PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"She had been waiting, 

for her knight. 

Her proper gentleman, 

the one who at night

 

would hold her tight,

the only way

that seemed right

to sleep.

 

So deep,

was her love

for someone she hadn't met yet, 

it kept her away

 

from the others.

No prince

could ever save this

damsel in distress. 

 

She was busy, anyway.

But on one

humid, busy day,

one said hello.

 

And in a blur of a year,

she realized 

she had said 'yes', 

with stone like Ocean

 

adorned on left hand.

She was happy.

She was going to unite 

with one whom

 

she had searched 

her entire life for.

One who loves her

for who she is,

 

and every thing

that implies.

He is no knight, 

no master-commander,

 

just a man

who has a way with words; 

or so he likes to think.

All she wants,

 

is to ink into passing

the change of last name.

A light love story, 

that began two year ago,

 

one busy day.

"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."

"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."

"It's been a bit,

since I've written real words, 

real verbs, letters lined up 

to litter the page 

 

with alliteration, 

metaphors, hyperboles,

other devices that help gain

your undivided attention.

 

It's been a bit,

I almost quit,

because the last time I was on stage,

I felt like a tripped.

 

I felt like I didn't perform, 

I knew I was pulling punches, 

because there was much to consider, 

but now it's got me a little bitter.

 

I held back.

 

I held back,

lowering my tone,

juxtaposed to my actual voice;

loud.

 

I held back,

because of the 

familiar face

In the crowd.

 

I held back,

instead of letting it rip,

taking people on a little trip

to recount how one's lid

 

was flipped.

 

I held back

because I was scared

that I wasn't hip

and I wasn't hop, 

 

when I was raised on Wu-Tang 

and Nas 

in a place where 

where rain constantly drops,

 

and I know how

the beat drops, 

the mic rocks, 

and how rhymes can make time stop.

 

I held back 

because the tone of my skin 

has people guessing 

wrong my ethnicity, 

 

if you think I'm white,

you're not right, 

and to be honest 

that's not point.

 

Because I come from a place 

where I was too nerd to be brown

and too chale be white 

and too polite to be hanging out 

with the gangsters 

 

stealing cars 

and shooting at other's backs,

and if you think

I'm talking about blacks

 

that's the problem,

assumption causes caution, 

because not only were those 

want-to-be thugs

 

of fairer skin, 

my only friends

were much darker kin.

In the Marines,

 

we call ourselves green,

and you're either 

dark green, 

light green,

 

and there's no disillusion,

you disagree? 

Shoot, 

perhaps in the Army.

 

And yes, 

the Navy too, 

there's no turning back, 

I'm no longer holding back,

 

what I'm saying is true. 

The point of this piece 

is to bring peace

to me,

 

that I was wrong 

to hold back, 

to withhold from the reader,

because how can I call myself 

 

a poet

if I'm not painting a picture? 

With your mind as the canvas,

and my words as the paint?

 

I watched poets come on stage,

deliver works of art,

things beautiful, 

and I saw a beautiful, torn heart

 

put her hand up in the air

to an artist work,

like it was gospel in the church,

with thoughts on me! I saw,

 

but I held back,

and what I provided last time

was a finger painting 

of child's skill.

 

I need to be real,

paint a real picture,

my motions and emotion

the finest paintbrush, 

 

now fluttering about

all over your mind, 

hopefully breathing to life

that I, 

 

a man,

 

am more than some accusation,

of being mean heart.

Of being a relatable object,

supposedly,

 

to a poem so eloquently put

'he broke my heart,

and called it poetry'?

Get out with that

 

hand raised in the air

while another poet

spills out her pain,

and perhaps next time

 

I won't hold back,

paint a picture 

of how her heartbreak

did become my poetry. 

 

Yes, I'm being specific, 

and context would make

for a much hotter piece,

 

but I'm over this, 

over being scared, 

I've conquered mountains

and crossed bridges.

 

Reader,

I respectfully submit,

give me another chance.

I won't hold back."

"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."