"gabriella" poems
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
I blend cry not,
An antic land, lest not
Trot
Blot
On a sparkling terrain
Epitome Heaven,
Lo!
That I hearken an Archangel yet?
Gabriella tears, rears, near:
I saw a stag, reindeer, lag, and flag in the distant snowy mountains…
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 5:13 AM UTC
...and going to state...action.
The jade edge of the writing compartment showed luminescent in the venetian-split rays of an afternoon sun.
Pillar Vas-Gurta gestured a heavy mop like hand towards the cigar case.
Take as many as you like, he mouthed. But everything suspicious
caused in me an urgent decline. You are always too generous Pillar,
I uttered with feigned diplomacy; the dense undertow carrying off the forfeit.
Why are the Arm-ericans not displaying a greater sense of co-operation,
Pillar questioned the telephone in thick Polish, and to me the single nod of a telephone rung off, his reply was as good as a grunt.
As he finished the call; Ah now, come sit young Valentin, if you’ll none of my Cubans come sit and sip Cognac with me at least, spend a moment with an excellent mint.
Untroubled by the American question, Pillar, eyes like hurricanes, hair curled on his forhead with the oil of a whistle, teeth forged, as if by a village blacksmith, patient and keen to devour conversation, was not a man to be declined twice in one afternoon.
Pillar was a man who’s stubble grew as he considered each of his thoughts: and the skewer fed silence that connected fear with steel.
I sense Valentin you are withholding something, are you troubled, rumbled the Polish border, is the Cuban smoke a little too dense for your sensibilities, My friend, my friend you are troubled, so tell me.
Please. I answered for the cognac. And for the writing compartment.
I see it is from Gabriella. His flash, dense and swift as a school of minnows turning their escape into silver, caught me unaware; the weight in my question.
He loves this woman. Here it is then. Even Pillar is vulnerable.
You do not answer Valentin. No I’m sorry, I mumbled. Something troubles me. Please tell me Pillar, why am I here, why have you called me.
Ah the question that cuts to chase the rabbit. As you say. Or something like that, no. You are here Valentin because I like you. You may think, there is nothing I like, and that also may be true. But the cigar must be smoked to appreciate its fullness.
And it that moment, Pillar reached for the razor in his sleeve. Before he was aware, I had seen the gesture. The heel of my shoe captured his nose. The cognac glass filled slowly; a distortion of colour. Pillar sat motionless at his desk. Draining with the final swill. The jade edge of the writing compartment offering a seal of approval; Gabriella's last kiss.
The cigar case remained open and untouched.
I had taken as many as I'd liked.
...and Cut..
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
in a world where we're all so conditioned to believe that the only thing we should strive to be is the gabriella, we become so disillusioned when it is revealed that we're a sharpay. we fail to realize that supporting characters are individuals in their own right; sharpay has her own story and her own motivations. and who are we to demonize her for that?
what are you supposed to do when you grow up realizing that you're the mean girl that you're so conditioned to hate? you're to aspire to be everything that regina is not, yet you turned out plastic. but is that wrong?
these negatively portrayed women are still women; women with desires and passions that they hold true. these women exist in life. those mean "popular" girls, who seem to never truly have friends, are titled "popular" so no one feels bad about tearing them down.
these women exist and are more than a plot device to force the perfect protagonist into her perfect love interest's arms.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
Still Gabriella swears by the colour red,
Torn sashes of yesterday can only consume
the mindset of her forgotten azure,
as the neck of dawn sneaks accidentally,
Yellow's parody the greater shame,
no school or satchels of mouldy black,
behind the lumme
she needed more time,
like a fulcrum balancing taciturn's turn.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
The first time I saw you
I thought you were a boy
January ten, you had just arrived
now the wild nine year old that I basically raised
too much energy, but eats too little.
the lego playing, dragon-loving, wild-life biologist
who loves Alexander Hamilton
she laughs at my jokes, she's my light
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
Lit by the stars, she came as would a dream
On velvet wings, so celestial
Beneath the pearl white moonlight
I saw her in the sky
And as the sun set below the edge of the world
I saw a divine panorama
The night sky, full of sorrow and majesty
I see
I long for the night to be gone
And the day to return
In this sorrow I burn....
In the dark of the night I see her there
In the absence of light I feel her stare
She will not be the one to set me free
She returns to torture me
When I close my eyes I cannot escape
The dying eyes in her beautiful face
I am locked in silence though I want to scream
When I am forced to dream
Like an ice-cold fire she dwells within
Freezing and burning my heart all at once
And oh, how the darkness bleeds its way
Into my fragile soul
And the shadows of the past
Are reflecting in the mirror
These eyes, saw her die
Beneath an ebony sky
Now depression settles in
And it dwells beneath my skin
In this miserable life
I long only to die
And my dear Gabriella, she appears in the stellar
Light that shines upon the pale creation
Resting in the autumn night
My angel of depression, I am sure that she was sent down
By the heavens to destroy my mind, my heart, my soul
She has
And in the dark of the night I see her there
In the absence of light I feel her stare
She will not be the one to set me free
She returns to torture me
When I close my eyes I cannot escape
The dying eyes in her beautiful face
I am locked in silence though I want to scream
When I am forced to dream
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
The night before
Was gone for longer
Periods of time
Men on horseback
Soon arrived
My eyes sought
On the knights
For they would not open to doors
As the walls circulated around me
I fear the worst
As I cry out for I feel trapped
Because
The night before
was gone for longer
Periods of time
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
Vermillion streaks in stratus, dark
Against the very heart of night,
Bands of deep red in the shroud
Portend approaching cyclone's might.
Morning shards of fractured cloud
Stream across a shattered sky,
Smothered sun in shadowed orb
Against where apprehension's lie.
South East winds arising now
Tussock billowing in dale
Trees commence a windward thrash
In lieu of kiss of coming gale.
Greyness of a leaden sea
In the lee of storm's approach,
Beneath the streaming sand dunes
The seagulls shelter, in reproach.
Mounting gusts of boisterous wind
Cascade along the lamp lit way
Schoolgirls shriek as skirts fly high
And ominously, skies turn grey.
Supermarkets, in the city
Teem with queues in panic buy,
Grab bags now the urgent item
Just in case the flooding's high.
Traffic blocks the bridge and byways
Wan in headlights falling rain,
Anxiously, the need to be home
Frought anticipation's pain.
All the birds have disappeared
Vanished, in the sudden still,
Eery in the misting rainfall
Frightening, in a mystic chill.
Havoc as she sets upon us
Howling wind and teeming rain,
Horizontal onslaught blasting
Gabriella's Song by name!
Bridges under siege with flooding
Trees down over roads,
Monstrous waves in tidal surging
Causing coastal overloads.
Imprisonment by sandbags
As flooded rivers overflow
In blinding rain of maelstrom teeming
Anywhere and everywhere you go.
Inundated cars on freeway
Flashing hazards submerged deep,
Rescued souls lost, bewildered
In sudden-ness disaster reaps.
Massive trees are torn asunder
Blasted foliage thrashing wild
Torrents rage through streambed gullies
Gabrielle, destruction's child!
..............
Aftermath of horror's silence
Hollow eyed and gaping jaw
A nightmare for your sanity?
Nay, Gabriella's Song.... is flawed.
M@Foxglove,Taranaki NZ
Feb 13, 2023
Feb 13, 2023 at 8:04 PM UTC
They said baby come home,
Worried and anxious about how you living alone,
I said i'd lost patience sick and tired of waiting for your dreams to come along,
And so i packed my bags, wrote a note and i was gone!
what does it feel like to be me?
When you stare at my reflection what'd you see?
A smudged painting, ripped canvas that's all i could be
An error in your work of art
You forgot i chose my life
I am glad i let go because now i can breathe
They said baby come home,
Although It's not the same, people ambushed, still put to shame
Killed for sport, life cut short used as the governments pawn,
I heard a baby wail, a mother cry gunshots that have left a wound that will take 5 generations to heal,
An orphaned child grown but immature to fulfil his fathers will
Hate, revenge and melancholy is all the heart can feel
Numb to love , peace, joy because he was raised in a warzone
Homes become barracks
Relatives become comrades
Friends become foes
Prying over deep rooted pains feeding off people's ignorance so long noone knows
But i know,
The soil bleeds me, when night time comes i listen to the moon console the land beneath me
I transform into a Goddess, strong and ready for battle,
The lines on my face and the past i carry is fatal
Remember abantu!!!
Remember abantu!!!
We can no longer fight for what rightfully belongs to us, that time is past
Ndezvedu!...
To continued.
Done by Gabriella Kundiona (Afrikka)
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC