"calligraphic" poems
~~~{♡}~~~
art in writing
art in ink
swirls and curls
to make you think
art in ideogram
which can't be bought
illuminated pages
full of thought
art as cypher
art as change
art as charcoal
chalk arranged
on board as black
as darkest oil
ink is art
our feignt
our foil
soulsurvivor
(C) 7/1/2015
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
My Vellum
Alluring and demure
In your virginity
Never yet
Creased nor crumpled
Your tight young corners
Remain stiff and pert
In their newness
Your long lithe sides
Tense for my careful touch
Lest blood be spilt
My gold nib
I dip
In midnight ink
Piercing its surface skin
And lift
It drips
One
Two
Black
Secrets
Back to their bottle
My hand is poised
Over your pristine smoothness
And with calm precision
I carve broad majuscules
That twist and cut
To hairlines of breathtaking
Intimate intricacy
Quick teasing serifs
Long lingering descenders
Strokes of tactile
Joy
Then stand back
Empty
In wonder at
Your calligraphic beauty
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC
The power of the mind
I have heard those words
Thought them to be nothing more
Than just a play on words
But not today, oh, not today
It was the yellow sweater I saw first
I know right!! YELLOW sweater
Let's just let that go
Then the face, your face
The one I have been trying so hard not to forget
Those eyes I could not stare into for more than a few seconds
For they always seem to be staring back at my soul
Saying I know what you are thinking, I can see your heart beating
I could not contain myself, like an open book I let out a smile,
My OMG-IT-IS-REALLY-YOU! smile
Hidden behind the HAPPY-NEW-YEAR, LONG-TIME-NO-SEE greetings
Oh I believe!!!! I am a believer!!! i believe in its power
The power of the mind, My mind,
The one you have been breezing in and out
Of like a ghost, the friendly one though
Whispering your name in calligraphic puffs of air
Once or twice for the past couple of weeks
Now you are here, standing in front of me
The 3rd time today, asking if you had changed in anyway
And I saying just saying "No"
When all I was screaming inside to say was
Yes!!!!
Your fine self is finer than the last time I laid eyes on you.
©Belema .S. Ekine
©belemascribbles
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
This is the machine.
Tucked under necklaces, poppies and daffodils
calligraphic fingertip Xs
hurry across pockets.
Thursday morning job postings
markers on construction paper windows
exhausted by making parts.
Keep weddings in thunderstorms
to hide the sound of windmills in chests,
bittersweet directions to ticking clockwork.
Carbonated water can’t convince summer to stay,
musical breaths and tulip footsteps
remind me of the gears in my knees.
Always buy wallets used
daylily bank notes folded into stairwells,
the heels of my socks.
Blue collars in ochre wheelbarrows
soaking next to the white ones.
We are quiet machines.
With cogs in our wrists
battery powered bone and sinew.
Baby’s breath white in our hair,
tiny bunches piled into collar bones or concave stomachs.
You have stars in your hair
whispering in manufactured voices
to pull out your eyelashes.
Consumed by the concept of concepts
on ravine park benches,
marred with newspaper labyrinths
smelling of rolled up sleeves.
Hand held gummy bears
prompt me to check my fluid levels,
bubbly orchids in my left palm.
Sugar intakes and patterned pants
hide homemade pulses.
This is the machine.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
A Woman of Many Words
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am drawn to all those places
That words congregate:
Libraries and bookstores
Road signs and billboards
Ticket stubs and subtitles
Nametags and license plates
Each one a journey driving inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth
The skittle taste of syllables
I am drawn to especially long words
With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation
Words like
Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence
Evanescent and Insouciance
Mellifluous and Effervescent
Mondegreen and Labyrinthine
Words like
Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation
I appreciate their weight on my tongue
The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am attracted to their multitude
The space their figures take up on a page
The calligraphic punches
Typed up by keys
The carefully constructed
Brush strokes
Spouting
What is sure to be, nonsense
But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning
I am a Woman of Many Words
I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them
Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me
I find them
On the backs of cereal boxes
And in Popsicle riddles
In fortune cookies
And alphabet soup
From magnets on my fridge
To junk food logos
And I hold on to them for dear life
For fear that silence should find me
And leave me empty
For fear it will take away the music of maracas
Made by words
Dancing the salsa inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
because Words
Answer my Questions,
Soothe my fears,
and Humor my Whims
They are not always Right
But they are always Constant
They are not always Honest, in fact,
Mostly
They Lie
But ever so often
They tell such a Beautiful Lie
That you wish it were true
They sing from the rocks
offering Escape from
Terrifying,
Suffocating,
Mind numbing Silence
that echoes off my skeleton
I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides
and leave me abandoned
with nothing between my Bow and Stern
my Forecastle all torn up
I am afraid of the skeleton inside me
So I am a Woman of Many of Words
For fear of silence
And contempt for truth
Because my words are sirens
And my shipwreck is home here
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Let me apologize to begin with
For the way I have to say this to you
Instant and digital with the flawless
12 point form in a unison moment
All these words flow like lies from a child
And flawed, a 1984 Brave New World
Jacked in and online, I swear to God
Microsoft is a virus in my veins and the
Side-effects leave me nauseated and yet
Comforted with the connection I feel
With everyone under this epidemic
And Mac is a twisted strain of my particular
Insanity. Glossy and chic in my pocket, on the go,
Steve Jobs is the ancestor of Doctor Wily
Making *** some bandwagon that needs jumping
Like SkyNet will make me safer, I’ve heard it before
I wish this paper was yellow and crackling
With the orange firelight it was written under
On a sofa, pipe in hand, with the Raven tapping
Melodramatic to the point of genius
Rather then the cliché that emotion has somehow become
And abbreviations become acronyms and symbols
Who has killed the fair maiden of language?
Beautifully laid and strung, pearls upon my page
Folded into my pockets and on the margins of reality
Like a child unwilling to wait to show his parents
The words escape and flee and I panic, pen trembling
Mind to tongue to hand and nerves in the ink
Like meter and scheme trying to restrain this infinite
Strand of DNA that is the flawless combinations of letters
And letters! Curved like a woman tempting and pleasing
To round my pen and finding sanity in the corners and points
Or the cursive dribble of calligraphic art practiced endlessly
By the scholars, monks, orphans, or even the X of a slave
Bearing his mark, leaving himself branded on the page
But I most apologize, I will get carried away
And that is not the way Times New Romans likes it
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
Such a shame to let loose
That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing
But pretending seems to work so well;
You all claw at plasticine symbols
The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well.
Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody
Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness,
Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics
And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront,
Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is--
The assonance of a retreating boxcar
Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness.
Is it time to rewind somewhere?
The visages of paintings only mean so much
To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches
Of static television snow drifts.
It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts:
Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips
Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion
Of all of the children left in their contortions
It's all leprosy in my eyes
Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion.
And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all:
A lie of great size
Told from my lips yet it was--
You who believed me.
Together we made a chimera
A deception even worse than anything I've ever known
I said that some god had told me all the things that
that
that--
I can't begin to begin an apology
My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham
I only wanted what's best for you--
But look at what you've done!
Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades!
Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset
For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator!
And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator
floating in the oil, staring at you
slanted eyes smiling cruel.
It all makes sense now, what half believed lies
That explain how the darkness will come to rise
But the opposite side of our crystalline marble
Has known all along, they knew all along!
Facing the east, wasn't He?
Then even he knew
Perhaps what I said was not all untrue
And in fact
the fault lies with Him
Not me,
Not you.
Sincerely,
The Bible.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
Poetry is my blank paged bible, my desolate scripture, my calligraphic beckon, my feather-inked-tip to empower the thoughts that run.
The pressure, this monster that builds inside me only fades to release.
I can't let this bad wolf grow, the beast needs to be sown, into the fibers of these pages, advice spoken from the wisest of the sages.
This literature, this free world, rids me from my worries and silences the flurry, that spins and rages inside of my heart and soul. Silences the whispering foes. I only wonder why I let it go.
Hello Poetry, I need you.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
Amassed an inventory of words, marvelous and concordant, reserved for the late at night, tremulous and tremor shaking, purposed to soothe with honey, milk and cookies, and coax them, the odd ones out, to emerge slowly, oh so slowly, with a magnetic resonance, yank them from their granite tombs, and employ the force of Od to convert them over to their own side, and will not pause, be placated until they are my spring waters, my co-religionists, in grace and kindness, and I will levitate them above us, espousing our collectivity, each a designer, an artist of our gemeinschaft, free to come, free to stay, free to endeavor to clarify and excavate the roots so deep of the thin reeds of their solitary society, to stand up and count yourself linked but incapable of breaking the chain (see my photo) and even though there is nothing new under the sun, let us all remind them, a Seussian refrain, the sun nonetheless will come and clang, invitation engraved, naming you with calligraphic flourishes, a fine poem planted firm in our rooted hands saying:
Welcome child
>~~~~~~~~~<
*God Blesss the Child Whose Got His Own
Billie Holiday / Arthur Herzog Jr.
Them that's got shall get
Them that's not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
Yes, the strong gets more
While the weak ones fade
Empty pockets don't ever make the grade
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
Money, you've got lots of friends
Crowding round the door
When you're gone, spending ends
They don't come no more
Rich relations give
Crust of bread and such
You can help yourself
But don't take too much
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
He just worry 'bout nothin'
Cause he's got his own*
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
In left footed underwear,
Left on the floor,
My legs can't find the way out, my palms hardened from the mans work;
Dark and ***** the floor is full of ash,
From a fire we had in front of a fight,
That was lit from the fire in your naked belly,
And the golden spark of guilt in your darkened eyes.
And there is a threadbare mattress that was once clothed,
By our bodies and our sweat, and sleep,
And on the wall in the night, as you vehemently slept,
A thousand decisions were written on the peeling paint,
In calligraphic cursive writing, 'A medieval love affair',
As the heart drew breath in doubting love across the air.
Bare legged jeans, double ending tshirt and a naked bra,
An imprint left on your floor; a lack of interest,
Makeup left in a leather bag,
primal ****** a primary requirement of admittance,
A threadbare rug holds the handprints of many girls before,
Raw knees scuffed the richly spiced darkened stained wool.
Walking away with a left footed boot and a right handed eye,
Casting a backwards look from behind a blue glassed veneer,
Left with a scuffed heel and Viennese waltz dancing in my ears,
The last doorknob I ever touched, wonderland being left to the Cheshire Cat.
Drink me.
Eat me.
Swallow me.
And as I fall he demands,
He said,
'Where are you going?'
'Down the rabbit hole"
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
"I easily forget names" his confession rings loud.
She smiles as if she knew this all the while,
She is a woman who forgives, like nature.
She loves his big hands and the promise
Of caresses to sow goosebumps all over
The infertile earth.Suddenly fecundity arrives.
Then, the scents, pheromones wafts to his mind
Speak the same language in different accents
At times it is read as the whispers of winged desire.
The purple hues of arousal, and if read from an angle
Different,it spells sin in black, in calligraphic letters
The flow he is, that dances through hills and dales
Wind and water romancing red earth and ocean.
Where once blood spilled in fierce battle with foes,
A tree full of flowers now smile,a magical moment of life!
She is the drop that oozes under the moss, gathering speed
The fog that spreads and embraces the extended woods.
She defies the limits of mind and touch ebullient galaxies.
She is the field of ripe corn, mellow yellow, gently swaying.
The seeds she collects and keeps safely in her living repository.
Whatever she spills becomes her on which tomorrow smiles.
At the window wind knocks,breaks the egg shell of a dream.
She emerges, opens the door, finds him gets charged once more.
It was raining outside, an auspicious hour, like blooming lotus,
Time to conduct fertility rights,for seeds to come alive.
He feels the stirrings nature creates, arranges all
Necessary things, he towers above all
He is the sun that spreads his warm rays around.
She is the fecund red earth to be sowed at nature's behest.
The horns blow aloud, she heard, and closed her eyes.
Felt like a flower, ready to open her petals for a bee folding wings.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
Am I stucked to the same old page of a withering book?
Has our story ended, why have I hopes?
But you go on forgetting me, maybe hating me,
why didn't you just explain?
Everytime I read a poem I wonder what would you think,
or if you cry reading unsatisfying,sad ends.
And I'm hiding behind my dusty glasses
while you're a step in front of me in a running over-crowded bus,
not greeting like we've never met before.
Because I miss you that's why I can't form a proper friendship
and people leave, like you did, inexcusably.
Maybe I only miss those idealised memories,
or need someone who understands all of my aspects like you used to.
And they'll keep the promises I believed in.
What if I'm stuck to you calligraphic inscription in a tiny note?
Do you still read those five pages letters?
Do you remember them? Do you remember me?
Are we complete strangers again?
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
I sat with my ***
I had so carefully
Slab-rolled
And I decided it was
Too plain
So I used the Elvish you taught me
To etch
In
My
Name.
I didn't have
The sweetbeautiful
Calligraphic guide
You made
Just for me
So I wrote what I knew
Your name
The arches and lines and dots
Oh so familiar from
Countless notes in this
Fictional language
Your language of love.
I sent the words out into space
Asking how to make a 'v'
And after I asked
I realized
What I almost had written
In this triangular ***
My name
Your name
Love.
I felt
Just like a 4th grader
Doodling in the margins
Of her notebook the name of that
Elusive 6th grade crush
That darling so far away
I felt
Stupid.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
,
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Light illuminates
my dis-entombed thoughts
on gilded kite
prodding dust patina
mellow mote drifts lilt
hoping not to puncture the membrane
– I run –
attempted lift
fresh soil turns under foot
tread and gait escalate
pocked path reverberates
my insistence to avoid puncturing
Deceleration
Halted earthen assault
I ****** with machination the aerial apparatus
prior to complete stagnation
Decrepit deceit eschewed
Again – I run –
taut paper snap
sheet lift
weightless message intones
in knotted vertebrae, and closed palm
my chest lifts in unison
diaphragmatic sigh punched hollow
rhapsodic finesse
privy to atmospheric secret
my hand translates the ethereal
smooth fluttering undulations
oscillating tugs, dives, and slay
Calligraphic flourishes echo the linguistic menagerie
Byzantine illustrations
Pellucid canvas drunk with dye
Evinced in muddled thought
The ink bleeds down the twine
indigo echoes of entombed vein 'neath flesh
Translucent pulse haunts taut string
furling arc – tensed tissue
acrobatic hydrofoil
tugs – glides – taunts
Ostensible horror conveyed in clenched palm
The ether curtly responds
Swift redirect
Sliced palm
Tethered scream evocation
cochineal deluge concedes
Deep purple liquid clings
Congealing - between sodden twine and palm
Whispering currents furl saturated line
into fresh groove, disturbing the clot
The wound bucks as flotsam
Relentless onslaught
I yield -
I release you
Your ethereal message tattooed into my palm
Some things were ne'er meant to be restrained
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Quasars are very bright galaxies with centers dominated by rapidly accreting black holes, existing somewhere near the beginning of time.
It’s already dead in its brilliance. Fourteen billion measurements of meaninglessness. Illusionary existence, meant to quantify the moments in which man exists.
Yet compartmentalization is a mythical concept to galactic nuclei.
Remaining outside of quantification.
Not needing its suffocating extractions.
A void predating blood.
Before the beginning of intangible concepts.
Ruling the tangible world of man.
We have perceived a place apart from the temporal.
Now all we can do is make our drinks stronger,
inhale our herb slower.
In desperate attempt to un-see the
Calligraphic scratches on parchment.
Confirming the fact that we no longer exist.
The way that we did…
Before the sad ghosts of quasars scarred our skies.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
I lost the quintessence
of my rainbow beaded being
along with
the calligraphic indian feather pen.
The blood from my arteries
are replaced with black ink on paper.
The ingenuity of it all.
How much I despise it
the unoriginality ?
Not feeling me in my own words.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
I've got a broken heart
And calligraphic
scars to match.
Blood drops
painting their way
across a
canvas
of skin toned
flesh
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
beauty is something
that cannot be defined,
beauty is something
like love
you know when you
see it,
beauty that I am
talking about
isn’t the sunset
so beautifully painted
or a picture perfect
dawn,
its in the lines
that cannot be drawn
its in the self aligned
rain drops
weaving a symphony
its in the birds
choosing a perfect
spot to nest
its in the bees
buzzing for attention,
its on a sunny day
when you are staring
down the sun,
its in the coincidences
that leaves you
without a reason
its in the winds
commanding the trees
calligraphic words
on the invitation
for the change of seasons
its in the quiet stares
on the rocking chair
looking for introspection
its in the child
losing his way
begging for attention,
its in the tears
that refuse to cooperate
and thats because
we have difference of opinion,
and then we reconcile,
its in the waves
testing the rocks
and then the rocks lose it
and send the waves crashing
its in the disappointments
and the clock keeps ticking
what you thought was a setback
was a disguised blessing
its in the rhymes
that are beautiful liquid
my brain is a strainer
the beats couldn’t be perfect
make your soul feel nourished
its in the female body form
alive and post dark room
that curves got you stumbling
and by form I didn’t mean shape,
its in the feeling
when you come back home
from a vacation
knowing the best view
is from your bed room window,
beauty is something
you seek
when you find
beauty is nothing more
than a state of mind
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
Another page to write
Another days to smile and wake up
Another people to meet
And another years to come
Smoothly and gentle
Touching the calligraphic art of paper
Collecting stones and shell
Like a treasury gold of an armor
I'd like to receive and be recipient
As we go along
So join with me
And let's write
One step at a time.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
Poems pose as pathways into me
By me I mean the depths that can't be seen
With the naked eye pryed open wide
Instead they pave a passage into my personal pods of passion
My inner solitude, my sour moods and attitudes
My attributes and traits that relate all of me to each piece individually
Poems create the most realistic vision of me
Deeper than a glazed over gaze into my soul
For in poetry rests the ability for normalcy to retreat from me
Exposing the roads closed and accelerating on them at speeds untold
Unprepared for what words my wit will wrap wildly entwined
As the thoughts flow so, in their prime from my mind
Travelling through my veins and exiting at the grip of my fingertips
As the ink drips in calligraphic patterns of raced mess appearing to make sense.
Each time I pick up my pen and write
I fight for the freedom within me to flee free
Thank you, Poetry
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
Shredded gold and silver flakes
it’s all been sold, from land to lakes.
I’m running up quite a bill
stationed up on my window ceil,
bargaining with Bungalow Bill
asking for a discounted thrill.
Vacant roads and silent trees
these heavy loads buckling my knees.
I couldn’t walk one more pace,
not known to finish a race,
I’ll forfeit before taking last place
then blame my undone shoe lace.
Within a half awake state,
I scribbled explanations too late,
they weren’t worthy or close to justified.
I’m just a chaser to bait,
too far behind at this rate,
but I’m sworn to the end so I abide.
A Prism view or black and white,
soft morning dew, or a starry night.
Which one should I prefer,
if they both blend and blur,
I sought the opinion from her
but accepted the first to occur.
I’m under the tree, the one from our seed,
taught me to see but not to read,
so I decipher each calligraphic,
with details too specific,
undesired outcome so prolific
my mind allows me to trick it.
There was more life in the tears
that stood back waiting for years,
only to greet their moment on the floor.
Falling down while nobody steers,
halting the joints and the gears,
and I will cover the space under the door.
We will equally share this burden,
lights off and close the curtain,
I’ll hide my breaths within the thunder.
Hastily halt then proceed to hearten,
and though I’m still very uncertain,
I’ll let doubt pull and drag me under.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 4:30 AM UTC
It is a writer’s rage
that inks and turns
each bright white page
into a thing of calligraphic chaos.
Weird words are woven
into some coherent pattern
for the reader to readily discern;
Some hopeful aspiration
that denies or confirms
the appreciation the poet
hopes to earn
before time turns
his words to ashes.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
Circa Holy Roman Empire
between ninth
and thirteenth century
after common era
(approximately 800 AD and 1200 AD)
benchmark year 780 bracketed
Benedictine monks
of Corbie Abbey
devised cheeky guttural lingual rapartee
vis a vis European
calligraphic standard script inked lined
writ via extant Irish and English monastic
members nsync
strong influence of Irish literati
eased communication
popular Latin cognoscenti
common lingua franca
spawned Carolingian Renaissance
Codices, pagan and Christian text
plus educational material
written viz Carolingian minuscule
Emperor Charlemagne issued prescription
(hence named Carolingian)
boosted unified modus operandi
he advocated learning,
though somewhat illiterate
recognized value of education
predicated on singular
codified regional alphabet,
the then webbed wide world
linkedin, sans uniform symbolic shapes
uncontested salient advantage
offered up ease to master
clear distinct explicit letter formation
simple logic boosted
rapidly transmitted standardization,
especially with exceptional legible
readable characteristic
adequate spaces between words
Merovingian "chancery hand"
still reserved to draft traditional charters
Gothic and Anglo Saxon
favored traditional local script
as opposed to Latin
learning latter involved less tricked out
embellished flourishes
or interconnected strokes
drawn by a scribe
allowing, enabling, and providing
greater popularity to teach masses,
latent etymological nuances apparent
centuries following implementation
quasi initial Carolingian letters
steadfast, where Carolingian
influence moats strong
adopted local stylistic signature flavor
divergence woke since proliferation
stoking diffuse prospects
decreeing entrenched footing,
where auspices boded prescient
until groundswell didst surcease
sub limb mated into modern patois.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
It gets my attention
I sense it
thumb it
When it isn't present
It is what I look for
When awaking
Lips are too ambiguous
Hips
too calligraphic and
Precious
Fists too ******
So...
I'll stick with
My inanimate object
Glitches n all
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC