The stream (all workshops)
Through timelines immemorial
mankind has written poems,
with wordsmith nigh celestial
he filled nigh endless tomes.
Who wrote the first to poesy shape?
When did he recognize
the panacea’s posed escape
from all he did despise?
His epode came before his prose.
He beat the drums aloud.
Heartfelt the elegist knew throes
of joy and pain enshroud.
‘Longside the painter in the cave
the poet sang his song.
He sang of gods and heroes brave
and what he thought was wrong.
I ache to be held in your arms
and have you nuzzle my hair
I can still smell cool water
on my sheets
your face
has become a mask
where once
I could read you
with a look,
I am now clueless
our house is tumbling down
lumber passes your head
without a single glance
your eyes are veiled
their darkness
impenetrable,
I search for a glimmer
of hope, finding none
Advisor (poem pre book write, - second main Edit)
I had taken out a lot of the capital letters that started each line, now this one is where I have started to edit to the comments received
I sat at my lonely station,
the library a quiet meditation.
Oh how I yearned to shout,
telling the world what life was about
.
Day on day just passed away
my mind drifted it wouldn’t stay
to this silence I wasn't a slave
out it would go wave on wave
a harsher translation.
not I miss you,
but you are missing from me
as in a pair of lips have haunted me since the theater
fingertips trailed from my knee to my ribs
warm breath creeping from just below my ear
to the base of my spine
in public I don't think I have ever been so willing
the temperature rose but nothing happened.
and yet I can't say I would have been above it.
The flame upon a candle sits,
its light against the darkness pits.
Its strength the slightest breeze will tax,
and press it low to melted wax.
Persistent flicker 'til the dawn,
when wax is spent and flame is gone.
In this nocturnal vigil kept,
a thousand fears from night are swept.
So are lives like candles lit,
each pushing back the dark a bit.
And when the day arrives at last,
the flame to glowing wick is passed.
''As if she's the only one
I'm the only one to stare.''-she whispers
Ask her and she's about to answer
she likes that, simple conversation
in a cafe ''Silhouette'', the title behind
her back in colorful electricity light
This old violin follows her singing
she finishes the first and the violin
goes on only for a bit more, after,
she's humming her dear melody
LEFT OVERS
Cups, saucers, plates
old and new
forks, knives and spoons
worn and used
pictures of family and friends
objects of art and paintings
reflections of my senses
where do they go when
all things end.
Will they find a place
in someone else's space
or will they be flea market fare.
They were all a part of me
Will anyone see
I am in everything I touched
chose, used, loved.
Who will know and care,
Inspiration,
is the spring board of poetry
I learned it
after decades of digging
in the temples
where poetic Lords reside
the ones like you
happy for you
and
of course
my dear
I thank you
Stan and I once wrote
about our many dawns
we passed together
in the age -less -ness of time,
eternity and poetry
My mind now saturates*
poetically
it's been eons since
(Re-submission, was posted just around the time of Neopoet's website crash)
Feeding her baby
she kisses her good night
thanking the Lord for his blessings
then watches the Moon
from her cold bed
longing for the kisses of her Love
Somewhere in those stars
her knight lies prone
shorn of their love in its bud
bathing her in warmth
with his cascading light
playing on her probing fingers
The ice was etched in perfect form,
Snow drifting like a gossamer gown.
Sky carved from an ebony block so true,
Scattered with diamonds, making black, blue.
A hand held gently within the visions glow.
No matter that it was Ice and snow.
A love kindled, that has always been
Your warmth perfected this scene.
The only thing that random love could do
Was to create perfection for us two
To look in wonder we were lost in time.
With greener grass, just yours and mine
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