I feel the ink flow through my veins,
After fearing it all had dried.
As once again, reality awakens muse,
When all hoping again, has died.
For a jolly poet, simply cannot write,
Unless it all goes tragically wrong.
So to hell with all the make believe...
And to hell with being strong.
I'd rather feel this release again,
As from me, this blood pours out.
A letting of this verbal plasm,
Pouring forth from an emotional spout.
A too-tight tourniquet of sorts,
Long staunched, a healthy flow.
But now, like before, it flows warm and red,
And eagerly fills again, a river of woe.
So muse, now cut me deeper still,
For we have poems to be created.
Since life prooved to us, yet once again,
The tempests will never, be abated.
"Say it ain't so,
trapper in her own little world,
the sounds, smells,
and whirl of the ceiling fan
spins unnoticed,
unfelt,
with the security
and familiarity of her headphones.
The music,
unknown,
the art that is decorating
her time
sealing away
the ugly world around her.
Given unto her
the superpower
to make the whole wide world
completely melt away.
Her eyes never breaking
a horizontal plane,
not out of submission,
but from avoidance.
The lack
of eye-contact
can be unsettling to some,
perhaps to the ones
who cannot stand silence.
But in silence she works,
folding her laundry,
being sure to block all view
of any unmentionable
she plucks up
to fold.
To the observation
of the outsider,
an observer
would see or anything
practically any and all
back story
only to be
most likely
incorrect.
And she will never care,
never know
she is the topic of light scrutiny,
so that script can be written,
the unaware volunteer
for the unwarranted play
playing in front.
For there is nothing but a scene,
of washers and dryers,
an incredibly clean location,
and with the only movement
being the one
who has made a point
that she does not want
attention;
she becomes the only subject
on stage.
A boring play.
Smelling of fragrance;
after the rain."
The cracked mirror
I impatiently wait for the day to be fixed
Hidden fear or
darkness, I couldn't say, the feeling's mixed
Trying to find light within the cracks
Breaking out of night as I listen to the heart attacks
Of the people of broken health I called me, once worn
In the city of myself, not meant to be, a battle born
Cracked skin!
Poison within,
a smile locked in, but inside a fight you couldn't win
Could I stand here and speak lies that this was really me?
Not really, I don't have much of eyes left to see.
as I just kill another one impatiently
so violently.
Until there's a void with complete darkness and nothing left
Just another alleyway destroyed, another empty something, just another personality theft,
National Poetry Day
By jfarrell
KEEP RUNNING!
The stinking tendrils of ancient decayed flesh envelope you,
Engulf you in a nicotined-coloured fog;
Your devil has arrived, demanding payment.
- horror
The moment I saw her face;
It was like a thousand rainbows shone;
All the stars of the heavens bursting into life again
My heart was hers. I would die for her.
-romance
There was a miserable sod, wrought from Bermondsey;
Dark clouds, thunder; all his life followed he;
But, when to ‘Wales’ he went,
A promised holiday was the event;
A ‘pain in the bum’ was all he received.
-limerick
My madness has made me a god,
Or, maybe, I’m just a conceited sod.
- couplet
In the shadows, I watch and I learn;
The deep longing within me burns;
To love one, such as you;
And I know my love would be true.
-rhyming
Why poems?
I offer five reasons, five themes, five experiences;
Today is National Poetry Day.
Thank you for coming. Please enjoy your stay :-)
"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."