poet

to breathe again

Folder: 
Prior work

.




people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,


while remains a phrase or
a feeling drawn from wells
deeper than memory can


reach, or device can retrieve
much like thread-diving as
we scamper for posts buried


by traffic and flood posters…
follow, subscribe, or friend
buttons can only do so much


so we hang on to what we
have and hold dear, today
saving each precious moment


if bookmarked sentiments
are promises all will be well
we’ll boldly breathe again

 

 

 



.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

With all the internet surfers and all the data swirling around the worldwide web, even the empowered voices of everyman-person can be washed like sea scum on the shores of the shores of social media.

View crypticbard's Full Portfolio

Light Focus

 

The poet's unique and loving prism focuses light ....a sacred magician

disappearing the darkness.

 

 

 

to PJJ

View saiom's Full Portfolio

A Year Or So Ago

Folder: 
Personal

"It's been over a year. 

I realize, 

eyes playing about on dates

of the calender.

 

Suddenly thinking

back to a year before, 

days exactly 364.

So, less than a year, 

 

by hours. When the

lips that pressed were ours.

When our fingers intertwined, 

when we felt each others' bodies, 

 

souls, mind. 

So wrong, so forbidden, 

it felt right.

Written into passing,

 

the scripts and screenplay

of night-time stays, 

never staying until morning. 

Visits, 

 

door left unlocked, 

just in case.

Offered, often heard, 

only once utilized. 

 

She always said she would. 

 

Eventually. 

She did, 

softly cooing my name, 

pulling me out of my slumber, 

 

and instantly hopping into my bed, 

my arms, pulling her close. 

My warm bare skin

 

juxtaposed to her cold clothing. 

We soon matched. 

There was no lack

of mutual attraction, 

 

no shortage of constant communication, 

trips, adventures, 

ridiculous confessions 

and straight-forward denial. 

 

I denied I did wrong, 

to myself. 

Who knows how she felt.

All I know 

 

is that she felt good, 

she felt like home, 

like I belonged. 

Longing for her scent, 

 

I still remember

how it drove me wild.

Past-tense, 

as she liked to point out.

 

It's a lie, 

there is nothing passed. 

Though, once she asked

if she was hurting me.

 

I, misunderstanding, 

replied, 'why, no, 

it's my other shoulder 

that's broken.'

 

She grinned, 

leaning into my arms, 

'no,' she said, 

'this. Us.'

 

It hurt, 

seeing her dog I grew to adore

slowly separate us on the couch 

a year or so ago. 

 

It hurts still

thinking of some details. 

Fond memories, 

so vivid, full of her laughter. 

 

Haunted by scorn, 

the scorn of several people, 

over all that transpired. 

You'd think a year

 

would wash it all away, 

but nothing is past-tense. 

Hence, 

 

the dreams. 

Thoughts I can't deny, 

lying that they're gone.

They aren't.  

 

I was told it was trouble,  

I was warned. 

But still I got in her car, 

she got in mine. 

 

She's a phone call away;

I don't have the heart

to dial, 

knowing damn well

 

I'd immediately answer if she called. 

Does she read my poetry? 

Does she think of me?

Love me like I love her still? 

 

I should have not turned my cheek.

I should have came to her rescue 

against canine off-leash. 

But I didn't. 

 

And I wish I had.

Instead, all I have

is a book with edits, 

another that's a gift

 

belonging to her, 

one of her favorites. 

We even shared a quote, 

'Never lend a book.'

 

An act of affection instead, 

one of several.

She never said the words, 

but she gave me many gifts. 

 

It started with a cold can.

That's how she loved me.

I wish I had realized it

a year or so ago."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I was too scared to post for a long time. Funny how time heals. 

Aira - Part 2

Folder: 
Poetry

City of marble and beryl

The curving river Nithra,

Where the poet Iranon

Had a father that once ruled as King!

 

Palaces with golden domes,

Gardens with flowing fountains;

In the midst of reflecting pools.

 

There stands a citadel,

View of the entire city.

And never so beautiful beholded,

As the view of the serene Sea.

 

Groves and fertile fields,

A brook called the Kra

Crosses the valley from the hills

In a series of waterfalls.

 

Forested with yath-trees,

Dreamed by the very poet

And they said it was only a dream...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Mythos poem.

View mvtsicky666's Full Portfolio

Poetry In The Attic


 

Dark corner

of a cobwebbed 

attic,


Box filled with pages,
lighthearted, 
traumatic.

 

Words written,
long years
ago.

 

Forgotten notebooks.
-A poet's
portfolio.



Yellowed paper
sits there-

.

.

.

-unread.

 

Constructed thoughts
of an ancestor-

.

.

.

-dead.

 

Wasted ink
from
wayward dreams.

 

Never bound in books,
chapters
or themes.

 

It was her hope
someday,
to see them in print.

 

Now they sit there,
unseen,
in dust and lint.

 

A talent wasted.
Gone by
the wayside.

 

Packed away there,
soon after
she died.

 

Maybe fame.
would have come
her way.

 

But it never
happened,
to her dismay.

 

She never finished
the dream,
that she started.

 

Too many obstacles
sprung up.
Then she, departed.

 

Now it just 
lies there,
cold and enigmatic.

 

What remains
of her life...
Poetry in the attic.

Do Poets Dream In Verse?

 

Do we sleep in rhyme,

With words rehearsed?
In unconscious state,
Do poets dream, in verse?

 

Do we see the lines,
That always take form?
When we awake,
Are poems born?

 

Do we fear our nightmares?
Or are they only a guise?
For the stanzas we compose,
In our slumbering eyes?

 

Do we imagine scenes,
While lying prone in bed?
Ideas and stories,
That reside in our head?

 

Does ink flow through,
Our vessels like blood?
Do we write each day,
To contain the flood?

 

Do poets dream in verse?
Do our minds ever rest?
Or do we fear, that our thoughts
Will simply go, unexpressed?

Preconceived Creativity

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"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."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So often am I told by other artists they are held back by those who ask for their art, creativity. 

Rusty

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"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." 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Time to write a book...

Other Life

Folder: 
Hand Written

"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."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.