"examines" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
in 1992, a child is born
and handed a gift.
he opens the box labelled "life"
and examines its contents.
a blanket hand-stitched
with hope, perseverance,
and comfort
draped over a teddy bear
stuffed with fearful nightmares,
and heartache.
a blue jar labelled "sadness",
containing fluttering butterflies
symbolizing joy.
a ticket for the rollercoaster
he's finally tall enough to ride,
with no warning
of the endless ups and downs.
that two-minute rush
of adrenaline
followed by hours
of motion sickness.
this child
is now twenty six.
he is staring at the empty
box labelled "life" -
at the worn-out blanket
lying next to
the teddy bear's stuffing -
at the shards of blue glass
and butterfly corpses -
at the torn up carnival ticket.
he regrets ever accepting this gift.
- v.m
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
The artichoke
With a tender heart
Dressed up like a warrior,
Standing at attention, it built
A small helmet
Under its scales
It remained
Unshakeable,
By its side
The crazy vegetables
Uncurled
Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,
Throbbing bulbs,
In the sub-soil
The carrot
With its red mustaches
Was sleeping,
The grapevine
Hung out to dry its branches
Through which the wine will rise,
The cabbage
Dedicated itself
To trying on skirts,
The oregano
To perfuming the world,
And the sweet
Artichoke
There in the garden,
Dressed like a warrior,
Burnished
Like a proud
Pomegrante.
And one day
Side by side
In big wicker baskets
Walking through the market
To realize their dream
The artichoke army
In formation.
Never was it so military
Like on parade.
The men
In their white shirts
Among the vegetables
Were
The Marshals
Of the artichokes
Lines in close order
Command voices,
And the bang
Of a falling box.
But
Then
Maria
Comes
With her basket
She chooses
An artichoke,
She's not afraid of it.
She examines it, she observes it
Up against the light like it was an egg,
She buys it,
She mixes it up
In her handbag
With a pair of shoes
With a cabbage head and a
Bottle
Of vinegar
Until
She enters the kitchen
And submerges it in a ***
Thus ends
In peace
This career
Of the armed vegetable
Which is called an artichoke,
Then
Scale by scale,
We strip off
The delicacy
And eat
The peaceful mush
Of its green heart.
7.2k
The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.
On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.
He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and
he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
A man went for a walk one day. He seemed to be searching for something as he hurried about, "Just a rock covered in dirt nothing special he says while he walks away".
A little girl walking down the same path carefully inspects each rock
She examines each one and than picks up the same rock that the man
had rejected.
She holds it in her hands lifts it up toward the sun and says," you may not look like much outside , but I have a feeling that your true worth lies within you".
She excitedly skips down the path and brings it home and proudly presents the rock to her father.
He carefully takes the rock and breaks it open and discovers the treasure that lies within, a geode that is sparkling like diamonds in the light.
In life people at times are too quick to judge according to appearances alone. They hurry through life seem to be searching for something but not taking time to discover what life has to offer us through one another. They might even perceive that another person is like dirt,and with that misconception they miss out in discovering another's true worth.
Upon closer examination they might discover that the other person has many great qualities and can become a treasured friend.
If only they would slow down and take the time to take a closer look so that they don't miss the hidden treasure that lies within.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
Dear, let me tenderize you like meat slap the silliness from heat bubbling bubbling bubbling to a boil.
Dear, let me technically arouse you by letting each word escape like exasperation, a depletion of the senses as every finger or pressure point examines your body from head-to-toe.
Dear, let me be no longer ashamed to touch or hold you close, let our breathing and beating submerge into higher thinking.
Incinerating flames that lick the grate.
Dear, let me dive deep into the crevice of your brain, all mushy grey matter, all the same.
Dear, let me slice it open and **** out all the juices, licking licking licking each curve and crevice,
My supple pink snake-like tongue reaching deeper deeper deeper into your mind.
Dear, let me sink into your reality, bit by bit, and piece by piece until cohesiveness lays its eggs inside the deep hole within you.
Dear, let me scratch the surface, trading dimes for dust and pecs for fluff.
Let me swim in the depths of your hectic personality.
Let me get to know you and all your originality.
Let me breathe in your values and slurp up your mature decisions.
Let me caress your life like two bulbous lights that hang from the existence of time.
Let me illuminate you, serenade you, quiz you while ********* your sense of self-esteem.
Dear, let me dream your dreams.
Dear, let me sink my ***** mind games into your wet social brain.
Don’t let the pressure get to you.
Passion may play a key part in the sway!
Let me suckle your sweet thoughts, play with your deriving initiatives.
Let me hold your ideas in the sweat of my thighs, burning with desire to see myself through cobalt eyes.
Let me feel the hot ***** of your ethical intentions and clear apparitions.
Let me analyze your prerogatives and **** with your distribution methods.
Dear, let me fiddle with your political views, (in the “other room”) and tickle your soft solutions on creating a world of doom.
Let me ****** your sustainability, flirt with your progressive mindset, and squeeze your plump ambitions until they burst!
Dear, let me push gently on your sensitive issues with your parents until they become less apparent.
Let me stroke your disagreements with foreign policy until they shriek with mercy!
Let me take you further and touch your blind senses to a pink paranoia of retentive defensive pretenses.
Let me cuddle and snuggle your sense of self-worth and pleasure your brain with mind-bending words.
Dear, let me dance with your intelligence
until we sink into oblivious mind-sex bliss…….
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Pat, pat, pat—a constant rhythm as the raindrops collide against her umbrella, shielding her like a knight from countless tiny foes. She goes about her day, a bouquet of vibrant flowers picked along her travels cradled in her arms, whispering sweet nothings to herself.
It’s the details she longs to capture and hold forever. She examines the delicate wet spot on a petal, magnifying each perfect imperfection—the subtle curves, the soft hues—because in that reflection, she sees herself, and there’s beauty in that too.
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 3:24 PM UTC
Sam walks around the galaxies
and reaches for each star that he passes by
Hoping he’d get warm from even just one,
– or two
of those flickering lights
And I stared.
Sam wanders in circles
looking for utopia
under the bushes, above the clouds
Out there somewhere
there might be a Shangri-la
And I stared.
Sam examines the deepest seas
Two hundred, then five
– a thousand meters below
wondering if he can still build a campfire
and enjoy his sweet beer and s’mores
And I just stared.
But Sam stared back.
Sam pulled out his empty heart
and stitched me up in there
curious of how it would feel
So together with his heart I beat,
then I was beaten
Because Sam was a scientist,
and he wanted to know what love is
He wanted to test if it could ****
and I –
I was just his willing experiment
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
<> for the love of friends<>
How does one write
of one he knew not?
the ancillary evidence
mounts relentlessly,
the double toil and trouble moments
edged now, slow vanquished by
steady accumulation
of the evidentiary
a man who lived his life well,
will be inevitably,
nay, justifiably, deservedly
be well remembered...
one examines the evidence with
eyepiece lenses calibrated
to one's own soul,
for this is the natural condition
of humanity
yet wonder,
what manner, what scale,
does one rightly employ
to judge another's
plantings in the soil?
rightly judge another?
then you hear
a woman say,
she knew not knew
this man Eryc,
revealing an honest tertiary,
even cursory knowledge
of an anecdotal life well lived
our shared quandary,
yet she solves
this judicial issue
by asking of herself
a question
so stunningly elementary,
which both
asks and answers
the double risk
you have imposed,
to write of one you can never behold,
and in doing so,
judge thyself...
What Would Eryc Do?
this crystal rapid current question
erodes doubt, the fear to tread
where one knows not
when a stranger says to another,
indeed to many others:
heard tell of this young man,
and know now to ask myself
when I too am junctured, in doubt,
What Would Eryc Do?
there is no doubt, no juncture,
just a provident question
a makers's mark
of and upon a man,
whose future shortened,
will live far, far longer than most,
if one simple applies
a standard to one's own life of
What Would Eryc Do?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Hazel wants to put off going home, she
Loves Paris, and being with her maid Dunne
Has somehow made it seem to her that much
More enjoyable, much more than she thought
When she started out from London, but each
Day now, each moment, seems to bring her to
A closeness she has never had with a
Maid before. She watches now as Dunne sits
Beside her outside the restaurant on
The Champs Elysees, the way she holds the
Cup, the head to one side, the eyes focused,
So aware. The clothes she had bought her for
The trip to Paris fit her well, and she
Looks after them as if she were afraid
They might spoil in the noonday sun, folds them
At night so precisely, so carefully.
Hazel sips her coffee, the noon sunshine
Warms her. Dunne examines the menu, tries
To understand the French written there, her
Finger running down the list. Hazel wants
To place her hand over Dunne’s, feel it, sense
The life there in the pulse. When Dunne helped her
Bath the night before, her hands were so soft,
So gentle, her attention to detail,
Her touch. Hazel sighs. Less of a maid now,
At least she sees her less so, seems more a
Companion, yes, that’s it, she says to
Herself, companion. The word seems odd
In her mouth, like saying Doris instead
Of Dunne. A class thing, she assumes, that seems
To separate, putting people into
Different boxes. Dunne sips her coffee
And looks at Hazel. The eyes seem to drink
Her in. Hazel shyly smiles. If her friend
Margaret had not let her down at the
Last moment she would not have brought Dunne; she’d
Have made love to her Margaret in the bed
At night rather than lie there watching Dunne
And listening to her breathing. Yet she’s
Glad now that Margaret hadn’t come, the
Relationship had grown stale. Now there is
Dunne. Fresh, alive, sitting there beside her,
Just a few inches away, bringing a
New dimension to her life, and pushing
To the back of her mind, the desire
Awaking there, a want, and muttering
Silently to herself, looking into
Dunne’s eyes, help me to resist, gazing at
The lips, wanting to touch and to be kissed.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
In a steady, illiterate static
this room is my study.
And you are my book.
Legs spread 'cross my lap
hands firmly upon my frame.
I lean in to see the words.
Your soft lips graze mine
like branded cattle in a glen.
Wet and cold we sit there.
Then your tongue begins flickering
beguiling like the serpent of Eden.
How could I resist but to bite?
I kiss you sweetly
and you kiss me back.
Minutes pass in the study.
My tongue examines your mouth
like a cartographer mapping a new world.
Each slick and slope is wholly new to me.
Teeth clink like crystal glasses
during a wedding day toast.
Eyes shut tight make the black of mourning.
The noises dribbling from our mouths sound akin
to a murderer tromping through the forest mud.
Shovel dragging hard. ...Plop...Plop...Plop...
Our hands run over each other's bodies
open-palmed like a child examining the globe.
I want to feel you from pole to pole.
I pull back and run my fingers through your hair.
Your color is rushed with red and you wipe saliva from your lips.
Your smile is without flaws, and you taste like ambrosia.
I love being literate.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
His bar stool creaks,
quaking ice rattles
as he examines his glass .
His finger swirling liquor,
compressing flavors
with ease and contentment.
He sits
He waits with great patience
and a whiskey drink.
Classy choice, I must say.
I wonder if his blind date
Will feel the same...
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC
they stuff "yes, no matter what" / "you're always wrong" / "what will people say?" / into a flimsy puppet skin / rigidly moving the strings in one direction / whenever someone comes over / they mount the puppet on the wall / proudly showing off their prized creation.
but when their eyes come to a close / the puppet feels scorching strings on its shoulders / it reaches inside / gutted by what it sees / one by one / it examines each phrase / it takes everything out / replaces it with "no" / "I am not always wrong or right" / "what do I say?" / and slowly snips the strings off its shoulders / so it can walk freely.
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 9:22 PM UTC
Have you ever felt that no matter what, you wont quit
Like if Cinderella put on the slipper and the shoe don’t fit.
And her stepsisters barge in and say let me try and put.
The slipper on again because I am sure it was the wrong foot.
Now Cinderella is watching, and her heart is in the grip of fears.
They say they'll break a foot if they have to make the slipper theirs.
To make matters worse, the sister says they would all move on out.
Except for Cinderella, they say she has to care for step mom’s gout.
These sisters would be in the castle, while you remain a servant be
I’m sure Cinderella hoped that something good happen urgently.
None of the sister’s feet fit, and one sister wonders if she could wear it on her face?
By any means she's determined to be sure the shoe fits someplace.
Cinderella thought, Better the face, to cover you up so that other’s cant see.
That thing on top of your neck that is a monstrosity.
But the prince is puzzled, and examines the slipper very closely.
It turns out there is a quarter stuck in it, and so he takes it out.
When Cinderella tries it on again, the shoe fits and there is no doubt.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
Steamy and hot,
The lady shouts two cents, no! three!
For the loaf of bread
People bustling everywhere
Where they are going, no one knows.
The air smells of baked goods and ashy smoke
Vendors call and cry
An old woman covered in a scarlet shawl
Examines a basket of fresh dates
20 cents a pound
Two people are bent over an old tattered rug for sale
With the design of a fiery dragon on the side.
Only 10 dollars.
Letters and fliers blow across the cobbled street
And the sun beats down
Upon ripe grapefruits
And shining sugar coated buns
The Baker Square;
Where I grew up
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
The polyp was benign according to the pathology report.
One of my poems was Published in the Lindberg Edition of the Sr. Perspective, April 2016. The story-poem is called Hidden Treasure, as it first appeared here on Hello Poetry.
Here it is below if you missed it:
Hidden Treasure
A man went for a walk one day. He seemed to be searching for something as he hurried about, "Just a rock covered in dirt nothing special he says while he walks away".
A little girl walking down the same path carefully inspects each rock
she examines each one and then picks up the same rock that the man
had rejected.
She holds it in her hands lifts it up toward the sun and says," you may not look like much outside, but I have a feeling that you’re true worth lies within you".
She excitedly skips down the path and brings it home and proudly presents the rock to her father.
He carefully takes the rock and breaks it open and discovers the treasure that lies within, a geode that is sparkling like diamonds in the light.
In life, people at times are too quick to judge according to appearances alone. They hurry through life, they seem to be searching for something but not taking time to discover what life has to offer us through one another. They might even perceive that another person is like dirt, and with that misconception they miss out in discovering another's true worth.
Upon closer examination they might discover that the other person has many great qualities and can become a treasured friend.
If only they would slow down and take the time to take a closer look so that they don't miss the hidden treasure that lies within.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern
When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue
The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves
She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor
Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck
She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress
In the bookshelf,
Behind easels, pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table
A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her
Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness
Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden
Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as
She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors
Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show
Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around
I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws
All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay
Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world
Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 10:55 AM UTC
Past the moon light
over the tall knoll
under the bows of the mighty
exists a pond
steaming from the warmth of the day
like glass the water is still
it is the stage for countless fireflies
that dance with the evening chill
there on the grandstand
lives the olympian
who gently glides
in silent elegance
looping under ribbons of light
she is the matriarch
of this small kingdom
tucked on the edge of timber
it is here a figure appears
she is not alone
peering from behind the steam
his eyes gleamed
slowly following the white
he examines her majesty
transfixed on ever feather
he watched
feeling strange
he saw what lies before him
a shape yet odd
her glowing feathers she spread
bathed in moon light
her body ached
twisted and full
wings to arms
feathers to curves
beak to full rose
eyes to blue
her hair flowed a gray stream
covering her subtle *******
he fell to his knees
eyes wide
hidden in spring fed grass
his eyes following the slight shadows
of her neck
pass the barren of her belly
down through taut slender legs
he confessed, he declared
that she was his
the maiden now notice
the eyes of another
demands he reveals thy self
from toe to tip
the stunned man stepped
a man of no work or duty
nor rich or fame
he stepped into view
a peasant
her ice blue eyes
weave through his features
their eyes met
and as if fated
they fell at first glance
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
Absolutely and without a doubt she is the
Best thing that ever happened me. She strode
Casually and awkwardly into my life, in the process
Defining for me the until-then
Ever-changing parameters of what I wanted.
**** I can’t get out of my mind this blue eyed
Goddess of a girl who is always
Hoping for something more.
I love her so much and yet I have a habit of playing practical
Jokes to hide how much the distance is
Killing me.
Looking at us, you would never know we’ve spent
More months apart than we had together.
Never did I think that she would be The
One; that love would be so easy; that she would be so
Perfect.
Questions ricochet around the mazes of her mind, she examines the world extensively,
Riveting anyone who takes the time to listen to her discoveries.
Sassy, **** and smart, she’s got everything and
To me she is everything.
Ubiquitous, there is nothing that doesn’t make me think of this girl, life itself serving as a constant
Validation that she exists- that she is not too good to be true.
While the earth rockets its way through space it’s as if
Xanthan gum holds us together, no matter how far apart you
Yank us, we’re stuck like glue. I could talk about her forever, literally
Zillions of words could be said about this wonder of a woman who will never cease to be
The alphabet spelling out the rhythm of my heart.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.
She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.
She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.
Scrupulous? Undeniably so.
She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.
My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Hardly Hidden
*for Helen,
the High Definition brunette momma among us*
there are tracks in your arm
ready visible
to all those
with a personal microscope
if one
optically
examines the empty spaces
tween your poem-words....
the exterior all smiles,
whooping it up,
children, all smiles,
tumbling, breaking things,
ceilings collapsing, winters arriving,
as is the way of the kids
and nature,
inexorable,
occasionally
breaking you to
smile too
Abut to all this
is the contentiousness,
the aboriginal sense of loss
for what once was,
plain out in
in the secret messages sent
and
you know
you own
my all
unuttered utter devotion
we need no qualification
of what we are
we are friends,
not drinking buddies,
the straight out
semi-secret fans
of each other
thousands of miles apart
of simple purity borne,
you warm me
with endless jokes
and familial tales
and I thank you
for sharing, for trusting,
me with that troubling notion
that I am missing
a sorrowful deepening
that is
after a wellness examination
hardly hidden
but t'is heard around the world,
gunshot to my heart,
come to me when
ever
is understood that this
paean ~ pain ~ poem
is a simple wayfarer's way
of declaring
forever
I know you are sleeping now,
but when the fall sun breaks,
here is hoping me that you
break into private tears
in private places
like the ones decorating me,
celebrating
the best of what
humans
can be
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
He examines the when
He examines the how
The what, the who, the huh? The seriously?
Then came to a conclusion that it could not be concluded
His love for her was a contradiction
The most beautiful thing wrapped up in the ugly of this world
His love for her was hypocritical
Hates how things folds and mold to the body of mere humans
But loves the same things on his Goddess
She was his Goddess
He could never understand how something so wrong could be so fulfilling to praise
In ways that would be considered a sin
She was his sin
He loved the ways her eyes would not twinkle in the sun nor moon light
How she could be so ordinary
How she completely disregards everything that is his disability
How never had he heard
The letters O,C or D placed together in the constellation of words
That spills from her mouth into the Milky Way
It scared him how fast words could escape the cage of her mouth
Without a second thought
He envied the confidence she had in her words
He loved the way she loves the beach
He was afraid of how careless he was with life
For he would follow her anywhere she went
Even if it was as scary as the beach
He feels himself as Icarus
Deliberately flying closer to the sun
So that he could be swallowed into the liquefied breaths of his Goddess
This is how he sees his love
This is how he feels his love. This is how he loves her
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
The poet examines her work
leafs through the crumpled papers
watching handwriting change
from entry to entry
sometimes within poems
as if emotion dictates scrawl-
lighthanded, looping, or harsh and flat
She stops on a few
drawn in by memory
or lines like dreams
where she imagined sleepless nights
or the end of a life
anything her mind could imagine
fleshed out with the fluidity of a stream
The words had always been in
her brain. It is impossible to know
if they would have disappeared
with nowhere to go
if she hadn’t guided her pen to paper
everyday, writing about whatever
or whomever. Like the sketch artist
she has gotten better everyday
the words appearing quicker and quicker.
This might be due to English class
it’s hard to say
regardless she has grown-
like a tree budding in Spring
learning everything has a purpose
The poet is not just a poet
she catches snippets from novels-
the dialogue or introduction or
internal stream of consciousness
clanking around her brain
She once wrote a fairytale
about a boy who spoke to trees
All of them are precious-
they are pieces of her soul
spread out on lined paper
calling out for a life that imagines,
wonders, feels free,
does not stand still-
floats on the breeze like the eagle
She has learned a thing or two
from Sylvia Plath:
the good stuff
the quality of dissonant language
the stanza-length-decision
Before she would write whatever
sounded nice- she might still
The poet, satisfied, closes the journal
imagining that one day
her poems would reach into the
minds of the world- gently
drawing out dreams-
inspiring words like she has been inspired
And she closes her eyes with an exhale
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
i.
no love songs, now...no lost, no forlorn
no love songs to the mourn
awake (too late) mind racing,
words floating images roiling...
a poet's heart made empty,
boxing shadows in the dark,
*a broken dreams club
a bell echoes*
ii.
*(like a boxer past his prime
sitting in his corner head hung, bowed,
slips his gloves and examines taped knuckles
as though they, too, have defeated him)
a bell echos
a broken dreams club*
iii.
the muse abides, and, perhaps, at least
the poet may regain his voice but for now -
no love songs, now...
no laments, no elegy
*a bell echos
a broken dreams club*
iv.
every poets' muse -
fall in love, absolutely, true love is, for him,
the embodiment of his muse, indistinguishable,
the goddess, manifest in her absolute glory
and the woman, made her instrument -
*a bell echos
a broken dreams club*
v.
*what do i see?
a bowl with a quarter and a pocketknife
a lamp
a clock with dull red numbers glowing
a book of verse
and in the distance
a bell echoes
a broken dreams club*
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 4:09 PM UTC