"skillful" poems
What is the difference,
Asked the educator,
*Between being skillful,
Such as a **********
And being educated,
Such as a teacher?*
Well, replied a prostitue,
*One educates skillfully,
The other skillfully educates.*
Which is which?
The educator responded.
Depends, said the **********
On the pay and benefits.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.
The Master Weaver’s Plan
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.
Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.
by AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.
with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
And that night I was a mechanical doll
and I turned right and left, to all sides
and I fell on my face and broke to bits,
and they tried to put me together with skillful hands
And then I went back to being a correct doll
and all my manners were studied and compliant.
But by then I was a different kind of doll
like a wounded twig hanging by a tendril.
And then I went to dance at a ball,
but they left me in the company of cats and dogs
even though all my steps were measured and patterned.
And I had golden hair and I had blue eyes
and I had a dress the color of the flowers in the garden
and I had a straw hat decorated with a cherry.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
14.2k
this door exists,
stately and staunchly it stands,
disheartening and terrifying it remains.
the door is unlocked, yet cannot be opened,
for in it, a path in time...
one decision that can affect everything
[such as my choice to wear the necklace you adore,
which lead to you noticing me for the very first time,
or my idea to play you the song that you fell in love with,
which i can no longer listen to]
...for in this door, one path
is intimidatingly located.
every bone in my body,
every last muscle, tendon, ligament
each artery, each vein, each capillary
every single nerve,
even each microscopic cell,
implores me not to open this tempting door...
[it is almost as if my hand refuses to grasp the handle,
to unleash the unknown upon me,
the colossal chain of events that would ensue]
the immensity of the unfamiliar,
the unexplored,
tends to perturb me.
change is unnerving
and is almost as chilling
as an abandoned graveyard at midnight.
but i bring my mind back to the door,
yes! this preposterous door that i have contrived for myself.
why is the **** so easily turned?
why does it not put up somewhat of a fight,
at least jolt me suddenly,
as to frighten my curious heart?
it is a constant battle between my body
my mind
and my heart
as to which doors to open
and which ones to leave ever so steadfastly closed.
but never once has there been such a struggle
for them to reach an understanding.
somehow my heart,
[even though a fraction of me,
a fist, dripping in blood]
is prevailing for the moment.
my heart reaches for the handle,
attempts to unclose the door...
yet, with the best of its ability,
withstanding my strong-willed
and obstinate heart,
my powerful body and commanding mind
overcome this hostile takeover,
and the door remains shut.
it is my body,
my skillful mouth,
my soft, rose lips,
my elegant tongue,
and my vocal chords...
all of these pieces must
contrive the words,
conceive the change,
which will unveil the path that will forever alter us...
slowly, opening the door.
being as in love with you as i am,
i will not let you slip away from my arms right now.
but when we are not together
[*i wish you’d have been there,
i needed you there*]
i stare at this humbling door.
if i wait too long, i’ll forever lose you;
for it is you who will make this choice for me,
opening your own door, fearless and dauntless.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
She has a way of tormenting you
In every direction you try take
She gives you a curfew
Hoping, probing, that you, too, slip through the cracks.
I wanted to be a astronaut
To explore the universe
To find my destiny
Through the black hole
And out
Spaghettified or not
When my now cuffed-mind
Soared the air
With wings dispersed in the wind
Still when she didn't care
And thought I was harmless
She tried shooting me down
And got one through a wing
Now I think I want to be an accountant
Mediocre and sane
But who wants to have sanity
When you can be in it?
So I crashed into Hyperion
And as high as I am
She still sends her vicious winds
To try and cut me down
But her torment crafts precious stones
So in the interim
I'll hold on
Hoping that I can un-cuff my mind
Keeping a birds-eye view
Like a leopard waiting for its ****
So that one day
I can glide the universe
Wings distributed out wide
Skillful and experienced
So she can never shoot me down
Now
Perched on Hyperion
Patient and vigilant
I wait
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
From behind your canvas
you peer up at me taking in the details of my body.
Your scientific eyes studying me
cold
with neither lust or disgust
as if I were a vase
or a basket of fruit.
Not long before this we embraced one another
in the throes of passion.
You've never been more into me.
The skillful motions of your lips and tongue,
throwing my body into religious convulsions
and praising your name.
It intrigues me how you can turn that off.
How you can refrain from smiling
as you draw the outline of my ******
How my naked body so near and ready
doesn’t cause that animal I’ve come to know so well
to overpower the artist in you.
I’m truly fascinated, filled with both admiration and jealousy
for that woman you are creating.
I know that In your mind,
we've never been closer
but you look so far away
hiding from me behind that easel
cheating on my body with your interpretation.
No doubt, she will be flawless,
and have none of my ugly imperfections.
She isn’t even finished being born and I hate her already.
Although, I’ll lie when you reveal her to me.
I’ll tell you that she’s beautiful
that I really like her.
Then, I’ll make love to you
right there on the floor.
Forcing her to watch.
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 5:46 AM UTC
*Between the night and daylight,
As twilight begins to shower,
Comes a lull in the day's preparations,
Cherished as the Kittys' Hour.
I hear in the kitchen beside me,
The patter of tiny feet,
Rumbles of varying motors
With "meow's" gentle and sweet.
Leaping from counter with agile grace
On my shoulder with a purr;
Sail grave Thomas and sweet Lady Jane,
And Susan of golden fur.
A "meow," and then a long silence,
I know by mischievous eyes,
They are scheming and musing together,
To vanquish my weary sighs.
With sudden dash from the hallway,
Tortie bounds into my arms!
Felines of all colours sit starring,
Delighting me with their charms.
Frolicking with skillful ease,
Tossing and batting their catnip-mouse;
If I run to escape, they surround me,
They appear to overflow the house.
Suffocating me with their kisses,
Furry paws patting my face;
And though they have torn the kitchen blinds,
They dazzle me with their grace.
I hug you all close in loving arms,
And will n'er let you depart,
Nor ****** you dears out to coyotes,
For you each have won my heart.
And here shall you dwell forever,
Cherished more each golden day;
Till this glad house fall into ruin,
And I in dust shall decay.*
~Hilda~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
the jaguar is a cat from the basin of brazil
just to see this creature makes the time stand still
such a skillful hunter with elegance and grace
a very skillful cat in this jungle place
they hunt for there prey there variety is strong
animals and turtles whatever comes along
they will climb a tree like a little thrush
sitting there in wait setting there ambush
they will quickly pounce with one almighty bite
thats how he kills his prey when the time is right
this creature from the amazon is such a lovely site
filled with so much grace and fills me with delight
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
It was from the sands of a windswept beach
I picked up pebbles that were easy to reach.
They had attracted my attention while walking by
their coloured well formed shape caught the eye.
There were so many to choose from I had to decide
in selecting those which my fancy would coincide.
It’s truly amazing what some people see in stone
a subject which a lot of our imagination is prone.
It was almost as if I’d found treasure on the seashore
and couldn’t help myself as I looked around for more.
The simple joy of collecting something that attracts the mind
is an age old activity which all people do have of some kind.
There were the questions of how many would I take
and what, if anything with them, one could make?
They were so abundant and all varied mostly in size
that it wasn’t hard to imagine an object or visualize.
It was also only the first location at which I found
that I thought surely there must be others around.
So with a sense of adventure I looked forward to explore
another beach while making my way home along the shore.
There were several other stops made further on the way
collecting various coloured pebbles amidst the sea spray.
Many times would I get my sandals wet along that coast
going amongst rocks and sand to the waters edge at most.
It was with a sense of gain and loss then after I’d taken enough
deciding right there and then to stop collecting which was tough.
The next step would be to think about and see what I would do
with all those beautiful pebbles gathered while passing through.
Maybe I could approach someone with the right flair and skill
who could make something with them and imagination fulfill.
That natural forming eroding action of water, ice, wind and sand
rarely requires the finishing touches of some other skillful hand.
Perhaps in fashioning some jewellery using metal to bind
a few pebbles together that are different or a similar kind.
Or maybe I could just keep some myself and give the rest away
a gesture of friendship toward which our memories would play.
Yes it was from the sands of many a windswept lonely beach
I came accross and collected pebbles that were within reach.
Isn’t it truly amazing what some people see in stone?
a subject in which much of our imagination is prone.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 7:20 PM UTC
Have you ever felt that your life is wrong?
Like you're suppose to be somewhere else?
Like while you're mopping the floor of your lowly dishwasher job your vision blurs and the world around you convulses turning the mop into a spear swirling the sea of bubbles into blood and the far off voice of your boss mutates into the sound of your fellow warrior?
Or maybe when you walk into rain and the soft sound of the droplets on your skin turn into the rhythmic music of things against armor.
And as you look to make sit you're not going crazy the roar of an engine turns into the bellowing of dragons, horses and more.
These flashbacks transport you to another time where the world is mystic,
The pavement transmutates into dirt as the air around swirls into sudden shrills of strengthening speeches spurring you soulfully into skillful battle.
And as you speed forward leading the charge
of your battalion of skilled men a thousand large,
The flashback stops and you're in your time,
No armor on you skin..
Or lives on the line..
But your heart is still racing,
And you remember their names,
Of the boys you were leading,
On to glory and fame,
So was it a dream?
Or a memory from the past?
Or maybe it was from your life last.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Tightly clenched the fist shakes
Never steady like a nail
Blood curdles through the veins
Self-torturous it won’t fail
Keep still to breathe
Inhale the oxidation of life
Flowing molecularly steady
Before the shattered knife
But why negativity it remains
Lingers closely by the trees
Hovering over the city
Lacking soulfulness to squeeze
One refrains from the nuisance
Though it fights back with a rage
No world is perfect
Keep me locked in this cage
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -
Gorgeous.
I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Red,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,
To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Torture.
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.
I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,
On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,
There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Gorgeous.
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Gorgeous.
Down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Gorgeous.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
the jaguar is a cat from the basin of brazil
just to see this creature makes the time stand still
such a skillful hunter with elegance and grace
a very skillful cat in this jungle place.
they hunt for there prey there variety is strong
animals and turtles whatever comes along
they will climb a tree like a little thrush
sitting there in wait setting there ambush.
they will quickly pounce with one almighty bite
thats how he kills his prey when the time is right
this creature from the amazon is such a lovely site
filled with so much grace and fills me with delight
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
I See. There is a Channel you Subscribe
And plan your Craft with these High-End Personnel
Promote this Sport; From The Cliff's Humble Dive
And boost Ability you know so well
So does it Groom even more with your Age
And fix your Profile to this Pineapple
Eyes locked perpet; And skipped the Skillful Page
For Economy you chose to Stumble
There are Others below; Watching your Board,
Hoping this same Posh Meal they could Partake
If only they had - Quids and Statues - hoard,
Which in Bankruptcy their Moments forsake.
Only one Word, which will dry their Sore Tears
Flex their Rosy Cheeks; And live-out your Years.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
.
**•atop the mast billows
my wind-tossed rag•grinning skull embla-
zoned proud•the starkness of black upon my flag
•piercing the encroaching sea mist and shroud•her-
ald the sight of the jolly roger • instilling trepidation
in all who sail through my turf • fuelled by the thirst
to pillage and plunder•others before, have sunk into
graves beneath the surf•my salt encrusted timber
creaks a frightening low growl•
my hull would pum- mel thro-
ugh the opposing waves• my sails bloat full trapping
winds that howl•my deck bears the screams
of a thousan- d slaves•know
me, seafarers... i am no legend but
truth•avast! seafarers, i am the tale
that looms•believe me, seafarers for i
am ca- pable of all things**
••• •••
**uncouth •fear me,
seafarers for i am your
doom•you could sail the seas with
the world's most skillful of crew•
you cannot deny the
inevitable
heavy hand of fate•be-
cause once my vessel comes
within view •you would
know for certain that it's already
••••••• •••••••
••••• •••••**
too late•
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Here is a story, not different from others,
just to confuse you and make you wonder,
it is not much, so dont expect anything at all,
its a story about a joker and his downfall.
well lets begin from the beginning,
before the start,
lay a joker, thinking about his past,
He kept on laughing at his own jokes,
decided to become a comic for the good 'ol folks.
He kept on laughing and made others laugh,
he finally made a name but got caught in a raft,
the wind was agaisnt him and so was time,
the water rose high and destroyed his climb.
Now the smile turned upside down,
its just a demise of another clown,
it was the same, everyone kept of laughing,
except the joker, who wouldnt stop crying.
his identity became a horror,
a waste of society,
his existance was now
a story of gory heirarchy,
Irrational being in an imperfect world,
he is a reflection of some of the whirls
he is the one with no possible partner,
a looser in life but a skillful carver.
he is the joker, a killer,
a master, a cheater,
he is the joker near his end
he is the joker.......
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Her tears fade the paper
As the ink begins to run
She'll find no peace inside her
Until her work is done
Her emotions hold her captive
As she writes with all her might
She struggles with her passion
Til late into the night
She has to tell her story
As she brushes away the stains
The poet keeps on writing
As her teardrops fall like rain
A heart that's once been broken
Will guide her skillful hand
She's writing from her emptyness
Hoping all will understand
She writes until she's hollow
Or her heartache finally relents
Her tears become her poetry
Each time the poet laments
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
He; inexhaustible yet exhausting,
Ruthlessly efficient yet demanding,
Hard working yet withholding,
Barbed
Yet deemed necessary.
Protecting that which
Long ago was made sacred;
The heart, the hearth, the home,
None may touch that hallowed ground.
Defence was needed
Safety paramount
And then...
The years passed...
This ninja warrior endured
Defended
Sliced, hacked, diverted, whirled in endless pirouettes
Of engaged battles
Of mesmerising movement
Of unrelenting actions
Of no consequence
For the mighty goal of protecting
That
Which
Was now all but forgotten.
So effective was his defence
Of the thing called 'home'
That it was hidden from all view
Forgotten
Beneath his whirling dexterity of projects and activities.
The years passed...
And there was no home.
Never did the warrior stop to question his task
That old old command.
He simply obeyed
As a warrior should
And continue
Until his death
To protect the property of his master
The result
a hollow, busy, lonely life,
Punctuated by exhaustion
And the question....
"What's missing? "
But so complete was his defense
So skillful his guard
That none saw what lay beneath.
Too mesmerised by his motions to see that
He was but a distraction
A diversion
From the question which would strike such fear into his masters heart
"What will happen if I stop?"
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
When was the last time you cried when
an ant hive was ruined to put a new building in place?
When was the last time you cried when a rich coral reef
turned into a dead waste?
When did you last changed your behavior so that
the globe would stop heating?
.
After a wound, an adaptive system stars healing.
Its antifragility leads to a stronger being.
The World’s wound is caused by the disease called “Humanity”
The wound does not resemble a skillful, sterile cut of a surgeon
It’s more like a boiling vile of acid poured over one's back
leaving bare bones with denatured flesh dripping down the spine
Yet still even after our **** nature will once again repair itself
It will heal and allow another disruptive ecological breakthrough to happen
.
When did you last notice that we are just another species?
Not that different from ants, to which we had no compassion
When was the last time you played around with the prospect of annihilation?
This is all so stupid, sorry. I didn’t want to mention
We are insignificant animals ripe for extinction
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
Music sleeps.....
In my un strummed chords
I wait for the touch of skillful hands
To turn it into flowing melody
A lotus dreaming to see the sun!
How long can I remain silent?
Oh touch me, shake me
Wake me from my slumber
Make me into a throbbing rhapsody
Set free this prisoner
To birth soothing chimes
Note after note in tiny wavelets
Let my vibrations carve circles
Growing bigger and bigger
Oh, give me the timbre and tone
Let me sing once more!
Let the music drizzle down
In healing murmurs
Lifting troubled spirits into calm repose
Leading them to a quiet fold
Free of all fever and fret
Let my soft rhymes
Fill the empty cisterns of the night,
Wooing the hearts
Weaving mystical spells
Let it rise and sink
And finally fade into a soft breath
A hushed whisper
A faint vibration
Over a gliding stream!
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
Kings command and Knights clash
Power eventually fades and weakens
People who are politically skillful play the game
Understand, expect nothing. Appreciate everything.
People who are politically skillful
Understand, power doesn't corrupt it reveals
Understand,power is the great conductor of the universe
Understand, expect nothing. Appreciate everything.
Once someone has it the curtains are raised
Rulers see through spies
allies, pawns or even weak masters serve as fronts
Understand, the people you associate with are critical
Understand, Watch those around you
People who are politically skillful
Study the seasons and appear intelligent
However, no amount of thinking in advance can prepare you
Understand, expect nothing. Appreciate everything
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
In the town of Forgotten
One might always forget
But our story unfolds surrounding King Hatchet
He was an evil and determined king
King Hatchet would often have thoughts being the one thing
“I am the King to whom you must respect otherwise, a very high torture sting”
The citizens of Forgotten weren’t surprised of the King’s words
The message echoed out, and it was heard?
But who would defy the king?
It was a man named Defender
He called out King Hatchet to come outside the castle
Now anybody who challenges the King is automatically put to death
But Defender was a skilled warrior, and reigned as a champion
However, King Hatchet knows all about Defender, but doesn’t care how skillful Defender is
But let the challenge begin
It will be death to the finish
Whoever is the victory will be distinguished
So King Hatchet and Defender picked up swords and commenced in the fight
There were cheers on both sides being sheer delight
Swords grasped together, and when Defender pierced the arm of king Hatchet, there a scar and some blood
Yet, it didn’t cause the blood the pour like a flood
However Defender was steadily swinging his sword in not missing a beat
It was determination in there not be a defeat
Suddenly King Hatchet felt to the ground, and Defender had his sword at King Hatchet’s throat
The message, “Defender was the greatest swordsmen throughout Forgotten”
But Defender let King Hatchet live, but only after announcing, “Defender had won”
Cheers from the crowd’s
The hourglass of victory
A chapter that prior could have been considered a mystery
Once upon a time, storyline far more than any book could ever tell
A moment in making a child’s heart’s swell
The closing chapter ended with dreams into the night
But for now good night, sleep tight, and don’t forget to turn off the light.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
Skillful poet still in shock
He / She suffered writer’s block
PwL 6/5/15
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC