workshop
it is a place of grief and masochistic pleasure,
ghosts of Kafka,
haunted manuscripts
and burnt canvases
It bespeaks life,
death,
the caterpillar
and the snake
the moon
and her menses
things washed up by the tide
and things washed away
Nothing is created or lost in this universe.
You know, she said, the color orange is insincere
What an odd thing to say
I don't think you have made yourself quite clear
And I really wish you would go away
Red is loud, she continued, I don't like red
It celebrates itself in everyway
Red likes being red
What else can I say
And the beautiful blue of the peacock
is full of pride, you know
What a rude remark, I thought
But it is probably so
The colored leaves
Hide my eyes
The spider web
Retrieves my rhymes
Wrapped in silken
Bed she lies
Her pillowed head
Spun sunset die
forum of heat
of fire
of warmth
the shelter of rain tumbles
hissing away the voices
the landcapes in the dark
full of wind
the bending ideals
of a youth long distant
and in the dusk
you are a visage
in a book
a brush in the morning
and a look
a voice up the stairs
this emergence
forever leaving
like a longing balanced
on the precipice
heart hitched
and alive
alive
and not afraid.................
MOVING PICTURE SHOW
I’m about all played out
a lifetime of scenes and
short vignettes
celluloid and technicolor
pieces I want to forget
lying on the cutting floor.
Predetermined yet self- created
In a determined way
Identified by my limitations
betrayed by my strengths
existentially nauseated
Last scene is a cappella
Finish is open-ended
Fade out….
“Cut ! It’a a take.”
wow what a beauty
beauty can’t be bound in any cage,
it lies at each and every stage,
in the eyes of the beholder
that shouldn’t one at all amaze.
some men are more beautiful,
than women of their own age,
women though always remain
longer, much longer on the stage,
love flows from ones’ heart,
sex apart
the beauty is
of your divine gift
a lovely part.
The accelerator squeals
like an excited teenage fan
decelerating up the hill
all shrill and grating
Then the inward gasp
of childish awe
spread underneath
the tarmac ribbon crest
of Bradford's undulating sprawl
Through misty drizzle
little knots of yellow lights
sparkling beams of safety
in the dark swathes
scrunched up bundles
of grey woolpack hills
Northern Lights in vaulted skies
Northern electric lights
in pitiless winter washes
Transitions have me weighed down
anchoring me to what’s next.
The “pull” has the internal velocity of a curve-ball,
yet, is as subtle as an insincere glimmer
having trouble appearing from a falsly executed smile.
I guess, they're sort of like an army of horizertical, gravitational entities
that pull down on my very being, and simultaneously hurl me towards the future,
to a place where all we know is, anything can happen!
I’m a downtrodden wife
his trouble and strife
Is this my life?
He doesn’t help with chores
in between snores
says “ask her indoors”
The kids avoid him
I fulfil their whims
no point in asking him
I don’t know why he married me?
I could never be
what he wanted me to be
I’m never good enough
he says I look rough
so no more sex stuff
I wanted to work
but the chauvinistic jerk
wouldn’t allow this perk
Withering grass of this season
with your abundance of green,
take advantage of Today -
Contribute to this Earthly scene.
Enjoy your present strength;
ignore worries of the past.
Let the distant failures fade
and let sweeter memories last.
Be true to yourself always,
standing tall and strong.
Focus on your own meadows and...
Learn to hum to Life's song.
Author Note:
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.