"distilled" poems
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water --
deep gulps, infinite sips.
Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.
Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.
Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
shelf
to the end of time.
Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
grandma's sauce.
Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
---
I've done some research
On cancer's cause
Western medicine, Dr Oz.
They don't have answers, I'm afraid.
And the cure is in what GOD made.
Cancer's vector? A simple virus.
A parasite and a fungus.
Candida overgrowth.
Radiation. Stress.
We all face this in the West.
So are there answers? Well. Let's see.
Tell me if you don't agree.
Sodas should go down the drain
They have sugar or aspertame.
Sugar feeds cancer. Cut it out!
I KNOW that this will make you pout
But you can find nuts a tasty treat
Find some that you like to eat!
Say NO to coffee. All caffeine.
Eat kale and other leafy greens.
If you want nutrition saved
Cut the cord on your microwave!
They watered plants
with water nuked
They died. Nutrition down the tubes.
So no TV dinners. Processed foods.
No fruits or veggies grown GMOs.
WHEAT is bad! And on it goes.
So it may cost a little more?
Shop your local health food store!
What does it matter?
What's cancer's cost?
And your life will not be lost!
If you tire of reading this
There may be important
things you miss... READ ON!
NATURAL REMEDIES FOR CANCER
Blackstrap molasses. 1 tablespoon
Baking soda. 1 teaspoon
Mix with a glass of water and drink.
(Baking soda should be found at
a health food store)
Blackstrap molasses can also be used
topically for skin cancer.
Tincture of the husk of the
Black walnut nut. 2 drops
Tincture of clove. 2 drops
Tincture of wormwood. 2 drops
Mix in a glass of water and drink. Add lemon and honey.
It'll taste better.
IMPORTANT!
DO NOT USE TAP
OR BOTTLED WATER!
Get distilled water and add
Minerals in liquid form.
Your health food store will have this.
There are many herbs and spices
Which help.
There's iodine in common kelp.
Turmeric
Cucumin
etc.
VERY POWERFUL
Soursop tea. Green tea sans caffeine
Fresh vegetables of the rainbow...
Colors are viamins!
Vitamin supplements
Especially B-17
If you can't find these in your
Health food store ask them to order.
Or go on Amazon and order.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
gods and goddesses stilled mid-flight,
immortalized in a glory fast fading.
distilled sunlight filtering through, unheeded,
as a devastating dawn for redemption awakens.
_dust scattering over marble hands, forever supple,_
as angels fall from grace,
wings clipped and torn asunder.
the sigh of a thousand lost souls, searching;
the thunder of a thousand chariots, unbridled.
_a wing outstretched, a bow pulled taught;_
drawn, not fired.
frozen heroes lifting voices unheard;
_the calm before a storm, a fight unforeseen,_
silver linings beckoning victories
of heaven's epics left unsung.
look up into the clouds and you'll see a history unwritten,
for they speak to you in murals
of smeared colors and pure light.
but hush! sweet child,
off you drift into an insincere sleep,
until these stories buried beneath your lips,
singed, searing, burning away memories of the battles that
linger ,over your tongue ,
are no more than a shadow of a flame.
and as his lashes flutter closed over blue eyes
and his heavy golden curls fall on white sheets
she whispers,
_the renaissance was not painted for you._
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
#*Words are the chemicals
Packed in vials sublime
Untouched pure in time
Their base Property lyrical
Words are the coefficients
Reactants , The Thoughts and Emotions
To balance the emotional equation
Poetic are the words omniscient
Combustible the thoughts, fragile the emotions
Handle with care , the equations
Cold storage processed, refilled
Magnanimous ,the words distilled
Thoughts never too dormant
Never static the emotions
The words a kinetic solution
Potential they have Charmant*#
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
I adored the very action of blowing dust-motes off a box.
Watch it dance in the distilled air.
I like the sight it presents.
One where the past snaps the silence of today.
Slowly but surely
re-etching how much time has passed
on the corners of my bruised heart.
Once, happiness and sweetness, those dust-motes are just greyed out.
They kiss my cheeks and eyelashes.
I never blew the remnants of time again.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
Wild rose, aggressive usurper,
relentless conqueror of attention, quarrels
wants to make me jelous,
pretends she is nothing but poetry distilled,
stops at every table and whispers:
"He is hard prose, the syntax, I can't grasp"
Unmindful of sly looks from various corners,
that in fact suggest, I had good riddance,
I am concerned about the clutter on my desk,
that escaped my notice during the days I was in that chasm
I was deeply in to Dostoevsky,
my cleansing ritual on such occasions: the Russian masters
when she passed my cubicle she spies Chekhov
lying on my table, waiting his turn
"The lady with the lapdog"* she reads aloud, with suspicion
would she ever understand, what Dostoevsky to me,
would have told?
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Listen, it's a beautiful thing
when distilled to its essence;
reduced to its purest form.
A paradox and a paradigm;
a paragon of perfection.
Epic in its arythmetic
progression; poetic.
Like Chinese arithmetic,
so hard it hurts. Yet soft
and exquisite, like a bubble
of love caught in a beating heart.
That place where poetry starts.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
There's an earthy blood-smell to lavender
It surprises you when the nose gets too close
Once you get past the modest skirted blooms
To find the green blood of torn out flower
Fetid black dirt clings to blood ragged roots
Blue-black blood of returning vena cava
Lavender scented babies and lavender tinted men
Planted for eternity underneath fertile soil
And blood-rise suns bake their tender heads
Blood drenched scent tempts the droning insects wing
Their distilled spirits resurrected in hives
Their earthly blood now ours to imbibe.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
.
O
o o
O
O o
O
•fill our beak-
er with un-
told chem-
icals•com-
patible so-
lvents that
fizz... with
bubbles•m-
ix them in to get
the most homogene-
ous of solutions•introdu-
ce heat in the likes of passion
•never a clean reaction, there will
be residue• never right the first time,
failed attempts will be a few......• but once
distilled from undesirable impurity•........then
handle the mixture with utmost sensitivity........•
you'll get a result that can't be bought with money•
because this love in our hearts is the product of
pure chemistry•
.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
I came along to your garden, to see your chillies growing
Unaware of what laid in wait, or what was really showing
There stood a glass a lidded drink, familiarity of knowing
If that's what I think it is, I don't want it overflowing
Do my eyes forsake me, is that a fluid from the body
Is that froth of a good beer, or from a head that's shoddy
Does it look like what it is, a very dodgy toddy!
Ghoulish drinks will turn you green, like Goblins are in Noddy
What the hell you thinking off, with water that's distilled
It smells like the local gents, so it should not be spilled
I don't mind a special brew, but this time I'm not thrilled
Unusual cocktails are okay, but not ones you have filled
Aren't beverages supposed to be, refreshing and thirst quenching ?
You say that it's good to drink, but really it's gut wrenching
An endless supply you may have, but it should be toilet drenching
Don't ever make a wankers drink, by using a fist clenching
You wouldn't want this drink on tap, it defies imagination
It's just the same as a lady, drinking her own ************
It maybe the water of life, but it's just urination
Aqua vitae is not my idea, of a real drink designation
Even just the thought of it, makes me feel sick and hazy
To drink a glass of this stuff, you must be ******* crazy
Well talk about recycling, or are you just bog lazy
Is Harvey Denton related, or do you live in Royston Vasey
People like to drink sometimes, is there something I have missed
You seem to have your own ideas, but with a certain twist
A brand new meaning you have brought, to getting yourself ******
Golden showers are one thing, but that's when your sexually kissed
There's one thing I'd like to know, so what do you say
Why do you think that drinking **** will keep the germs away
It cant be very good for you, it's an inside body spray
Your just drinking toilet water, hay Jay are you ****** today ?
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Compliments to the baker
and so too my Barista
Smoothest crema on the tongue
juxtapose to lemon vapour.
Intense acute sensations
insist I close my eyes
Submit in rare humility
in awe of nature's true franchise.
Clarion note of citron zest
resounds on mellow creamy seas
Mediterranean sun distilled
now is witnessed here in me.
Tempered, rounded bitter hues
from Amazonian dark recess
waited aeons to infuse
and bring about this wanton bliss.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
Senseless beauty,
Indulge every chance you get.
In that galactic heart of yours,
Where stars are dense as wild flowers
Covering the dark ranges of space.
Where the greatest lessons are distilled
In your subtle flavours and delicate
complexities of your new sensorium.
Eat your guilt, and do not look at your tortured mate.
The lesson is pleasure not pride.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Your father was raised in Panama. I can imagine him vividly... The floral silk shirt with velvety red cravat, tan leather loafers, waxed-to-perfection moustache, and a big cigar. It was the late sixties and he was beautiful. I've never seen a photo but I can tell by the way you talked about him. His joi de vivre oozed into your stories and I recognized it: the distilled essence of his elegance was passed to you, and you shared it with me.
We met by our mutual attraction for showing off... I wanted to be treated like a delicate porcelain treasure - you wanted a plastic toy with the price tag of an heirloom. Twenty five years my senior and you still hadn't learned your lesson about girls like me... I may have broken your heart, but you should've known a tryst between the free-spirited edge of seventeen and a businessman with dreams of Panama would burn out in the end, just like your father's cigar.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Because the thirst wouldn’t simmer; it ruptured cities into boils,
turned cultures into armies, an armageddon of cheeky stubborn Irish Catholics and thick veined Germans couldn’t imagine a world without their stout hearty headed pint.
Because white dry protestant angels thought crime existed in a vacuum, in a filthy saw-dusted saloon, the hub spawn of evil.
Because twice as many of those saloons were ******* by unlicensed blind pigs, not through free swinging doors on the streets, but in the domestic sphere; in the dark crept crevices of household sanctuaries.
Because bootlegging capitalist princes turned the industry into a stenchy liability with their home brewed distilled poisons. Alky cookers wrapped the commodity fetish and dubbed it moonshine.
Moonshine – spirits for the poor and blind.
Because this social reform was a moral reform lost in the oblivion of politics, lost in the timeliness of progressive spring-cleaning referenda’s.
Because the ragged, toothless class had to be scold, striped clean of their traditional barings,
because wisdom is everything and they’re spirits ran vilely wild.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
1540
As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away—
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy—
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon—
The Dusk drew earlier in—
The Morning foreign shone—
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that would be gone—
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.
5.4k
like ****** driven samurai's & cerebral poisoned psychopaths we slay each other with words.
i choke you with my words and you hang me with yours, but we don't die.
instead all that pain lingers at the back of our eyes and it causes us to see red.
like sharp blades running through bruised skin from an injured soul, we silently dissect wounded minds. every one fights a battle.
s(words) are potent, carefully wield yours.
like lost swords in the wind.
im a samurai poet. i use words as oxygen to help you breath and by reading these words you breath again.
i use words as medicine to transfer positive energy to you, samurai reader.
im a samurai **** im a lost blade in the wind.
i use words like Martin Luther King and set free, i. i set myself free with my own words, i can because im a writer.
words are freedom. words are captivity. words are destruction. words are peace. the tongue is mighty powerful.
i use words to tell dispirited women that their beautiful because they grew up with the idea that beautiful is factory made products. the idea of beautiful is you.
i use words to tell hurt men that they can cry because they grew up being told tigers don't cry. crying is human, and i was told tears are wisdom distilled.
i use words to tell the youth they can be themselves because they grew up thinking acting like a fake gangster is all there is to life. the world is bigger than that.
im a samurai poet. a samurai **** these words are blades. **** life.
stay samurai cool.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
I miss you,
West Texas,
You more than most.
I miss people
And things
But I’ve never missed more,
Than I’ve missed you.
One day, I’ll return to you,
And we’ll be together until I die,
My dear West Texas.
Some say your deserts are unbearably hot,
And I say,
It’s easier to make shade
Than a fire.
Picturesque cacti,
Blooming in the spring,
Sunsets that put oil paintings to shame,
And wild mustangs escaping man’s unyielding possession,
Just like me.
I can see them running along the dusty banks
Of a wide river in canyon carved by the Great Artist Himself,
West Texas,
I want to drive a rusty old truck through hot afternoons till frigid nights,
Miles and miles of sweet loneliness,
Until it’s just you and I,
And I can watch your brilliant display of stars move
Across the endless horizon.
Desert owls,
A serpent’s rattling warning,
Creatures that crave solitude,
As I do,
Emerge in the night,
Like the neon lights of lonely bars in the middle of nowhere,
Sweet prickly pear in perfect harmony with Jose Cuervo in my glass,
A tribute to my lonely West Texas,
Singing me a tune of cicada chirps and desert winds,
And the jingle of spurs on concrete floors,
As the men,
As old and covered in sand as the bar itself,
Make their way in from isolated jobs miles away,
To listen to Tejano,
And sip on that cactus nectar,
Distilled by the Great Bartender
For a night like this,
In my West Texas,
Perfectly lonely,
Perfectly perfect.
I just want it to be me and you
And your hot red sand,
I want to see those yellow blossoms bursting from the deceptively spiny hands of desert life,
I want to hang a dusty, wide brimmed hat above dusty leather boots when I come home,
I want the sky to explode with color,
As a reward for enduring a long day of the heat,
And when the rare jewels from heaven fall, and nourish your cracked ground,
And peace is sworn between all animals,
Predators and prey,
For that moment,
So that all may celebrate the loving dew sent by our Great Caretaker,
I want to dance on your planes,
Twirl in the rain,
And let the drops fall between my lips like the crevices of your canyons,
Brought to life when you are,
Slumber when you do,
Live each day as you live,
My sweet West Texas.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
They warned us not to worry,
Just do our best in school;
Those worldly professionals,
Taught us work-to-rule.
They did a few case studies
On twins from day of birth;
There's a fifty-fifty chance,
A will be born first
They are urban fighters,
Of fire, crime and blame;
They live in high rise condos,
They return from foreign lands.
They wait over subway vents,
Their hearts and heads are bent;
They show-up in walk-ons,
They go without for Lent.
They fly in and out of space,
They don't identify with race;
They're picked up for vagrancy,
They dance cautiously in the street.
They volley warning shots
Across our private dreams;
They sign and seal a peace accord
They're sincere to a degree.
They contribute to the run-off,
And spiked our holy water;
They enlisted Moms and Dads,
Then slaughtered sons and daughters.
They made rings from ivory,
And pale lamp shades from skin;
They list dissipation
As a personal sin.
Then they did unholy things
With wood and nails, then atoms;
They tore at our goodly earth,
Wreaked havoc with their mapping.
They distilled our alcohol,
Made smoking so appealing;
Then they rang the tower bells,
And preached we had no feelings.
They dug deep for wishing wells,
Grew stuff to **** our germs;
They bestowed us rods and reels,
And spades to dig our worms.
They connected us
Through wireless touch;
They counseled us on loneliness,
And the traps of busyness.
They pronounce death is art
When they hang it on a wall;
Then blame it on our women,
In a scene based on our fall.
They're newsy opaque,
In love or hate;
They are the ambiguous,
The they, them and all of us.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Wondering what I should write
and floundering in my own confusion
I thought – why not write about poems
that set me thinking what poems are
A poem could be anything.......!
at best, distilled thoughts put into rhyme
or a moment caught in time
a window glimpse into the world
an engrossing passion’s ardent curl
a snap shot of scenes from Nature- wild
or a slice of life, birth or death
sometimes it could be a yearning
or an image long hung on a pole
a thought turned inside out
or the emptying of a mind about to spill
it could be the liberation of a fancy,
for long held in thralldom
a gnawing pain, long suppressed
or a secret, never divulged
As I pondered over the subjects’ enormity
and a poem’s vast scope,
I asked myself- ‘Why hesitate?’
soon I felt a stir inside,
my thoughts broke loose
a terrible block lifted off my head
my silence became audible
I embroidered these thoughts
into the pattern of a poem
Here it is before you, have a look at it
Will it annoy you or will you enjoy!
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC