accord
Along with the poet
On atrocities weighing down
On a human heart

Poet is restless until
All perceptions are penned
Only to feel empty and alone
With his own thoughts

Solitude fills the cup
Of the parched Sonnetist
Once again to compose
Percetptions of his mind

Speak up is what poets do
Speed up attention  
To a matter of Concern
With all honesty

Unknown ears open
To reflect in accord
Along with the poet
of atrocities weighing down
on a human heart
Harmony Nov 2015
When there is lack of desire to meet with people face to face
Facebook is a fast and easy hideout
For those who want to pretend to be connected
Many are those who post, like and comment
Feeling emptier after each post, like and comment

Choosing to read, write and walk
Pleasanter the heart after each act
Of smile, talk and embrace
Longing for the time I am free
To smile, talk and embrace
  Oct 2015 Harmony
Jude kyrie
it was the cornucopia of stars
that I first noticed.
Bathing  in the purest light beams
that had travelled
from the edge of time.

Then I saw your face.
Morning light faded
all the stars in the heavens.
But you remained forever.
Never again to open my eyes
without you in my heart.

I do not understand
the meaning of love.
I do not want to know.
All I need is you.
Only you.

To be part of me.
To feel the burning inside
Of your passion and desire.
To not know
where you end
and I begin.

I wear your morning kiss
on my forehead
like a stigmata.
A visible wound.
That only you can heal.
  Oct 2015 Harmony
SE Reimer
(How A Reimer Became A Rhymer)

boarding school
what’s a child to do
assignment from a forth-grade teacher
write a poem that expresses what you love

well, being a fifth of five siblings
(that’s six in all)
and never before
being ever asked
to express anything 
that anyone 
might listen to 
at all,
let alone about what he loved...

and what’s more,
teacher never told him
a poem didn’t need to rhyme all the time,
that free verse would substitute...
just fine for a rhyme
so again i say,
what’s a child to do... but write
(or find a rhyme that speaks his heart).

couldn’t write (or so he thought)...
so find a poem, an inspiration
he must,
to get his poet’s juices flowing,
but where, and how...
and so he asked his teacher.
“Ms. Vreeland, teacher fair,
to find my poet inside
where or where would a child look?
perhaps a script that i could read,
perhaps, perhaps a book... perchance?"

"here, try this," she told him,
"this will help to know the score,
read, indulge, become as one,
and let your inner poet soar."


so, read, he did... and find, he found,
a write that had the very bound,
the rhyme, the sound,
the symbol of a land he loved,
his own by heritage, though not by home,
the pride inside he felt,
victory his, the hand was dealt.
Alfred Tennyson, a Lord they said
his writing rich, his perfect words
this, the prize, a perfect guarantor
in just an instant chosen for
the frame, the whole, 
changes, two, or one... no more
and he’d be done, the perfect crime
did i say crime, no! i meant mine,
for would not *your
changes make it thine?

and here his twisted thoughts he’d wound
became untwisted, crashing down
how and why? quite simply done
because all he changed was simply one
from one word, "azure," 
to one word, "blue,"
who, would think that this, would do?
no one, right? not even you?
not i, for certain, that’s for sure,
yet, it was i, 
the one who swallowed this dark lure!

so, here's Alfred’s version, and next is mine
don't you really love it's rhyme?

ALFRED’S
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

MINE
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the blue world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

and turn this in, he did
and heard from her, she wrote *”Very Good”

but, who knew she’d think that this deserved
an entry in a book of verse
who thought that anyone 
away back home where he was from
ten thousand miles away,
who would ever wonder, ever know?
yeah, you guessed it... busted!
his fingerprints so easily dusted
exposed, cover blown,
bad seeds sown 
came home to roost,
except...

that's not where this story ends
for he is me and that day was born
a poet no, but rhymer sworn
in name for sure, but so much more
for it was this, that opened door
to what he's become
has come to love
and this is when this Reimer
became a lifelong rhymer!
for what's a child to do, but...

become a poet... i suppose!
post script.

i would say more, but why risk incarceration?  dare mention this, to any one... whether true or no, i promise to deny any knowledge of these events...

SE Reimer... who?

a.k.a. Steve
Harmony Oct 2015
When I think of feeling despair for unknown reasons
I know it is time for me to create something
As I think of this, words of a friend come to my mind
As to how she finds comfort in cooking
So I go to the refrigerator and search out ingredients
To make a warm healthy dish for my family
it makes me feel good after washing, cutting
chopping, grinding and sauteing
All the while I take in the aroma of each ingredient
And finally as a whole dish
spooning them for taste testing
and when my nose and tongue
lets me know that is A OK
I find that I am feeling better
Enough to wash the dishes n
wipe down the counter top
this is free-writing ; please feel free to correct. I will be grateful that you took the time to read.
  Oct 2015 Harmony
Sia Jane
It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane
Mike opened this piece and we went from there.
Hope you enjoy this Hello Poetry collaboration too :)

It goes without saying, just how honoured we are to have this as Daily <3
Y'all are the greatest <3
Thank you so much <3
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