A meme found on Twitter about what could be a real issue when readers engage with our poetry:
"I" in a poem doesn't (have to) mean it's me!
~ exPRESSions ~
.
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
.
The poet's unique and loving prism focuses light ....a sacred magician
disappearing the darkness.
to PJJ
"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."
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...
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 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?
"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."