"coasts" poems
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.
A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.
I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.
Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.
Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.
Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.
Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars. Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.
And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"
All indeed, fare questions.
When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
making love with no love
(kissed her with his freedom)
<•>
a new person in an overnight stay in a strange,
aptly named,
bed and breakfast
and
you do all the same things that just feel good, careless loving
that comes from practiced renewable remembering,
kiss her neck for hours, drink in her crescendoing cooing
rename her Appalachia, bemused, wondering why,
she gasp-asks, when your tongue traces her odyssey body
from her Georgia to her Maine, then no need to explain
it all feels familiarly strange, imbalanced, shaky, loving the thrill
of your first solo bike ride, an invisible hand letting go,
the wow of walking the line of new freedom and
old responsibility that you have walked on both coasts
carry on, love is coming to us all lyric, enacted-recalled,
loving yet another
long cool woman in a black dress with unquestioning
how to explain to her, how to yourself, loving with no loving,
and the best you can stammer is it is like writing a poem
with too many commas or none at all
she laughs you up with one mouth lingering,
then one amazing kiss on your heart
and nose,
grabs a piece of toast and gone girl,
then you are returned to alone, to the dreams that
may or may not have occurred and two hands overflowing with
too many commas
and none to keep
<•>
11-18–17 2:54am, somewhere
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
[Cebuano]
Ikaw ang bahandi
dugay ko nang gihandum
Ikaw ang bituon
Sa ngit ngit kong baybayon
Ikaw lang akong
akong higugmaon
Ikaw lang ako
Ako matinud-anon
Ikaw akong hangin
Ikaw akong ulan
Ikaw akong langit
ug ang akong kalibutan
Ikaw lang akong higugmaon
Ikaw lang ako
Ako matinud-anon
Ikaw akong gahapon
Ikaw akong karon
Ikaw akong kanunay
Pulong ko tinud-anay
Kasing-kasing paminawa
dinuyugan ning gitara
wa ka nag inusara
kanimu nahigugma.
Ikaw
Ikaw ang katam-is
Kalipay na walay sama
Ikaw ba nasayod?
sa likod ning pahiyum
Ikaw lang akong
Akong higugmaon
Ikaw lang ako
Ako matinud anon
Ikaw akong gahapon
Ikaw akong karon
Ikaw akong kanunay
Pulong ko tinud anay
Kasing-kasing paminawa
dinuyugan ning gitara
wa ka nag inusara
kanimu nahigugma.
Tagohala na gibati sa akong kinabuhi
Ikaw lang ang bulawan na
gitipigan sa akong dughan
Mahanaw man ang adlaw
Magsubo man ang buwan
Dili ka gyud talikdan
Ug di gyud pasipad an.
Ikaw......
[English]
You are my treasure
I've ever wished for
You are the star
of my dark coasts
You are who I will
I will love
You are who I am
I am truthful.
You are my wind
You are my rain
You are my heaven
and my only world
You are who I will
I will love
You are who I am
I am truthful.
You are my yesterday
You are my now
You are my always
My words are ever true
Listen to the heart
Accompanied by this guitar
You are not alone
I am in love with you.
You
You are the sweetness
A one-of-a-kind euphoria
Do you even know?
Behind this smile
You are who I will
I will love
You are who I am
I am truthful.
You are my yesterday
You are my now
You are my always
My words are ever true
Listen to this heart
Accompanied by this guitar
You are not alone
I am in love with you.
The mystery I feel in my
life
You're the only gem
I hold dear in my chest
The sun may even die
Even the moon would cry
I'd never turn my back to you
And I would never hurt you.
You......
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
Hello Chicago
Flat carpet-town of corn meal
steel spears at the northern junction
of Cahokia and some unknown dream
No lillies grow here sir,
no tulip fields
though there are many Dutch
a little up north
Wisconsin, dontcha' know?
Family blood rains through the Chicago river
named of the blood of a slain tribal wonder
wanders
with the roaming buffalo
I sat at the top of Sears
(Willis)
Tower and peered into the foggy distance
and made out the shores of Michigan
through Indiana
the leftover rains of a continental freeze
churned the earth to butter and carved the arteries
and bowels
of today's earthly body
And when we drove in from O'Hare
in the late hours on incessant stoplight highways
counting down the streets
thinking maybe they'll go all the way to
Mississippi
just a long row of
Concrete
I saw the brick tower
of a decrepit Frito-lay plant
where they cooked their corn and potato
into succulent
can't eat just one
little snacks
for the whole of america
to enjoy in backyard barbecues
and convenience stores
and grocery outlets
All across the planet
Now with the trucks they come and go
up to and whizzing past Chicago
on to greener states with greater relief
with hills and lakes and winding streams
Different sections of the sculpture
Cities eroding into the pleasant coasts
quaking and breaking into tiny stones
a monumental David
cracked in the gallery
bird **** corroding the silicates
unpolished and immortal
words
Chicago!
oh you mighty city you
built from sod and sweat and dew
of new morning
I see your towers
you dreamer, you
But your towers are in Dubai,
and Shanghai
now
The world moved on
and forgot everything about
that magnificent mile
burned to make you earn
new toys and fancy things
from far beyond your winding river streams
But you didn't die
amazing, how much they tried
to rust you out
to bleed you dry
no,
Chicago,
you keep your ***** rivers flowing
all the way to the Mississippi
flanked by modern Roman concrete
all the way to the great green sea
out into the puddle that surronds
the Amerigo
Chicago
don't you give up that river dream
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
They never bought each other diamonds,
rubies, sapphires, pearls or gold.
The only precious things they keep
are memories of days they spent:
on golden coasts with turquoise seas;
or viewing snow- enamelled peaks;
tangled up in bed;
or simply playing with their children;
or dining out with friends.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.
So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant ******
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.
6.8k
~~《♡》~~
may your penship be worthy
may your heart be bold
may the parchment that beckons
be edged with pure gold.
may your sails be caught
by a breeze off the sea
may the coasts where you sail
be nations free.
may your mast be lofty
a pen full of might
may your skies be scarlet
only at night
may your stars be bright
as you sail where you will
may ink flow like a river
from an angel's quill.
may dimensions make music
may your muse scream
may you dream your life
may you live your dream.
~~《♡》~~
soulsurvivor
2/3/2015
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
Now through night's caressing grip
Earth and all her oceans slip,
Capes of China slide away
From her fingers into day
And th'Americas incline
Coasts towards her shadow line.
Now the ragged vagrants creep
Into crooked holes to sleep:
Just and unjust, worst and best,
Change their places as they rest:
Awkward lovers like in fields
Where disdainful beauty yields:
While the splendid and the proud
Naked stand before the crowd
And the losing gambler gains
And the beggar entertains:
May sleep's healing power extend
Through these hours to our friend.
Unpursued by hostile force,
Traction engine, bull or horse
Or revolting succubus;
Calmly till the morning break
Let him lie, then gently wake.
5.2k
I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes
OK, let's start:
A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.
Start again:
Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.
Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties
Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub
Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part
What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice
And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it
Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
Let's make a toast partake if you hear my voice beyond the coasts.
To our past the hurst, the Many learning curves buried in the sands of time.
To our here and now The good the bad and the ugly take a bow.
To our future I hope you never
come.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
People talk about Tornado Alley,
The part of the U.S where I live.
They act like tornadoes touch down every week in May through October,
Like storms go through every other week.
Like everyone’s not scared and they’re always calm.
The truth is,
Tornado Alley’s not like that.
Tornado Alley is worrying
When a tornado touches down only five miles from your house,
Your family’s in the basement,
Wondering if everything’s all right,
And if your house will be damaged.
Tornado Alley is praying a storm will pass,
The ever-looming threat of a supercell,
Swirling clouds above your roof,
The sky a nasty green and purple.
Tornado Alley is taking everything you have for granted,
Then being scared when it’s threatened.
Tornado Alley is knowing tornadoes exist,
But being thankful that you’re not in San Francisco,
Or Hawaii, Florida, the coasts.
Tornado Alley is flat plains and wide open spaces,
Not being afraid of a storm,
But of what lurks when the beginning is over.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
His old age fell on years of abundant harvest.
There were no earthquakes, droughts or floods.
It seemed as if the turning of the seasons gained in constancy,
Stars waxed strong and the sun increased its might.
Even in remote provinces no war was waged.
Generations grew up friendly to fellow men.
The rational nature of man was not a subject of derision.
It was bitter to say farewell to the earth so renewed.
He was envious and ashamed of his doubt,
Content that his lacerated memory would vanish with him.
Two days after his death a hurricane razed the coasts.
Smoke came from volcanoes inactive for a hundred years.
Lava sprawled over forests, vineyards, and towns.
And war began with a battle on the islands.
3.1k
Going on a road trip
Something for my soul
It's gonna take a while
But, it's gonna make me whole
I'm going to cross the country
But, I'll start on both the coasts
I've been in too many bottles
Have to exorcise some ghosts
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where the dream did end
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend
Greyhound bus out of the east
From the Maritimes my son
I'll venture through Quebec as well
This is journey number one
I'll stop and meet the people
Get their stories, of the man
I'll find the ones who met him
Try to learn just what I can
Adversity, I've had my share
Always tried self medication
Now, I need to find myself
This will take some dedication
I'll head on through Ontario
On the Trans Canada Highway route
And I'll try lose my demons
Give my devils all the boot
Brick by brick I'll bring down the walls
That over years I've built
Bricks made up of hate and rage
by love, and fear and guilt
From the west, I'll make my way
Do the highway he could not
Through the rocky mountains
Every mile is hard fought
I'll learn about the person
Who he was and who I am
I'll come through the fire stronger
I'll be a much better man
I will bus across the prairies
Through the Manitoba cold
I will focus on my endgame
I'll learn from what I'm told
Two journeys I will travel
Neither one from coast to coast
But, both are to be ended
by that famous mile post
Maybe I can find the answer
Join myself, go through the door
As he joined a nation
So many years before
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where my journey ends
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
The moon's full rays hit across the bay,
Will the ship make it to shore? No way!
The ship is about ready to sink,
There are rocky pebbles, islands, and coasts on either side;
The sinking ship no more doth glide!
The sky is black clouds across the black sky and moon make everything look creepy,
The sinking ship hits a rock and moaneth creakily,
There are rocks and rocky islands on either side,
They that are in the ship are trapped inside!
There's no way around the rocks and islands,
Nothing but silence.
Will this be the moon's last ray?
No wonder people call this place Silent Bay!
The bird skims across the shivering water's way,
Silence. . . The Silent Bay!
~Marian~
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
We shall launch our shallop on waters blue from some dim primrose shore,
We shall sail with the magic of dusk behind and enchanted coasts before,
Over oceans that stretch to the sunset land where lost Atlantis lies,
And our pilot shall be the vesper star that shines in the amber skies.
The sirens will call to us again, all sweet and demon-fair,
And a pale mermaiden will beckon us, with mist on her night-black hair;
We shall see the flash of her ivory arms, her mocking and luring face,
And her guiling laughter will echo through the great, wind-winnowed space.
But we shall not linger for woven spell, or sea-nymph's sorceries,
It is ours to seek for the fount of youth, and the gold of Hesperides,
Till the harp of the waves in its rhythmic beat keeps time to our pulses' swing,
And the orient welkin is smit to flame with auroral crimsoning.
And at last, on some white and wondrous dawn, we shall reach the fairy isle
Where our hope and our dream are waiting us, and the to-morrows smile;
With song on our lips and faith in our hearts we sail on our ancient quest,
And each man shall find, at the end of the voyage, the thing he loves the best.
2.7k
Take my hand - you've got to
feel fun time's heading
closer
Futuristic daydreams
are at hand -handy!
microchipped wild
boys and girls
on rent - hardly paid off -
dance! Roll the dice!
Flicker eyes!
Adrift on the dimlit
flourescent
effervescent
reflector rays°°°°you're
never lost or at loss;
Coloured circles glide
across the dancefloor______
bouncy boots swoon, high heels
crack, remastered barefoot Tribe~
Enjoys momentary revelations!
Latino lovers attracting
honey dew magnetic more-s
rain coats off - smiley coasts shine on~
those cunning shenanigan freckles
pressed redhair beauties against
needy torsos in ecco-leather jackets
electrified silhouettes stunning
like elves un-fading beauty
transforming tuxedos
of a tight
night; a jingle of
Prague crystals into
one dancing wave submerged
by the vicinity of hissing tongues
-been- beaten by fierce kissing
in a stronghold ballroom
frenzy - polarized
beatings - hi-s and bye-s ; a
stroboscopic syncopation
ecstatic hips,
space shuttle
trips
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
on quieter occasions
& they were all just moments
I'd close to meet your truth
different coasts, different rooms
that, I'd noticed in you
cause I'd kissed like this too;
like the kiss itself had a mind
it wanted to mean what it was doing;
I generously swallowed my pride
that there is never a right time
never a right place
for anything
it always just comes down to honesty
and reason
and I can't reason with my truth anymore
I don't know how to stop
how to end this, being in love with you
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
Were we not once love stood in abbey shadow and sun,
were we not once lovers at the top of bowling alleys
holding, having fun?
As you showered, I
bathed in the oeuvre of your
aura opposite,
thought of
midnight scrambled eggs
then bed
and the coffee to keep it company.
It’s then we woke
to the Sunday cacophony of avocados on post,
head to the second supplement in
to learn of the best twelve coasts where good lovers go to live,
where good lovers go to hide and give,
where good love exists.
If only the car wasn’t broken:
second hand, forecourt pile of ****
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
i heard a girl once say,
*if i could
i would drown
in poetry.
i would throw myself
into a sea of verses
and sink in splendor.*
oh, no, i thought -
no you wouldn't.
if there was a sea of poetry
the coasts would be ringed with barbed-wire
and electric fences,
and signs that yelled **warning
keep out
undertow**
and swim on risk of death -
the beach would be littered with broken glass
from all the drunks that took their last drink
on the edge of a stanza.
the water would be turbulent
and *****
and cold,
and you might admire it one twilight,
when the sun is drowning and turning the sea
red,
and you'd say, *oh
that's beautiful.*
and you'd take a photo of yourself
grinning with the sunset at your back
and leave.
i heard a boy once say,
*if i could
i would drown in your poetry.*
oh, no, i thought.
no you wouldn't.
why is drowning such a common theme
in the minds
of readers of poetry?
i imagine it seems
romantic,
in some twisted morbid way -
but i think seeing a bloated corpse
pallid with seawater
missing a limb
or two
would put these delusions to rest.
i imagine seeing
the corpse of a poet
missing a heart
or mind
would put these delusions to rest.
you don't want to drown in poetry.
you want to watch me drown.
i heard a boy once say
*if i could
i would drown in your poetry.*
so says the boy who calls himself an artist
because he can play
'hey soul sister'
on guitar
and will prove it every chance he gets.
you don't want to drown in my poetry,
and even if you did
i doubt you could -
if poetry was bodies of water
you would throw yourself into a hotel swimming pool
miles away from the polluted lake
where i wash in stagnant water.
if poetry was bodies of water
you'd have someone build a koi pond in your backyard
and call yourself a poet.
*if i could
i would drown in your poetry,*
he said
and i told him to prove it.
*if i could
i would drown in poetry,*
she said.
the only people who say
they want to drown in poetry
are the people who don't know what it means.
the only people who drown in poetry
are the people who have no choice.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
~
*Time is a dark feeling
—the spell of a vanishing loveliness;
in the present mist
the imperatives in the wind
move less and less.
Haul away the anchor,
this is not a safe place.
Between insufficient coasts
—a land of look behind—
science is dead,
pessimism in the remaining oar,
and flies in the eyes of the Queen.
Their graves decorate the spine
on the east bank
they call Euthanasia,
each crucifix made of plasticine.
There's a discursive quality to the sea,
I can see the pearl fishermen,
the empty dancehall,
victims of latitude and eclipse.
I can see the tattered sleeves
of Edmund Fitzgerald and the pockets
of emptiness inside,
hoping to quell the hunger
of the cruelest month.
I can see an underwater country,
colonized by the unborn children
of pregnant African women
thrown off of slave ships
during the Middle Passage.
I can see myself sinking;
farewell my sorrow,
keeping precarious time
against a backdrop
of silence less and less;
its final sound being
that of seagulls
flying away into the distance
—a force of nature that’s
both solemn and inspirational
in equal parts.*
~
Dec 31, 2023
Dec 31, 2023 at 8:06 AM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
The fourth day was spent comatose
Mind locked away, matter did play
Dancing the steps of the Ent
Uncaring of anything when the throne was in sight
Earthly pleasures before the storm
This place was struggling to breathe
Mistakes taking shape and walking
The fog is blinding, Oh sweet little pea
The fifth day was a resurrection of sorts
A new man with new power to drink
Arrogance returned with the blind
Taking flight to the coasts of gold
Again those rusty promises plagued
Whether a doll, a tool, or a foolish venture
Truth was an impossible gesture
It's never that easy, Oh sweet little pea
The sixth day was a realization
Rest came easy when the future didn't bark
The treasure was buried in the yard under ash
And the truth was in the homestead
Everywhere at once, the rain trickled
The seeds did more than sprout
Tap roots and accepting - light words
Let the answers find you, Oh sweet little pea
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
The last time we spoke was in early hours
Full of impersonal inquiry.
The return of encompassing doubt
Brings back images birthed from tragic experience.
Trailing blood lines lead to the southern coasts
And I begin to doubt the intention of my late inclination.
Another lover unable to contain my heart
Another running away from the abyss of ugly honesty.
It's all very overwhelming and too much to bear.
I will return to live in the well of my brain
And dream of the ocean.
No one will hear this mournful siren trapped in the earth,
For I have picked the most hidden tree to observe from my depth.
Even if they traverse the infinite path,
Only those who bare insanity will look away from the branches of knowledge
And find these pupils in the infernal darkness.
But my heroes never know how to temper these depths,
Either falling to their death
Or painfully giving up with rightful indignation.
The waves of my thought deafen this soul
To the courageous explorers of my immortal caves.
Leave me to the well of my brain, darling.
The early hours bleed into dawn
As I think on the embarrassment I feel in love.
I have much more to understand
And you don't deserve my naivety.
I decide to close my eyes
And force your departure.
Finally, I can sleep with the ease of accepted solitude.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 4:39 PM UTC
I woke upon this winter’s morn,
with Christmas in my heart,
despite the news across the earth,
and grayness it imparts.
Reports of quakes and Etna,
with its crest blown to the sky,
while Central Sulawes’ floods,
chased people for their lives.
In Syria, its people mourn,
the tears and blood they’ve shed,
their civil war, it rages still,
marks eight years with its dead.
The fires that swept our golden state,
left thousands without homes,
its victims living now in tents,
with nothing of their own.
While winds of last year’s hurricanes,
have raged on southern shores,
in Florida and eastern coasts,
all shook us to the core.
The caravan of people fled,
from countries to the south,
have braved too much already,
for a wall to shut them out.
Our country, now divided,
on beliefs we hold too close,
while people spew their hatred at,
those who challenge them the most.
And those who are in power,
cannot see beyond their nose,
to what tomorrow wants from us,
and what our world needs most.
But still, I see the kindness,
and the love in passersby,
when someone gives a hand to those,
who need it more than I.
I see the hope in children’s eyes,
where love and truth prevail,
when treated as tomorrow’s hope,
when peace on earth has failed.
So let us focus on the grace,
so often overlooked,
and make our resolution be,
to share our love on earth!
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
I have a voice behind this tongue
But it's shy and clumsy
My voice will hide behind my tongue
And trip itself to bits
My voice it rides the waves of rhythm
Gently up, and coasts back down
But when my tongue breaks waves of rhythm
My voice hides in the sand
My voice is flawed but perfect, when
My tongue gets in the way
And though I know what to say then
My voice just cannot say
My tongue, my enemy, my slippery friend
That causes my speech to basically end
On the most awkward of notes, and that's how he wins
When I cannot speak, he just sits back and grins
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC