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Lash Dec 2018
opportunity knocked;
well
it banged.
awaking me from the sweetest dream of all the things that aren’t,
but could have been.
can they still be?
with hardened dribble on my cheek,
i groaned
“who’s there?
come in.”
hovering over me,
possessing feelings of mere affection
he just stood there.
i felt him
but i never looked up.
see,
i figured
if he wanted my company
he would have made it clear to me.
instead he stood embracing me,
steady mocking the mess i had made of myself.
he didn’t even offer to help.
not a small word or
a shy good luck.
not a simple you’re beautiful,
or demand to get up.
nothing.
he seemed scared.
was i that much of a monster?
a vicious scene to be feared?
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and the money machine.

At the turn of the century when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for common folk to reach out and tell the world something up front and personal, it meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement an epitaph a form of audio immortality ~ life mood emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(this applies to earlier storytellers architects and artists too)

A recording was a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible; a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a real point of view”; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected art to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged covered and played over and over again by artists in the form of "cover music" or become secularized, ****** and constrained by an elite clique or a commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry.
This multi-billion pound industry has made commercial success through the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound & synthetic culture to sell a product!
So what was originally intended as self expression, a historical record, an archive, a personal message, is now sold as a product containing noise, a vehicle for advertising, perpetuating a genre of nonsense, labelling and re-marketing, so much so that there is now more nonsense immortalised "more white noise" than anything else.
To re-cap ~ I Think that art & songs are a form of expressionism, and like story telling they convey moods and messages from the present and past!
If artists and musicians create more than they copy then they are saying more whilst not devaluing the work of their predecessors!
From Alan Lomax to the commercial music machine.
A culture of cover singers, blinkered snobbery and the hermetic music industry !
Leah Faye Aug 2017
A leisurely withdrawal to tranquility,
The sun, she descends.
Signifying an end,
Yet also a beginning -
New start, new change, new opportunity.

Gaze upon the sky spread before you like a canvas.
Mother Nature hand-paints tinges of each hue,
Mellow watercolours from periwinkle to scarlet.
Each day an ever-changing embodiment of her aptitude,
A fresh spectacle of allure.

Halflight turns to scenes of soft dusk,
Tiny opals of stars embellish the stratosphere,
The moon now smiles his spectral lustre.

Even a nirvana remains hollow in your absence -
In beauty, I reminisce,
It's lost, without you.
Have you been searching for that perfect gift?
Want to say something special, give someone a lift?

Are you popping the question?  Is it someone's birthday
But you're just not quite sure of the right words to say?

Is the one that you love feeling lonely or sick?
If a card or a letter just won't do the trick...

Pick up the phone call Poetically Correct
With our help, you'll achieve the desired effect

Just give us some details, and in a short time
You can send someone special, a gift that's sublime

Anniversaries ~ Apologies ~ Any Occasion ~ Baby Dedications ~ Bachelor/Bachelorette Party ~ Birth Announcements ~ Condolences ~ Congratulations ~ Eulogies ~ Father's Day ~ Get Well ~ Graduation ~ Holidays ~ Love ~ Proposals ~Reunions ~ Roasts ~ Secret Admirer ~ Special Friend ~ Surprise ~ Tell 'Em Off ~ Told U So ~ Valentines ~ You Name It
Anyone else interested in this kind of work, writing for the paying public, please let me know. I'd love to work with you.

So many people have the desire to send something deeply personal, but lack the ability or inclination to write for themselves.

It's a niche market that's under served.

I am disabled and looking for work I can do with my physical limitations.



This is what I propose.
ryn Feb 2015
You are the light
That hides below the horizon
I await humbly for your rays
To illuminate this darkened season

You are the beacon
That would build me anew
Equip me with newfound notions
When dreams and hopes are far and few

You are the air
Of a fresh new start
Allowing this body another chance
At retrieving a brand new heart

You are the opportunity
Held my breath for far too long
Soon be granted to live again
And choose the right from the wrong

You are the day
Like many have too often said
Due to arrive after tonight
And embrace me as I laid in bed

You are the tomorrow
The promise of my brand new day
But there have been many tomorrows
That have come and gone away

You are my tomorrow
My future, bearing much needed balm
Maybe tomorrow I may finally realise
**That you would never ever come
Amanda Noel Jul 1
Weeping flowers, creeping vines,
open up as sun shines,
reaching for the light,
closed again before it's night.

Climbing vines, purple flowers,
only stay for a few hours,
soon the petals will all cower...

Small window of opportunity,
But aren't they lovely?
inspiration, beauty, sadness, life, death, confidence and appreciation for it all.
4, 3, 2, .
Khoi-San Oct 2018
My friend passed away recently
We grew up in the same neighbouhood
Played soccer for the same club
He was a very good player
Became alcohol dependent
That's how he died whenever
We meut the guy always
Had that radiance about him
A fresh smile upon greeting
A Positive conversation very uplifting
I might add and that's how he
Will be remembered yet here
In and amongst the good we
Must also allow ourselves
The opportunity to reflect
On some of the ugly stuff
As hurdles that lead to the good
My friend made some bad choices
Though at the end when it counted
He will only be remembered
For the good
A tribute to my friend Mark Vandersandt
Passed away 08/10/2018
God be with you until we meet again
the every day
things of life
can invariably impinge on
our time to write
were we not immersed
in household chores
or going to a place of employment
there'd be more hours
for jotting down a stylish verse
when our tight schedules allow
the opportunity
we have the quill
out ranging
over the unfilled vellum
those many ideas which collect
inside our inspired heads
due to so few minutes
being readily available
we've still managed
an explanatory rendition
on squeezing
a line or two in
I met a girl in the city once who
Was the emerald of Seattle
She loved the arts
And the passion of the
Common man -
It was inspiring
She
Told me
The countryside is all wrong
And I believed her

We'd walk
The sidewalks between
Coffee shops and bakeries
Between
Vacancy and marketing
The line
Between
Businessmen and the homeless
All these people
Like mantises feeding on
Each other's heads and hands
All this opportunity

Then she was swept away
At the light of the
Next city crowd we passed
So I went home again

I met another
Afterwards
From my city who
Told me
That art is all wrong
And that dried all the
Blood
From my heart
But I believed her

So I followed her along
To find out what
Art meant
And it was
Sleeping in
With
Gluttonous love
That was never
Satisfied by just one man
But I think
She
Was scared of
Committing to
The opportunity
karin naude Nov 2013
i didn't loose my mind
she stepped
accused me of ******* with fantasy and neglecting reality,and
of zoning out into dream land
she got tired of waiting for me to come around,
and booted me out of her life

so here i am mindless and loving it
opportunity to find my true self in my art
opportunity to make my craft my own
opportunity to brake free from the confine set by the world
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
When I was 16 years old,
I wrote a poem expressing outrage
that a man thought I was the kind
of girl who has *** in a truck.
If I had an opportunity to send a message
to that silly little girl
I would say three years later-
you are that kind of girl
and it's okay
Ayeglasses May 2013
My heart is calm.
In the centre of your palm.
You don't even know it yet.
But I bet.
I'll mess it up somehow.
Don't blame me, please.
The opportunity I will seize.
I think the good outweighs the bad.
Kara Jean May 2016
I see the purpose now
Those who use insecurities
Those who are condescending
They only put fear into their coffee
A fear that someone will see the world's opportunity
Bitterness has never been fact nor reality
Their statements will never be anymore, always less stability
Turn their sentences into silence and keep smiling
Never let someone's weakness destroy your happy
Carter Ginter Oct 2014
The mason trudges on
night and day to finish
his masterpiece. Clockwork,
he waits like a prisoner
yearning
for the jurisdiction to
fall in his favor. Each
opportunity: he will steal it.
Adhesive to stone and
metal support:
This wall will not
fall. No, this one he will not
let dissemble. Opposing the
prior ruin, plagued
with age and abuse,
the once damaging blows
instead drive this puzzle together.

Attend carefully.
Every door slammed behind
to shut me out,
Each painful stab in your glace
lancing through my chest, into
the black cavity life has consumed
into me.
He will work
to layer his project, this
projection of my cautions, until
the last glimmer of light disappears
behind the last stone in the
last wall. Now a true prisoner,
my mind lies
in contentment.
figurative metaphor for the wall my mind builds to keep people out
Another Jul 2018
Today or should I say what was left of yesterday, the most important time during the day when the moon is in a modestly transient display, I would consider taking my life. It is early evening, I couldn’t hold onto what I thought I could live for, giving into intolerance too easily, was like life for me was cracking in two and I was unable to cause cohesion for the diverging halves. only the effect remains unhinged and hidden inside me, without notice I go on missing from society. I’ve greatly deteriorated over the past few months which felt to me like decades in a room resembling winter. I often open the window only to my dismay that the air out is uncomfortably thick and moist, enough to suffocate my concentration for concern to what lies around instead I retract into this niche I resent completely spectating this limited view found underneath monochromatic inverted shades, for something that might not be much greater than I had wished it to be, I let these ideals of mine run wild in an attempt to let them be real momentarily, to burn out eventually unseen. Nothing should be able to live in such a way, I’m as stagnant as the trees that lie ahead near the streets. They witness every passerby freely sauntering trails laid out for the day, perhaps they, these beings, take it for granted not giving much attention to anything else besides the very goal that keeps them afloat and moving toward for execution to whatever it is they have their minds eye simply on. I’ve known all too well that it is pointless to do the same, I can’t squander what I have right in front of me over a simple goal, although I might not live in life’s given moments pleading for the very attention I sometimes don’t give in to, nothing ever goes unnoticed, these impressions are all that I could ever ask for, the smallest of gifts for me to cherish. Anyways I was only wandering my sight around outside looking for a movement I could possibly run to for help, giving my ears away for barber’s melody to play out loud. Nothing more showed up, only a bitter heat wave, the trees left unshaken from vacant winds. Washing over me was the penetrative structure I felt his sorrowful life flash ahead of me wondering how misunderstood he must’ve felt in such a time where everything was unrightfully wasted from a society that never knew how normalized repression began to feel, so they went about it by going along with the feel other than freely being expressive about internal conflicting issues. Maybe to one or none at all. He deserved better as did all the others. Maybe I’m wrong and only being reflective of myself. For what reason I don’t know. I was telling myself on the car ride somewhere else that I won’t disclose, for it doesn’t matter. I imagined everything I was to do, or should I say that I was accepting of what was to come next reciting in my head that all the dreaming and envisioning I had done up to this point was my life possibly lived, the love I couldn’t help to resist myself from attaining, the opportunity to save the world from collision from and through a great work that could possibly impregnate every sensible mind with a broad spectrum of what an extra day of the week might feel like, more time to spend freely from life’s never ending demand of what is to be expected by and from each and every one of you. I daydreamed of everything I missed during my lifetime so far, I should’ve traveled but didn’t, I’m not filled with fear but that of insecurity always wins the day. I slipped on by to memories that never had the chance to be made, only the threading lies there on a timeless lot gravitating toward evaporation. I left no more hope for myself because I’ve chosen to give it to the others who could actually implement change, those of whom I know I can entrust the life that I wasn’t living to. I made a choice, to disperse this existing body from and to a place where time is stilted upon my departure outside the fields wherever that may be, music guiding me out of the overriding blur beyond the wilt— my memory subsided inside this symphony somewhere that is made up of very early mornings and the light that follows afterward, kindly implying, that maybe, they never existed. I’m without anymore words, Thank you
I’ve decided to lay this one out exactly how I intended it to look; in its most free format, untouched from editing. maybe to expose the half crumbled city that lies in the way.  

I have this thing to get carried away into needless thoughts. 4 am is the time when self-reflecting occurs.

It goes deeper than all this, this is but a simple opening to more uncovered doors.

0202, is when I will be leaving
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