PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"You're free

to be

as creative as you are;

or so they say. 

 

Yet. 

Every time, 

the artist guided,

unwarranted. 

 

Unnecessary. 

Why is the artist

so restricted? 

IS it concious? 

 

Do those who commission 

Art

know they can be stifling it? 

Or, 

 

is it a lack of trust? 

Not enough of it 

to go around, knows 

the budding artist

 

with lack of portfolio. 

No trust 

goes to those

with no reference. 

 

So often are we told

we are free, 

when we are not. 

Their own opinion 

 

trusted first, 

unintentional or not, 

before the artist, 

the one who creates. 

 

When one asks another

to create, 

to stifle the flame

is to put it out completely. 

 

Trust is a must, 

we must learn to 

give our hearts and minds

and souls 

 

to others

to mold.

 

And that's the hardest thing to do."

"No excuse, 

but the metal has rusted. 

An unkept armory. 

Barrels with red, 

 

triggers peppered orange. 

Springs stuck, 

pins, unmoving. 

Bores obstructed. 

 

The whole weapon set

useless, 

to the trained eye. 

But

 

a gun is still a gun, 

the potential it has

to kill, 

ever present. 

 

Rusty or not, 

it is still recognizable, 

months of no use

not enough to erase

 

the sizable impression

of the shape, 

the indication

of the handgun, long gun. 

 

The task looming, 

Armorer, 

keys in hand, 

sighing. 

 

Unlocking 

the cages, 

duty tumblers turning, 

locks coming free. 

 

So long, 

had it beem

since maintenance

had been laid

 

where it belong. 

The familiar metal

began to fill hands, 

twist, turn,

 

rifles broke down, 

pistols slid apart. 

Rusty was the

mind, 

 

as were the firemans, 

but both began 

to be broken

free. 

 

Rag, brush, 

break-away sprayed, 

assemblies oiled.

Pieces began to click, 

 

operate smoothly, 

unlike language, 

where lack of use

means disappearance, 

 

past tense

isn't the demise

of functionality of things,

like bike riding. 

 

or an armory. 

 

The Armorer will be busy,

it may take some time.

But he will pass inspection. 

 

With work, 

with determination, 

desire 

and time. 

 

It takes time

for things to rust. 

 

It takes time

to fix such a lack of use. 

 

The best solution

isn't busting rust, 

but daily use, 

rather." 

"First, he says, 

 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

 

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

 

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

 

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

 

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

 

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

 

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

 

life."

"Feel it, 

the sensation of breathing, 

with a new friend. 

Not

 

the addition, 

but the release of a union

of muscle and sinew, 

effort

 

cast to the side. 

The breath

enjoyed

with the support 

 

of the floor. 

The ground, 

the dirt below, 

thinking now

 

of feeling the green grass

in between your toes, 

the Earth, 

our Earth. 

 

Nay, she is not ours, 

we are instead Hers. 

Your breath... 

given strength by Mother Earth. 

 

Do you feel it? 

The ebb of the Earth, 

the beat, 

the ancient, encompassing embrace. 

 

Do you feel the flow

of the Ocean,

the breath of Mother Earth

made manifest?

 

Do you feel the presece

of the energy,

in this room, 

right now?

 

The energy that is still, 

the energy that links us, 

neighbor to neighbor, 

the energy of the mightiest wave

 

crashing onto the shore,

the wrath of the surf

felt as fury by the surfer

that Hell hath no. 

 

The energy of the exhausted canine

resting finally on couch

with the child who so tenderly

ran it tired. 

 

The energy when Autumn comes

when you're not quite done

kissing Summer

goodbye.

 

Do you feel the breath? 

Do you feel your mind 

spiraling all over this

whirl of whimisical words?

 

Do you feel the heart? 

Your heart? 

My heart? 

The flow of energy 

 

of the one to your left

or right? 

Us all, limited not

to labels

 

or categories, 

not by old, young, 

American, skin tone, 

the foolish boy or the sweet lady.

 

Try Human, 

Homo Sapien, 

try Earthling, 

giggling practitioner about spirit fingers. 

 

But, 

you know what? 

I do not

need to instruct, 

 

because I feel it. 

I feel you. 

I feel joy,

stress, searing pain, 

 

us joining as a whole

with our Om. 

So beautiful, 

you people. 

 

This is it. 

This is you, this is me. 

This is Mother Earth. 

I feel it.

 

And maybe you do too."

"Tragic, 

tragedy can be, 

with repeating sounds of words, 

or screams and cries;

 

pain is a universal language.

Everyone knows it, 

this I believe. 

But,

 

even then, there's plenty

of discontent for which has and has not

been felt, 

as though suffering is to be measured.

 

I've seen it, you have, too, 

the pain of the neighborhood, 

tires slashed throughout, 

just another siren,

 

crying, 

at my end of the city. 

Such a pity, and then

the loud clash

 

of the car crash, 

one having smashed into the other,

and in this moment of pain, 

this tragedy,

 

comes unity, 

Humanity.

The unprovoked question

of the desire of assistance,

 

the rush to the scene 

seen by me

of the people who live on this block, 

calming the sobbing mother,

 

bringing the young ones out from the cold, 

the old man sweeping the broken glass,

no police having arrived yet.

Yet, nothing but pain

 

bringing us together, 

celebrating that everyone is okay.

 

Silver lining, 

pain unites,

every little thing

is going to be all right,

 

the radio said so."

"Again, 

again, it's been so long, 

yet the feeling still runs 

deep inside. 

 

As though not a second 

separated this and the last, 

my heart racing 

my fingers fluttering. 

 

To spin a tale, 

weave a rhyme, 

picking up a rhythm 

lost to time. 

 

The reason? 

Inconsequential, 

or unimportant, 

rather. 

 

It's been so long, 

it seems, 

but currently at ease 

letting flow out 

 

what some call the soul, 

others call just words, 

or poetry. 

The goal 

 

in the end is to spark a flame, 

light up a mind 

with imagery. 

Personified, 

 

the thousand miles 

traveled, 

just to have another light 

come into my life. 

 

Again, 

the slow boil of the machine 

turning over to toil 

and burn and smoke 

 

and chug along the engine 

of mine, 

the mind 

that writes. 

 

Taking corners too fast, 

imagery still spinning 

left and right, 

picking up speed 

 

and becoming a runaway, 

such mass and inertia 

turning energy 

into nothing less than unstoppable. 

 

To write again, 

to sing, or dance, 

to do what you have done 

because it is who you are, 

 

it's every fiber of your body, 

every sliver of your soul... 

is intoxicating, 

gratifying. 

 

It's heaven, 

absolute heaven. 

 

When you're below the beloved Ocean 

of Life, 

it's waves and currents 

holding you underneath. 

 

That moment you see the surface, 

the ballet above 

of the light dancing 

and beckoning you up for air. 

 

That moment you swim up, 

the sun becoming brighter as you draw closer, 

the cold water becoming clear,

you're so near, 

 

the warmth of the top 

felt through, 

but you're not quite there yet. 

Swim! 

 

Swim harder, 

reach for the surface, 

because that exact moment 

you burst through, 

 

inhaling that open, 

sweet, succulent air 

of inspiration... 

filling lungs, body, 

 

mind and soul... 

it is 

absolute heaven; 

to be inspired again. Gorgeous."

"This is it,

the last time.

Not my last time,

for there will be many more,

 

but before I go,

take a second.

Or two.

As though leaving a humble abode

 

for the last time.

Or realistically,

one to be proud of,

one no need for humility.

 

A tendency to be crass, 

the one-stop coffeeshop 

that was the first building

foot stepped in,

 

the exact final destination

of a journey

across from

one Ocean to the next.

 

First impressions,

wild differences between

vernacular and tone,

'shaka brah', 

 

and an immediate inquiry

as to where the hell

I come from.

Brash,

 

but immediately warm

the very first contact

turned out to be,

only to observe

 

more than a year of stumbles,

pieces scribbled,

baristas in and out,

one to be a brother

 

calling this location

headquarters,

locomotives blaring by

in a flash of red

 

everyday.

Bicentennial

the count not of years,

but of poetic conveyance,

 

written in the soft glow

of this shop,

this shop the subject

times so often giving

 

detail to who,

what, where,

and how that one girl,

that one time,

 

smelt as she walked by.

Edited,

the time spent 

since the Spring,

 

but some things never change,

and that's how at home

I feel in this booth.

Bottoms up,

 

here's to you,

one last brew,

one last time. 

No more lines

 

to be written

here,

skate to the next place,

though it won't be the same."

"So hot headed,

but heavy is the hand

that is kept from raising.

Which,

 

being how soft

the surface below 

it would fall upon,

it is al and well

 

no hand was raised,

indeed,

but there is no praise 

for such common sense.

 

Uncommon men

and situations

make for comics 

and comical accusations,

 

life's a joke

so sometimes I laugh at it,

but this time around

I keep frowning.

 

So here it is,

laid on the table

the meal made,

with much forethought.

 

And in the end,

all it causes is heat,

feet stomping,

no use for a cooler,

 

all around fire is sprayed

and it keeps trying

to catch, 

skin not lit.

 

Whatever the reason,

be it power or to tower above,

stepping in increases rage,

decreases range.

 

Within striking distance,

add more fuel to the fire

burning deep inside,

taught to never lay a finger

 

on the fairer sex,

but the moment tests all control,

reveal, resist,

total consequence in the rearview.

 

SLew of words,

which hold meaning

spoken out of love or anger,

babble dipping into ears

 

is all tuned out;

been inside my head for hours

already.

So you go,

 

but not before raising your own hand,

no pain felt with the blow,

no weight to it.

But damned if the point isn't realized,

 

asked to leave 

only to come once I'm gone,

leaving my abode vandalized.

How dissapointing.

 

An anger so roasting

kept cool with a conversation

with a friend, 

longboarder, car hoarder,

 

keeps one in check

before diving into a bitter 

back-and-forth.

The bitter look

 

thrown with an intense glare

with one more pass,

feeling sick to the stomach,

but if one wants,

 

just ask.

I can be more specific.

Penurious of kindness,

parsimonious of respect."

"The coffee shop,

where in the middle of the block,

it had started;

where they met.

 

Their headquarters,

where they rested

over iced drinks

after a long skate.

 

Old friends,

young men,

two, not the same blood

or kin

 

shake hands 

and embrace the others grin,

a tight squeeze

given to each. 

 

Brothers,

such a tight bond

with so little time,

sealed the deal

 

of interlocking

storylines,

adventures and shared 

scrapes.

 

Escaping near death,

falling off boards onto wrists,

downhill descent

screaming past parked cars,

 

wherein that itself

is a rare occurance

when once was daily.

Temperature varied,

 

as did the places they'd

hunker down,

sweating,

stopping to have a drink.

 

Seperated by little,

attached at the hip,

it seemed. Until

life happened,

 

having sent the older 

away for summmer,

the younger away for the rest,

testing himself and his brain.

 

Drumming away,

marching on by,

the two had lives 

blur on by, 

 

spiraling in different directions,

story arcs and sidequests,

conquests coloring the night,

but by and by, 

 

when guest apperances

would transpire,

everything dropped

to meet one another,

 

the bond was made stronger

with the short time

it had to cure.

Not to say

 

neither were lost,

but both stepped in confidence.

Always looking ahead,

but once they were together,

 

unspoken,

to each love was gave.

Brotherly love,

concrete waves."