inspiration

The First Time

 

 

The first time they talked,

Something feels different.

The first time they met,

Everything feels right.

 

She ran,

Hugged and kissed him tight

Like there's no tomorrow.

 

He ran,

Hugged and kissed her tight

Like she was slipping away.

 

He was her football superstar

She was his precious gem.

Together, they fell in love

Unconditionally and passionately. 

 

 

what stops me.

the words need to be beautifully-provoking

you cannot subjugate them.

they must remain random and free.

they will take time, but be eager.

and when it finally gets out on paper.  

you will feel better.

 

reach for that inspiration,

look for your muse.

and only time will tell

if the words can be put to use.

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When ‘Excellent’ You Say!

When ‘excellent’ you say!


After reading my poem,


I feel so glad that I cannot convey my thanks,


You enthuse me everyday!


 

You are the fountain of my writing,


You are my source of words,


You make my thoughts form,


You are a gift to me, astonishing!


 

As the shooting star you have come to my life,  

 

And have been an amazing mate like Stephen King’s wife.

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Keep Marching on…

Keep marching on,


All your sadness will be gone,


Once you kiss that moment of ecstasy,


That they call victory.


 

Don’t worry about the society,


Some will the emblem of inspiration be,


Some like Iago will endeavour,


To tear you down ever.


 

Yet you fight like a valiant soldier,


You must discern that the shoreline is near.

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Dream of Tomorrow

Neither today nor the day before

What i dream of is tomorrow

I dream of peace and relief

Neither pain nor sorrow


The days are always pleasant

Nights are always gratifying

No failures no fiasco coz

People around are always trying.


Not seeing old friends does make my dream upset

A bunch of new mates clear some

While a serious fun with them vanishes the rest.


Neither today nor the day before

What i dream of is tomorrow

I dream of care and respect 

Not dumb even a fellow.



 

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Words: West Coast Inspiration

Folder: 
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I'm in love with a poet.

See he’s a dichotomy—a man of few words until the  spotlight is on him, needing the anonymity of a public forum to release the valve on his private pain.  

I just met him yet have always known him.  

Just the ding of a message makes my heart race, my belly clench and my palms tingle.

We've been riding the same frequencies in parallel universes for centuries.

Then our symbiotic starships  collided.

And the collision was a synergetic vision and though I'm not one for superstition, some meteors carrying our DNA must've had it planned for  millennia .

That he and I would meet in the glow of this prism.

A man for whom chivalry is not a ploy to make a play for my panties...it's a state of being.

All I know is that when I saw him incarnate for the first time,--even before words were exchanged, he grabbed my  purse, slung it over his shoulder like my belongings had always belonged there and guided me through the door with one hand at the small of my back and the other  gently wrapped around my waist.

And it felt like home. 

Instant, visceral, spiritual recognition.

My  thoughts are safe on his lips, my feelings secure in his heart.

We're not perfect.  Just perfectly matched in mind...locked together, intertwined like the double  helices that make us, us.

So when at last we shared the same plane of time and  space, there was a cosmic eruption leading to a reduction in fear, inhibition,  insecurity...and clothing.

No, not literally—just removal of all pretenses we use to present ourselves to the world.

He stripped my brain and heart at first glance. I stood there bare and naked, but not exposed to the elements because  he was protecting me.

He covered me with his cerebellum, cradled me in his cranium and laid me down to rest, safe and warm, surrounded by his synapses, my head cushioned on his heartbeat.

His frontal plate swells with the knowledge and emotion pulsing in his cortex...his brow furrows with intense thought like a Klingon, and all I can do is cling on to his every exhalation lest I be ripped away from his gravitational pull, sucked into a black hole, flung into another dimension, spinning out of control.

Would my universe ever realign again if I squander this gift? How could I risk it?

We communicate through breath so our lips were drawn together like magnets to iron shavings, like the needle on a compass is drawn to true north and we wrapped around each other like octopi  conjoined twins...nothing but a tangle of limbs.

He put my moods to music in a  method that matched his madness with a tempo that tangoed off his tongue and merengued back up my spine and out of my mouth to be reborn as a new thought.

He gave me my words back instead of stealing my spirit.

He was buried so deep  in my soul before our eyes ever even met, you would swear his thoughts were oil  wells penetrating my core with pistons pumping and bringing the dark richness
beneath bubbling up to the surface.

I don't remember how I breathed without it.

And that's why I thank him,repay him the only way I know how for reawakening this part of me.

I pay it forward using  my nouns, adjectives and verbs as currency.

I'd been holding my breath metaphorically.

The looming silence a sickness that had paralyzed my lungs.

I didn't even realize I  hadn't been breathing, and then all of a sudden...

Gasp.

Inhale.

Exhale.

An explosion of air from my verbal respiratory system because he was there performing elegiac resuscitation.

He's the poetic paramedic equipped with the oxygen and chest  compressions that saved me just in the nick of time from certain brain death.

My name is sacred on his tongue.

His uvula caresses each syllable of it.
It gives me strength.

I could be standing with my feet in the abyss of the deepest ocean crevasse, and I'd still have my nose higher in the air than the pinnacle of  Everest.

He ain't tall, and I ain't small, but he has no trouble lifting me up, supporting me.

Rename that famed African peak Kylamanjaro because my head is in the clouds.

I'm swimming with cirrus, skipping with the stratus, communing with cumulonimbus.

I wish my legs worked so I could run to him. Dance out this dream diorama.

Yet I know to him that  doesn't matter because my mind has wings.  

And then as quickly as he  appeared, he was gone.  

Until he reappears, my subconscious will  continuously conjure visions of a future duet.

And I'll remember how when  he hugs, his arms are my cocoon.

I'll recall that his lips are lethal, his eyes  enchanting, his artsy intellect the ultimate aphrodisiac.

I just need a sample from his larynx…to place my ear there to feel his vocal chords begin to hum and catch the vibrations that are about to give birth to syllables.

I just need a sip from the mouth that produces such powerful words.

Perhaps that will allow me the chance to collect some poetry by osmosis and bottle its perfume in the Crystal decanter of my memory to recreate an image, the perfumed aroma of a
perfect night.

And that is why his voice is on repeat in my head like my  favorite track until we meet again.

As I said, I'm in love with a poet.
And, yes...he does know it.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Don't get too excited. It's inspired by a fellow poet. Not autobiographical.  Plus...aren't all poets a little in love with each other?

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just stop for a moment

just stop for a moment

and picture a place and time

way, way back there in the past

when greek and roman mythology

both reigned supreme

back when the world was still quite young

with lots of forests and woodlands

and covered over with pretty shades of green

 

then one special day

god reached down to earth

and came upon a young boy

who was really just half grown

happily swimming in the ocean

with a dolphin

long before the fear of humans

had ever been sown

 

anyways he was out there at sea

although he was all by himself

he was protected and safe

there with the dolphins

and somehow still very close to home

 

long before anyone had ever thought

to even giving him a name

or carve his statute in stone

for right now at least ---

he was still a young boy

happily swimming in the ocean

but really all alone

 

now think back to a time

long before people hungered

for the emptiness of fortune and fame

long before anyone had ever thought

to give the boy a name

 

but on that special day

god spoke and said

look ---

I know you’re just a young boy

swimming out here in the ocean

and having lots of fun

way out here at the sea

under a bright and warm summer sun

 

but if you didn’t act so dumb

and sometimes kind of stupid

you could almost be another angel

or even another cupid

 

because cupid would fly around

just all over the place

and touch each person’s heart

among every creed and race

 

the boy listened – but couldn’t speak

was this really god ?

and was he really this near ?

and was he really this close ?

the boy was totally stunned now

and overcome with anguish and fear

 

then god was gone

and the boy was alone again

with just his troubled thoughts

and mixed up hopes and dreams

and maybe even some silent

confused and muddled screams

 

but he thought to himself

over and over again in his mind

for at least a thousand times

 

( and you might as well know it right now !!! )

 

he was still looking for more proof

or at least a few more signs

 

anyways he thought to himself

those things that cupid spoke of

whether they’re real or not

or whether they came down from heaven

or from some distant galaxy

way way out there in outer-space

 

or were they just from

some crazy person’s wild imagination

whatever creed – whatever race

 

because --- if they really do make people happy

really, really happy

( for he too was kind of like cupid )

( sometimes kind of – sort of a little stupid )

 

for he simply couldn’t figure out

or understand why

if those things that cupid spoke of

if they make people – really, really happy

 

THEN WHY ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH ----???

DO THEY ALSO MAKE PEOPLE CRY ----???

 

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How Long Will You Wait For Tomorrow to Come

How long will you wait for tomorrow to come?

And bring with't the beat of a harrowing drum

How long until all of the yes's are no's 

And gifts that you have start slowly to go

 

How many clouds will pass in the skies

Over nights with you curled up helpless, in lies

That tell you you're hopeless or useless or worse

That you're marred with a letter, some scar'let curse?

 

How long with you wait for tomorrow to come

And welcome you out into glistening sun

How many tears, disappointments, or fears

Will you invite into you over years And years and years

 

How long will you wait for tomorrow to come

All the while wasting tomorrows 

One 

by 

One

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Semi-Sonnet on Inspiration

In days of yore I always longed

to be a tortured poet true,

suff'ring, stark 'neath skies of blue,

alone and heartsick, bright yet wronged,

toying with a language pronged

by contrasting Me and You,

and your ever-present crew-

you are by greener pastured thronged

 

Yet solitude can be a friend,

I realized 'neath my Bodhi tree,

and anguish no necessity;

Inspiration has no end.

Melancholy won't wring free

the poetry that time will send. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wanted to write an Italian sonnet in iambic tetrameter. I screwed up the tetrameter by occasionally alternating stressed and unstressed syllables at the beginning of lines, so I suppose one could consider it an experiment with the form. Anyhow, the subject was my question of whether or not I needed to be heartsick and spurned to write, and the conclusion is that pain and inspiration are independent of one another.