"choreograph" poems
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
My Sunglasses
I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Don’t leave me alone,
because every time you smile,
the dimples in your cheeks
come out like commas drawn in my life
reminding me – this is not the end.
Don’t leave me alone
because your whispers add background music
to my otherwise quiet life,
Your fingers choreograph the perspective
of my eyes and make sure hope clings to each corner,
and I learn to hallucinate better than before- it is beautiful.
Don’t leave me alone
because I promise when next time you sit next to me,
my incessant words won’t transform into question marks,
only my eyes will look at you occasionally
in case you miss the talk.
Don’t leave me alone
because I promise this too,
on the days when you heart is too full
to accommodate the memories of the past,
we will go to your favorite river side
and let them find their way out
into the endless stream.
Don’t leave me alone,
because staring at horizon alone is boring,
besides nobody talks about the expanse of these abbreviated colors
into our lives.
Don’t leave me alone
because I refuse to have a life without you,
may be I should have told you this in the beginning,
instead of writing a poem.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
Watch the trepidation in the swinging of a chandelier,
as its candles choreograph their own silhouettes
on the pallid walls
to the beat of the creaking ceiling.
When the roof caves in,
the walls will stop being a dance floor to ghostly shadows,
the chandelier will crash to the table,
and the song of a rusty, trepid chain will end.
You will have learn to let yourself waltz
to the music in your own head
and you will have to learn let others watch you
because you are a fire, not a ghost
and you do not belong in the shadows you create
when you’re secretly making your pain into art.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
In these times
Looking back at her in such great distress
Backing up sitting down breathing heavy now I rest
Walking through numb recollections
Impressions on the mind in every single action
Choreograph fake rain
Blood running from my swollen vein
Sweat running down my face
All because I’m thinking of her taste
Show number one is playing on the big screen
Reminiscing laughter together
And what I’m now missing
Tears dripping down no need to act out this pain
Good for them I’m thinking
Spare them from this place
Learning everyone can use a little amazing grace
This foundation I laid
Slipping on the mud in this heavy rain
Rain will come rain will go
But this bottom wasn’t meant to hold
I’m a soggy wash up
In need of a new resting place
One that shows number two on the big screen
Stuck in a daze just another phase
pushing through the maze just to get through the days
I won’t forget you only remember
Just moving on to find a new member
Mutual love will cease my shaky temper
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
He thinks I'm crazy
When I stop while we're in the supermarket
Because I love this song
I choreograph
And he starts to laugh
At my spontaneity
Yes I might be crazy
Even more so lately
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
The Process
There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.
Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T he process?
A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.
Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.
*{The exception has it own character.
One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}*
The exception, exceptional.
The normal, normative.
Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.
Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.
You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.
Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
stars are dying, not becoming supernovas, or hurricane eyes, just collapsing to sleep, shh, tiny bodies flickering over the outstretched palms of children with wide eyes and feet that won't stop moving, even when holding hands as nets to catch the quiet light of sprinkles, little cake sprinkles that fall from the sky.
the flowers are bending their heads to the ground, trying to hear the singing of the fauns as they dance around pre-formed groves in the forest to your left, the vibrations are travelling and amplified, if you listen carefully, so carefully, a wondering song of delight without words could reach you, stand so very still.
the rain-drops are soft, caressing the ground hesitantly, asking its permission to tread on the springy moss and look for bubbles to choreograph marches for, complete with full brass band, and pixies combing hairs into a fountain of wheat coloured spoken word.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 11:38 AM UTC
Just. Eat a bowl of cereal.
Sit on the kitchen floor carefully so the milk doesn't spill, scoop the flakes into your mouth by the streetlights filtering in through the window.
Or climb out onto the roof.
Slip out your window, hip braced on the edge, and use your arms to pull yourself up, crossing your legs on the shingles and breathing in the stardust swirling around your head.
Create a masterpiece.
Dip a brush in some paint, use your hands to shape clay, choreograph a dance, script a play, write a poem, draw a spring day.
Make a blanket fort.
Tuck the blankets over the couch, pad the floor with cushions, and flick on the TV, so you can watch cartoons while wrapped in warmth like when you were a child.
Stargaze in the backyard.
Tiptoe out the back door, quilt tugged tight around your shoulders, spread it out over the dewy grass and stretch out, facing the clouds and counting the stars.
Learn Morse Code.
-.-. --- -. ...- . .-. ... . .-- .. - .... -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-. .. -. - .... . -.. .- .-. -.- --..-- -.- . . .--. .. -. --. -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . -.-. .-. . - ... -... . - .-- . . -. -.-- --- ..- .- -. -.. - .... . ... .. .-.. ...- . .-. -- --- --- -. .-.-.-
Have a shower.
Run the water hot so it'll burn when it hits your back, shed your clothes and step into the steam, breathing in the vapors and imagining that you stand in the heart of a geyser.
Go back to sleep...?
No, this elusive peace is distinctly one with the night, and it would be foolish indeed to throw away such a gift merely to function during the bland sunlight hours.
h.f.m.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC
And for your love
and the romance
of our lives
I've decided to
attempt dancing
and all the glories
that come along.
For, this romance isn't
the aroma of accordion music
filling the Paris streets at nighttime,
while a couple dances
under the streetlights,
as rain begins to fall.
It's a romance about humanity
and desire and its heartache
that tries to tango in the suburbs
and tap in the slums,
whose clumsy movements cause
embarrassment for any party involved.
This love has a rhythm unlike
a big band hit or a bluegrass hand-clapper.
It has a rhythm all of its own.
Closest to, maybe, jazz.
The real jazz. The Harlem jazz.
Sparatic and unpredictable.
Upbeat, swinging cymbals and trumpets.
Then a slow sax,
with bluesy vocals crying out in pain.
Because you can't two step
or foxtrot
or tango
to that.
You must step carefully.
For this romance is fragile.
You cannot choreograph in advance
or synchronize moves
with your lovers'.
You simply must listen, feel, and move.
This dance of love
must cause you to cry
and smile
and melt
and ache
and desire to make love
all in the same motion.
Or it's not love.
It's an imitation
aimed at the beautiful and elegant.
And we aren't that.
We're humans with souls and flaws
who desire these false
motions and harmonies
of love,
but who need to still understand
love's true tender
and heartbreaking steps
that have no
recognizable rhythm,
but that promise
a lifetime of love.
So, I will not learn
love's romantic moves
for they are unteachable,
but I will attempt,
for your love
and romance,
my dear,
to sway to the music
and stay beside you
and follow your lead
as we wait for the
drums and the horns-
and the music to begin.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
Ballet Dancer
Broken expensive ballet shoes which have been abused by her heavyweight strides. Swollen bones in her toes isn’t what she thought of. She’s always wanted to be a ballerina.
Bruised knees she feels the pain every time she walks and feels it more when dancing.
Tied up hair into a perfect small bun sits on top of her head with modern pins. Princess looking tutu balances nicely around her waist.
Ghost white face, dark eyes appearance is key swan beauty while gliding on the stage lake.
She’s on a high.
Fluttering like birds ready to take flight. Fluttering arms like wings greeting the crowds.
Enchanting music scares the lights to become brighter. Glittered outfits see-through tights what fits nicely. Ready to set the stage.
The romance between female and male dancers has to be strong and they have to synchronise with eachother. The male dancers take control over the female's body as she moves delicately around him.
En-pointe while stretching her fragile legs, wobbly limbs and weak touches while massaging her sore feet. Signs of giving up can never come to mind. This is her passion.
She’s sacrificing everything.
Painful satin ribbons tightening her blood circulation there’s no escaping a ballerina’s life.
Naked toes touch the floor before sliding them into her new shoes.
While dancing she feels free alone in her mind nothing can go wrong.
She's light like a feather, petite bodied shape she's perfect.
Rosie looking cheeks she's nervous. She's mirrored every arched pirouette so it has to be the best.
From a hard pirouette into a plié, she knows that's the most important part of the performance.
She can't fail.
Can she?
Her strong poses, while he lifts her leg in a perfectly straight line, pointed toes has to show off her feet. The attitude between her and her partner is occupying the crowd.
Every ballet dancer cries out to be the best that's why they compete with each other. Achieving success is what every dancer feed off.
She's risking her health for this moment, she's damaging every inch of the body in ways she couldn't of imagined.
Every morning she tells herself she was born for this.
Tired eyes, early mornings with late night yawns.
Difficult choreograph's to learn.
But she's flying towards her dreams.
She's an artist at heart
A performer by night
It's worth being a ballet dancer.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 6:31 AM UTC
*I watch your face
as you write
in the furrows of the brow,
see you and the
word-seeds being seized,
harvested,
prepared, ready-roasted
for sumptuous consumption
grimace and smile,
alternating currents,
grimace and smile,
ponderous pondering
chew each word,
flavor extracting,
does its taste fit,
is it only,
but,
perfect?
you get up, you sit,
you move about,
pretending, misleading,
purposed to be aimless
yet eyes squinting
betray
a fearsome full
concentration rapture,
a mind computing
the numerical quality of
words,
summing, subtracting,
solving for X
you employ technique,
formats, tools and aids,
thesaurus, dinosaurus, dictionary,
even pictionary
when
the guppy letters
swim spring river current fast,
little boy catch me fast run past,
cannot be caught and easy captured
why
do I watch
your face
as you write?
for there visaged,
is your truest work,*
you, your best poem
*what words you select
matters little to me,
t'is the struggles,
the blush of satisfactory,
the distempered white of
disillusionment,
of inspiration sought
but not found
all these dancers,
you choreograph
a word-ballet in three acts,
scheme a midsummer nights dream
upon the stage of your face
return the favor poet?
watch mine,
watch my face,
as I read your poem
and see thine own best
reflection
in teary eyes caught inside crows-feet,
pencil thin smile lines of fine wine whimsy,
in feet that airlift,
the contour of
who you are
and
think*
**You, Poet,
you are your best poem**
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
This is what it is to fall
for a boy with blurry edges.
He will be unfinished but you will trust
him anyway. This is how you learn
how tenderness can be the texture
of a hand in the darkness, the chill
kiss of wind on your cheek, something
you never saw coming.
This is how not to write a sad
story. Say something a little
sweeter. Smile like that night he locked
his keys in his car and you spent
four hours learning how to break
into something
you had no right to be in.
Forgive him for being one more door
your hands shook too hard
to open.
This is how your song goes.
You bring the lyrics and he brings
the tempo, you choreograph the dance
and he forgets the steps but you
forgive him.
You had a dream once where you got
married, you never told him that,
the wedding was in your study
and he showed up half
an hour late. You cried. You hugged him.
You were in love.
Even your dreams
taste like disappointment.
This is how melancholy marks you,
hopeful and hurting,
how you make stained glass
windows out of the shards inside your chest.
This is how you bleed and make
it something beautiful.
You went to his party and you swam
in the pool. You ate his ice cream and you
took his love. His refrigerator looks
like a love letter to your face but he won’t
speak to you in person, you wonder
when you stopped
being two people in the same picture
and started smelling like
wet paint.
Your life like a song you sing to yourself,
an old one, the kind where
the words come easy.
His name like a tattoo you shouldn’t
have gotten, a memory you can’t give back.
How did you end up here.
This is where the music stops,
the band packs up, your family kisses
you and walks out the door.
This is when the party’s over
and no one wants your sadness
anymore. Vibrating
and waiting. You have lived all
your life to hit this note.
Heart like a washing machine. Heart like
a peanut butter sandwich. Heart cracked open
on the surgery table, hopeful and broken.
Haggard and raw. They tell you when
you use a muscle too much
you can hurt it.
It is beautiful to be the architect of your
own injuries, to choose who will
do you harm. To understand that healing
is just another way of getting stronger.
This is how you look out the window
every night and forgive him.
His face like a mistake you could
have made and always did,
like there could still be something more
than this.
This is what it is to love
in a world where people can be broken.
To believe they can be fixed.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
If only my heart had words to speak
It would tell you I am here, I am here
I give you a piece of myself
Do with it what you please
And if these hands could challenge my resistance,
They would have found their way into yours
Clumsy and nervous
Waiting for your fingers to vine into mine
If my feet led me,
They would sprint towards you
and choreograph our steps
They would not let me leave your side
But they will not, and love will not leave us
And my lips may not press onto yours,
but these dreams will suffice
For now, words are all that holds us,
and the hope of what is fate
The dancing stars in an upside down sky
and the exchange of a morning grin
And my heart cannot speak,
so heat blooms inside of my chest
but one day it will,
when we are both ready
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
*when your cold
fingers get the
chance, let their
haunting abilities
of ink dance
across the fine
white of paper
and choreograph
what it's like
to dance in
the vast nothingness
of an inevitability
you were too
curious to prolong.*
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
I have adapted.
I have planned it.
Cause I have created the activities carefully around my feelings.
When I choreograph my heart toward you.
Like the spins of the Temptations I had you amazed by my ways.
When you first heard me say, I love you.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Knows the secret of the universe
but doesn't know the heart
it doesn't tally up!
Hop onto the spacecraft
fly off to the star
technically that can be done
mathematically can be numbered.
But that deep dive deep down
the sea of the soul
only an interpreter of the heart can play this role.
What AI can mimic that or an art can choreograph
or a computer can emulate this part?
Apr 16, 2024
Apr 16, 2024 at 9:06 PM UTC
Words dance around in my head
And I choreograph sentences
But when I present them to an audience,
Nobody gives a standing ovation
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
I lay on my back Serenely on the morning grass,
The bright sun, shines its glory into my closed eyes.
Keenly shimmering through, as if they be formed of natural glass,
Plush clouds choreograph alongside a composed medley with the skies
Absorbing tranquility from the pure and fresh valley breeze,
I breath deeply and c
onceive, today has been of unimaginable ease.
--END--
"Peaceful Plains"--1-1-10- Original
Lying on my back in the grass,
The sun is shining in my eyes.
Through my eyelids as if they're glass,
The clouds dancing in a medley of disguise.
Feeling the fresh valley breeze,
This day, it has been of some ease.
--END--
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
every day i go into my mirror, **** in my stomach and pretend i'm a professional dancer, then i realize i'm too overweight.
i care too much about everything
i wish i could commit suicide, then i get sad when i find something to live for
there's something deep behind everything i say
i can't stand complements
i don't ever say i have bulimia, because it sounds like a disease, i am bulimic i didn't catch bulimia
the reason i don't like compliments is because i don't think i deserve them
another thing is i don't see the point in praising a being on not being human (long story)
i don't trust people just because they're human
most people think there is a deep reason
i just don't
i don't like when people think there is something deep to something that is just simple
i hate when everybody believes a lie i told and thinks too much of the truth (they don't even know the lie was a lie, they just do it)
i might be the only person in the world who never has deep moments while it rains
i choreograph better than i dance
everybody loves my singing voice yet i hate it
i wish nobody existed but animals so they could live in peace
i wish i lived in an abusive home so i could stop being in between.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
You swing dance with me, you sidestep my questions, you throw out answers to things I haven't asked yet, you jump to conclusions.
You slow dance with me, you hold me just close enough, you spin me to keep distance, you keep your footing.
You tap with me, you choreograph intricate routines, you make me want to watch you.
You tango with me, you drip passion, you keep me up at night in a sweat.
You Charleston with other girls, you keep me on my toes, you never let them see you fall.
Now stay still.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
"I was the same, but I was waiting for myself on the shore to return." - Murakami
IIt is a difficult time. You wait
for the return of yourself.
You sit on the pier, watching
pelicans pirouette in the air,
weightless for a moment
before diving into the water.
The sound of their splash
reminds you of something
you just can’t quite remember.
You sit there, eating fish after fish,
washing them down with beer.
You have started counting seagulls
and giving them long Spanish names.
You choreograph ballets, create architectural
drawings of dreams, and have begun to build
a home out of seashells. On weekends,
people come just to see you waiting
for your own return. “Where did you go?”
they ask, and you simply shrug.
You make new friends and take up painting,
creating self-portraits, your image is repeated
like the latitude and longitude lines on a map.
Each morning, you lean against the railing,
and the seagulls join you. You’ve made them
tiny red scarves that they all wear. All of you
stare, still as glass, as if any movement might
blur your vision. Together, you watch the sea,
straining to see yourself coming back, straining
to catch a glimpse of the prow of a boat
cutting through the silver morning water.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
Memory movies
Little flickers of thought
Of what happened before
About the fish we caught
When Dad and I, together
Went by ourselves to a stream.
We spent the day together
It feels rather like a dream.
Memory moments
Of wonders I have seen
And what they have become
And what they came to mean.
Suddenly recalling back then
Someone I had totally forgot.
Some people stay friends
But sometimes others do not.
Memory music
Seemed to choreograph time.
There were songs playing then
And in a way, they kept time;
The drumbeat to life’s march,
We kept right up with the beat.
It went with us everywhere, then
In our school, home and the street.
Memory maybe
But it’s part of who I’ve become
Today compared to yesterday
Some things are better, and some
Are never going to top them
Those days of bright discovery.
So, I let those memory movies,
When they show up, come cover me.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
We poets write what's on our mind
and in our heart.
To us it comes naturally, never questioning
it. To us its art.
To every curve we feel the pen stroking
on the paper wall,
like a dancer swaying in rhythm and to
dare not fall.
From one poet to another, we have a common
courtesy for most.
We either love it or we don't or can share it
playing host.
We appreciate each others differences and
poetic style.
Even when we disagree, we never argue,
as we smile.
From one poet to another, we can feel ones
pain and joy.
Though we never knock each other down
or do no harm employ.
From one poet to another, its a way of
sharing what's in our soul.
Whether it be good or bad, we respect each other
for simply sharing and letting go.
We can write about most anything like nature, love,
pain, art, or rock.
The worst thing from one poet to another, is a thing
called "writer's block."
So when we take the time to very publically; to
from our depths do share.
Its a way of sharing a piece of our minds like a
a window to our soul declare.
Even though we may hide away from
time to time.
It's because we're always thinking and
reflect on past experiences to rhyme.
Most of us are pretty social and can
be artistic in other ways.
Like music, dancing, singing or
acting and directing plays.
We choreograph our feelings out
and lay them out as words of art.
Sharing to others to enjoy a piece
of our life that taketh part.
We don't always say things out loud
properly and publically.
We are sometimes better writing in what we
do best- in written poetry.
From one poet to another, we know some get it
or they don't.
Most poets will because they can disect it
or they won't.
From one poet to another, we know we
don't always have to rhyme our word.
I prefer to write in rhyme, but when I don't-
other poets don't think its absurd.
From one poet to another, we write our
feelings, thoughts and beliefs with ease.
From one poet to another, for some its
a masterpiece.
Sherri Harder
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
This is what I want to go out to
With a pen
In my palm
As I choreograph each line
For the last time
Hoping what I write fills you of me
One last poem one final time
Powerful enough you can hear the rhyme
As the words project from the screen
So you can visualize what I mean
And as I take my last breath
I'll leave it unfinished for the next
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC