Passion

LET'S MEET

Before the bananas ripe

let's meet at least once
 
lest the fog dampen passion
let's water our love
 
the sun is bright this morning
and night's promising
 
let's meet and unfreeze winter
of years, drink some wine
 
restore warmth of faith and hope
and heal the breaches
 
without black goggles for seeing
let's meet at least once
 
 
--R.K.Singh
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My grandfather´s paintings

My Grandfather´s Paintings


 

Every time we go to my grandfather´s house there they are, all around the place, in every single wall decorating and lighting the house up. I walk down the long hallways, and anywhere that I turn around I can see another beautiful creation. Yes, I am talking about my grandfather´s amazing paintings. You can go into his house every day and you will see a painting that you have never seen before, and that it is even better than the old ones. I just can´t believe how his imagination can take him to so many places and make such beautiful paintings. Almost every time that we go visit him we can see how every single day, hot or cold, sunny or rainy, he sits down in his small white walled office and just paints, paints and paints. There are brushes all over the place; paint splashed on the desk, on the wall and even on the floor, but further from that, there is a masterpiece lying on his desk. My grandfather is not actually a painter, no, he´s an architect, but as soon as he retired he couldn´t leave his passion for drawing, and so he decided to begin painting. Everything in the house is like a timeline, all the paintings organized from the oldest to the newest, from black and white to colorful and full of joy. It all begins at the front door, as soon as you take the first step inside the house the adventure begins. First you can see a complete golf course painted hole by hole, and then you can see a complete and amazing set of beautiful flowers, and further on comes his latest and biggest creation, all of the little towns from the city that he lives in. This last creation was so big that it had to be taken to somewhere else, the white walls of his house just were not enough. So my grandfather took the next big step, he decided to take all his small town paintings and open an art exposition in the city of those towns. So now, you are not just dazzled when you enter the house, you are also amazed when you visit this exposition. The exposition is composed by more than seventy-five paintings and believe it or not he is still working on it. Every weekend he goes and visits a new town, he takes a mental picture of the place, goes back to his house and begins to reproduce it on the paper. My grandfather is really an old man and he has been through a lot of things, losing his wife for instance, but nothing has made him lose his passion and he has always kept strong. 

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To Love

I yearn to love, a love with a passion

Joining hearts, a fatal attraction

To be fondled by your words alone, holding on to promises by your lips

To savor the sweetness and emotion that drips

Let us hold together, let our eyes slowly find and meet

Let all time stop, with nothing but our heartbeats




Just Like This


 

On a journey to Heaven -

visions reflected in your eyes,

passing through mists for morning's,

and rising to the brightest skies

 

Set adrift in the sunlight -

beyond terrestrial scapes,

embracing all that you are,

in a world- only love shapes

 

To the edge of infinity-

surrendering to the serene,

arrival on a smitten heart,

from where paradise is seen

 

Images in this window -

depicting my every thought,

within is held splendor,

the dreams I've always sought

 

Life roused in your presence -

entranced by beauty of soul,

a sweetness till eternal's last,

an existence that makes me whole

 

These pleasures for me alone -

like whispers before a kiss,

words to hold me in your arms,

I'll love you forever - just like this

 

© C.E.Vance

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just another handful of words. A moment of thought.

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Playwright

Speech can be a masterpiece of artistic creation,

Elegant calligraphy, decorated with the odd heart-flutter flourish,

Fingers working, dancing, pounding on ivory keys, 

The smoke from a handsome mouth drifting through mahogany halls

As though from a fired gun. Dust settling after an earthquake. 

 

I cast myself in my plays, 

Too immersed to retract from the action, 

Too selfish to watch another fertilise the seeds, 

Too inflated to see my words applauded to another, 

"That's the theatre!" "That's life!"

 

People care little for Mona herself, 

Only for her master, his talent unbound. 

We praise not sunflowers, but their gardener insane. 

Shakespeare was lucky, the devil of devices, 

But the new world has eyes, not ears. Not brains!

 

I cannot see the target but for dazzling light, 

Heat and heart working furiously to fuel those pretty-penned words, 

I'm dashing or thrashing, whichever is box-office smashing, 

The multi-skilled wonder man of paper-in-hand, 

I love the stage and I love my plays, 

In most, I play the devil.

Untitled Repose

Folder: 
Second

 

Untitled Repose

Because I am an emotional man,                                                                                                                                                                 Who has it in his head that emotions are irrational,                                                                                                                                     And whom in the absurdity of this misery,                                                                                                                                              Prefers to hold the hand of these abstractions,

 

So then as my pen touches down on paper,                                                                                                                                                      I am made whole and then released to roam.


Thus it is to be,                                                                                                                                                                                             That the young and growing poets dream,                                                                                                                                                                  Is ever to remain alive in the hungry heart,                                                                                                                                                     Of said endless illusion.

 

 

On the whiteness of this page,                                                                                                                                                                      Past the singular threads bleached black,

 

 

Lays the grunt of the imagination grazing on the plane of our reality,

And in this native hue of resolution,

~Like Others Past~

I am none the less:

 

 

“Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought’’

And all my sins remembered,

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This maybe the only one I post in this folder, I'll store the rest. Perhaps next summer I will get around to posting them.

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Can't go back

A simple Gaze
A short meeting of eyes
A simple haze
Morality's demise
It is I who I despise  
Save my soul
Make me try
If I could just walk around your head for a day
Would I turn into stone or clay?
Does it even matter?
Daft thoughts
Created by factory chairs

 

 

BORED AND HOT.

Lizbeth wants
more to love

 

than the once
a day glimpse

 

or quick meet
on the field

 

with her love
Benedict

 

during their
lunch recess

 

with hardly
time to talk

 

or to kiss
while prefect's

 

not watching
she wants to

 

be able
to make love

 

(at least try
what she'd read

 

in that book
the big girl

 

had shown her
and loaned her)

 

she wants now
to feel him

 

enter her
(as the book

 

had described)
to be one

 

in body
and in heart

 

to sense his
lips on hers

 

and other
sensitive

 

secret parts
to feel him

 

kiss her bits

inner thighs

 

lids of eyes

her small tits

 

but in class
during maths

 

bored to tears
she thinks on

 

Benedict
whose warm lips

 

had met hers
in the gym

 

secretly
during lunch

 

he shyly
not tonguing

 

just kissing
holding her

 

close to him
she sensing

 

his kisses
wanted more

 

making love
on the floor

 

but the bell
rang its chime

 

no more time
just the caught

 

memory
of what they

 

did and not
leaving her

bored and hot.

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Still love again

Sometimes,

I mean.

Once in awhile.

Now and then.

I wish that I could-

Wash away the days

and the years.

I knew it was a riot.

I'd like to see the sunlight-

Creep slowly down your face.

 

Though,

It frightens me to admit.

My love was never made in vain.

Despite your change in faith.

I hope you'd still love-

Once more.

But-

It's hard to be the one-

To say goodbye.

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