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I write poems because it's fun
And I'm not the only one
It's an outlet for verbal expression
A hobby and not an obsession
I'm an amateur, not a pro
Thankful there's someplace to go
Where others like myself
Can write without seeking wealth
An opportunity for me to learn
Gain confidence in return
Friendly contests sharpen my skills
Winning is a personal cheap thrill
Not everyone feels the same
For people like me, that's a shame
They're always causing dissension
Complaining and seeking attention
In their high chair, they bang their spoon
Grown men crying childish tunes
The food that once filled their belly
To them is now tasteless and smelly
I say, find another place to eat
Let us amateurs compete
Nobody's making you stay
You don't play well with others, anyway
Bland food doesn't suit your palate
Over here you're wasting your talent
Why stay here and eat slop
Since your talent's so over the top
Seems like I could be on top of the world.
I think about poetry like my tongue is pearled.
Just the other day I wrote a poem to honor another poet.
I spun around in a spin to unfurl to the Soupers whorled.
I know they think they’re the bombshell.
They are big headed and believe their words cast the spell.
They vortex puts us in a whirlpool.
They billow swells.
Soupers let’s keep it real.
The universe zeal.
We entertain each other with our thoughts.
Poetry is our appeal.
We write to regale.
Anything else considered is to no avail.
I laugh aloud.
Soupers the advantage is a tall tale.
I am here to share-out.
That there is such a thing as an amateur in the house.
I know many fill the title of a poet professional.
This is where real skills are grandeur and profound.
Soupers, the truth expose.
A writer’s right shows.
Angstrom to a wavelength, the brain thinks and the mind depicts.
As a Poetess, here I throw it to the wind; that it is you with the asshole.
SPELLING TEST (there are over 30 words contained within this poem that are often
misspelt by the common man)
We all do on occasion temporarily misspell.
Amateur or connoisseur of language,who can tell?
Conscientiously piece together,peculiar bits of rhyme.
Manoeuvre letters gorgeously for others to refine.
Discipline and experience,all apparent to you and me.
Pronunciation not enough to spell linguistically.
Skilful realignment of the letters needs addressed.
Paralytic implications quintessentially expressed.
A ricochet of rhythm,sabotaged in a queue of verse.
Cacophony of tone with their spellings unrehearsed.
Is your spelling kamikaze,a haemorrhaging of ink.
A karaoke nightmare,communication on the brink.
So literary geniuses,i am all apologetic.
If my utterance is rabbled and my spelling is pathetic.
You see,many words i utilize in this poem i create.
Have been misspelt for centuries,the most common is
separate
His talent as a Bard explodes
From an exquisite mind it flows
Through an instrument of script
Flooding parchment reverberating
Through the psyche creating waves
Reaching the far ends of the universe
Words of truth deep sentiment flourish
Propelling legitimate personal emotions
Giving due praise to brave loyal and true
To God nature his love and fellow Bards and
The magnificent highlands he loves so well
Always uplifting inspiring and sharing
Accept this tribute from an amateur a friend
With gratitude for reading commenting for
Being just who you are, The Highlander
Help me ladies , I need your words of advise!
For I've been played, not just once but twice!
Of late in love I feel at fault, such shame.
But I remained loyal,why is it myself I blame?
Yes a man I don't need, I know that much.
But no one can live, without anothers touch.
Tell me how once again,I can or if i can trust?
Please ladies for your words I need, it so much!
Grrr don't get me started on the subject of men.
Its not just the male sex,just think of when,
We suffer with MENstruation and then MENopause
And blokes drive us MENtal....yes men are the cause!
Lady number one will throw you a bone.
I mean, find yourself a puppy dog to own.
You'll find he's warm,you can nuzzle with him.
It's not a far stretch to go out on a limb.
Let me off a second choice- a cat and a book.
A little imagination to help you forget that schnook.
Everyone knows a kitten loves to read over your shoulder.
And with the itty bitty furball you won't get colder.
Yes a man is good at sweet seductive of words,
to gaze in your fragile eyes and taste your red wine.
Spin you round his finger like twine and say you're mine
Till he's full,grins boyishly flies away like the birds!
Men are proud creatures who hardly ever admit to being wrong.
They'll portray themselves as a good guy and string you along.
A portrait of humility until becoming controlling and headstrong.
So look behind the mask they wear before you sing a torch song.
I tell myself, he loves me, he loves me not
I put up his crap because he's all I got
I came to realize I could do bad all by myself
Words of advice are often said with forked tongue
Hoping you will follow and end up feeling glum
Listen to your heart, does it miss a beat
When your near a certain someone, or you just on heat.
A man is helpful sometimes when the loads are heavy
No sex though remember to reward with a biscuit and a bevvy.
As to the touching bit that's hard to overcome
Cos nothing is better than a man's well rounded bum
If you are not understood;
it is all for the good.
Keep the mystique alive;
and let the men jive.
As the hunter, he thrives;
satisfying his male drives.
Some helpful information for my female friends have I.
Most men adore attention, so give them what they crave:
your time, your adoration and for sure, some apple pie!
And then perhaps your guy might end up your love slave!
My words may well be thoughts most unpopular,
but, I make no claim as a romantic scholar.
In my view, when dealing with the human lot,
it is a variety of personalities you have got.
I feel gender is not a character slot.
Either sex can be born a thorough snot
and a complete deceit of predator rot.
Friends or lovers can turn you distraught.
Yes, there are from Mars and we are from Venus *from a book
they need to treat woman like the weaker sex that they are
they need to realize they all need us but we don't all need them
Madison Demetros:
Where men become our suitors.
Where a man will softly peck us on the cheek, and weave, interlace his fingers in our ribbons of silky hair.
But the thing I love the most about them....
is how lovingly, how longingly they stare.
Winsome Miller-Rowe:
Testosterone is to blame
They say when accosted
That excuse is so lame
It leaves you exhausted
Tell him you prefer
A man using his head
Than a hormone swayed amateur
That is easily led.
FROM BAD TO VERSE
Jan doesn't write iambic pentameter
So please don't condescend and mock her
We have different styles
I bring laughter and smiles
Please remember Jan is just an amateur!
He worked at the local newspaper office.
I worked for his employer’s wife as a mother’s helper.
He had served his apprenticeship
and was now a full fledged printer
earning a magnificent sum of eight dollars a week.
My wages were three dollars per week.
Mrs. Miller found reasons for sending
me to the office frequently
and he was easy to talk to.
It wasn’t long before
he asked me to go to a movie
and I readily agreed.
Movies tickets at our local theatre
were twenty-five cents, usually.
The first movie we went to was called
“The Housekeeper’s Daughter”
starring Joan Bennett.
I don’t remember a thing about the story.
The next week he called again
and this time
the movie he wanted to take me to was
“Gone With The Wind”.
I protested that it was too expensive.
This time he would have to spend
fifty cents each on tickets
and the movie was so long that
there was an intermission
and I knew he would want
to buy refreshments, but
I didn’t take much persuading
and we went all out for that
evening of entertainment.
This time I did remember the story.
From that evening forward ,
he was a daily caller at our home
and my mother did her best
to keep him fed.
Most of our dates were merely
a stroll down town and back
as we had no car.
We heard on the radio that
Major Bowe’s Amateur Hour
was coming to a bigger town
about thirty miles away
and both of us decided we would like to
attend that function.
Money would be a problem
on our wages, so we decided
to save up for it.
One of us bought a dime bank and
we each put any spare dime we could,
into the bank.
It held five dollars.
We managed to have
five dollars worth of dimes
by the time the big day arrived.
Dad lent us his car
and off we went.
I don’t know what the tickets cost
but we had enough to buy them
plus enough to
indulge in an ice-cream soda
at the big town soda fountain.
1940 was the year our story started.
In March of 1941
he left for Detroit, Michigan
where he had heard he could find work
at a decent wage.
He sent a telegram
that he’d found a job
at $50.00 a week.
He had a minister and marriage license.
I had never been away from home before
but I traveled to Detroit and
we were married in July of 1941.
Musical Torment - The Infamous Masterpieces
Torturing me with touches
I feel the sting of hardened and lasting lust
Touches not of mortal fingers,
But Halloween-haloed strings composed by musicians of mystery
Pressing upon my back--yes! A searing, yet melodi-errotic strike
All upon me, yet far from me...
Leave me not in the judgement of my own scrambling feelings
Rest not away as I hold my hands out in the dark
Deathly dances are visions heaven-bound for the duo--
Yet for the solo- a blank, useless measure...
The pulsing silence of amateur-stitched love rattles me
Making rhythms giggle in my mind
Intervals of idiocy tormenting all reason
Truly an agonizing, but for others--minor--prison
Is the smile that helped design those strings
Those strings that pluck upon my spine
Controlling me in a dark place stuck between tunes and time
Why are your hands so cold when you play those piano keys?
Why are your lungs so eroded with the pride that taints the songs you sing?
Why have the rhythms gone awry, and why does your apathetic dissonance thrive?
And tell me… through it all…
As you compose the rise and fall…
Why is all this destruction you created so vibrantly alive?
I wish that I could write
Like my son the poet
I'm just an amateur
And well I know it
I search the site
And there again
He has written something wonderful
With his amazing pen
Wish that I might write
As he has done
I know I am extremely proud
Of my wonderfully talented son
Dedicated to my son Richard poet extraordinaire
I am so glad that all my children are different
I can love you all for different reasons
Mom
How rare, how innate this journey
manifests to be, the foreshadowing
of a loners blessing.
That intuitive thought to travel
with when my third eye seems blemished.
A mannequin of myself hidden in
longevity, that has yet to spoil.
I sometimes allow thoughts to slip
away from this safe haven,
thereby welcoming consequences,
consequences only an amateur
would allow.
In this game of similar links,
I’m quickly reminded of a presence
bestowed upon me.
Those allies illustrated for battle.
Only a true soldier could retrace these
portraits, heavy pages of uncertainty that we failed
to erase. I’m grateful however, of the genuine flame it
ignited.
We defeated the irrelevant
hazing, and found the blueprint for
camaraderie.
A groundwork for future war scars discovered
in our spirit. Overtime we prayed, and
received that undaunted
scent.
Still, perhaps in this physical scene,
There lies too much symmetry for this
parallel vision.
Some fade away as a result,
anticipating a reunion in higher
dimensions.
But as this masterpiece continues to illuminate,
I praise God for this muse called friendship.
Perfection's never something,
You can capture oh so well.
But her beauty burned like gazing,
At the fires that burn in Hell.
And people they would beg of her,
"Let me capture you in photograph."
But with beauty that was so obscure,
She'd always turn and laugh.
She woke up every morning,
But this was a different one.
Called an artist that was yearning,
"We can do this just for fun."
She stained her lips with rose.
Painted her cheeks in the fairest rouge.
Slipped ballet flats upon her toes.
And in her sundress she found refuge.
The amateur had no say,
She had planned the perfect spot.
She whispered, "I'll lead the way."
A small price to pay to get the perfect shot.
Her movements were so delicate,
It's as if they were devised.
She used a subtle hand wave to indicate,
That they had finally arrived.
You would think you'd see a castle,
Or maybe a field of green.
But this enviroment was quite the hassle,
Maybe her sense of taste wasn't keen.
She thrusted weeds away,
Steering clear of twigs and rocks.
The warm wind made her sundress sway,
And softly tousled her gold locks.
Upon a bridge she advanced,
The planks began to creak.
The water below her danced,
And sunset began to peak.
She lifted her legs with elegance,
And supported herself with a beam.
The photographer shuttered in benevolence,
But followed along with this dangerous scheme.
It's as if the camera was under a spell;
As beneath the bridge, waves violentally lashed.
She threw her arms out and willingly fell,
As the light grew bright and flashed.
The tides pulled tight around her.
They made her twirl and spin.
And the camera man swore,
she smiled as they tugged her in.
Perfection's not that fluent.
Not something you can capture oh so well.
But now we have a picture here to prove it,
As the waves dragged her to Hell.
.
Sometime last year, in late August 2015, something unusual went viral..
It was an ancient picture on the wall, vastly unlike its original art..
A piece of botched artwork, unfinished, and yet all over the world it enthralled..
People, the tourist kind, they made a quick bee line, to see for themselves..
Ecce Homo, a seemingly priceless ancient painting in a church , upon one of its wall..
Time has ravaged its brilliant colours , and its paintwork well flaked off the wall..
One artistic old lady of 83, she took it upon herself to try restore its beauty..
Painstakingly she laboured upon days on end, as expertly as she can..
She meant well, it hurts her artistic soul to see the priceless artwork fade..
She tried her best, but the colours, they ran and it was a difficult task..
She had to go away for a short while, she left behind a half restored art...
Someone in church, horrified no doubt, took a picture of it as a matter of fact..
The uploaded picture in the internet, it was shared and quickly it went viral..
Many found it amusing, there was so much scorn, it was soundly ridiculed..
The Ecce Homo fresno, or Behold The Man, it now looks like a monkey or a porcupine…
A picture of a mournful Jesus is no more, in its place is an artwork that is one of its kind…
Poor Cecilia, a widow and amateur painter, she never had a chance to finish her effort..
Her failed restoration effort rocketed around the globe and then a miracle of sorts..
People started thronging to this church in Borja, Spain, it was a pilgrimage of some kind...
After the viral picture on the internet, people just had to see and view this new find…..
Now that 150,000 visitors have come and gone, Borja is a town rejuvenated and restored..
In this village of medieval palaces and winding lanes, this botched artwork has the town resurrected…
All the free publicity from a botched artpiece, it has been a breath of life to the local economy..
God works in mysterious ways, it explains the good fortunes that follows from the smudgy renderings..
Poetry is spontaneous, pure, raw emotion,
don't you dare label what I say as cliche.
This is my perspective of life in motion,
through experiences encountered day by day.
Bleeding and leaking in the form of ink,
my mind paints a beautiful picture.
Writing for the soul pushed to the brink.
Joy and sorrow, such a beautiful mixture.
Poetry fuses all emotions,
time to forget the foolish notion,
that experience stays strict to form,
Time to recreate the norm.
Life's not in Iambic Pentameter,
but it still moves with a lyrical flow.
What some read may come off as amateur,
To others inspire spiritual growth.
As Autumn leaves fall,
Spring begins to blossom,
change is almost here.
Catalyzed by thoughts shared through honest words,
emerging from the emptiness deep down,
A blank verse forged through the pain and sorrow,
Brought to the light through happiness and peace.
Redemption echoing like a shriek in an empty house---
emptying out feelings of defeat.
Poetry is water for the dehydrated soul---
warmth from the desolate cold.
Such a powerful tool should not be limited,
poetry frees me so I write freely.
Free from the burdens of stress carried for so long,
free from the bondage of guidelines to tell my story.
I Write to inspire, to spread desire like wildfire.
No different than mankind, poetry should by judged by its content,
the body and form are institutional nonsense.
She is Poet Laureate,Honored ESTEEMED Among old , young on the SOUP
She is a Mother of Poetry, A MATRIARCH Looked up to POETIC WISDOM
Elaine George very special POETESS Poetry through her pen FLOWS
Poetess among POETESS REVERED POETESS through and THROUGH
Novice, Amateur, Professional EMULATES HER
We read, see hear feel her SENSITIVITY Magic of HER feathered QUILL
Her Poetic written knowledge SERENELY Flows through her Golden PEN
A Poetess so deserving of OBEISANCE Acknowledging her TEACHING
Suspense, Love, Intrigue FORMED For HER FELLOW POETS
Elaine George Writing Her POETRY HEARTFELT POEMS OF LOVE
Poems that touch Your Heart OFTEN Exhilarate the mind’s EMOTIONS
AWE wonder for the G O D She EXALTS HER GOLDEN PEN of FEELINGS
HER Comments , Endearing T H E POETRY World TALKS ABOUT
No posted Haikus to short ; to REAL I enjoy YOUR Rhymes of LIFE
Y O U
Iridescent Dad
He’d known life, death and murder,
In our bloody war,
He had a group of followers,
Coming round to visit, for,
He’d take you in off the street,
And feed you, give you bed,
He’d fix your sick animal,
Yes an amateur vet,
My Father was a charmer,
Always full of common sense,
We never feared no harm,
with him in our defence,
The vacumn when he died,
was so immense,
He would have had the last word,
but he’s gone and jumped the fence.
Fated Hell
Slovenly sorrows cause a blur,
Shameful shallows seep and stir.
He whimpers; a cowering cur,
Deathbed's deals, give-take, now occur.
Soul dried, bunched ball of prickly burr
Waste-of-time tears, goad like a spur.
Apologies, are but a slur,
Regrets besmirch like rancid myrrh.
Slanderers’ stooge, no amateur,
Souls sold, Evil’s entrepreneur.
Atropos to cut; F A T E S concur
Time to let loose this saboteur!
“Burn in H E L L”, said the whisperer…
No Apologies
Rumour has it
that you write
There are many
amateur critics ready
to put you down
You don't have to
apologize
for your life style,
for your work
for anything you do
When the summer begins
to die
Feel the winds of
September in your bones
Let your creativity
grow like a late-blooming
flower
Now you feel
only the wind
It doesn't judge
you
It frees your spirit
from the stifiling heat
Let the sound of
trumpets
Reach your soul
Pick up a pen
Tell them your hopes,
wishes, dreams
Let the critics talk
You are the
flowing river
of magic words
The Mystery of Eyes
The Mystery of Eyes
I place pen to paper, look into your eyes,
How to shadow them to show they’ve just cried,
Draw the same circle, a center dark and deep,
I look into them, study, and I, too, weep.
You are so kind, you sit with patience,
While I, an amateur paint with slow cadence,
What is the secret to the eyes’ communication?
When they change not the spirit’s shaped reflection.
the truth
Truth had me up against the ropes
and semi-concious without no boxing skills
Fear of it makes hair on my neck grow like minoxodil
Watchin the clock is ill when, faced with the truth
Parallels observing, amateur video tapes of
Twenty-one top notch NYPD cops get ill
Fill they minds not to kill still son, never revealed
True feelings, we speakin on the truth right now in itself is healing
See The Creator, created existence and balance
At right angles, unless it was conceived and stated
So whoever shall stray away from right lives wrong
The deliverance of the word false opposite of truth off course
Sure as my slave name sending
Troy Donald Jamerson paves the path, enabling truth
To stay stable and cling to EARTH!
Sorta similar to the way static electricity sting see
Truth brings light, light refracts off the mirror
Visions of yourself and error could never clearer
The truth is that you ugly, not on the outside
But in the inside on the outside you frontin you lovely
The discovery of these things and all are well-hidden
But when you in denial of self it is forbidden, that's the truth
Sexy pussy cat
Your small kitten ears point up to the sky,
They’re black, fluffy and soft, made of silk.
And you stand on all fours, back arched like a church,
As you lick from your bowl full of milk.
Then your eyes look up, pleading for tender,
Pleading for touch, to be loved and embraced.
And you reach your claws out, webbed amongst mine,
And our fingers become interlaced.
You delicately stroke your cheek against mine,
Up, down, all around, then you emit a soft purr.
Then your claws gradually strip down the length of my back,
And I know that you’re no amateur.
I love you, my lover, I love your love kinks,
I love your uniforms, your suits and top hat.
I especially love when you dress up as a pussy,
When you become my wanton woman, my cat.
The World ain't seen SUPERHEROES yet
This is nothing similar to a fairytale
Grossly not the packaging of an unwanted mail
Nothing close to a Kafkaesque display
It is FACT!!! On the head I hit the nail
If you're looking for heroes, don't go that far
You might wonder where in the world they are
We are the gratified ones, we've made the par
Look around, you got the super-duper star
Could superman overpower the masters on poetry side
Nor flash run extraordinarily fast in his mind
Ben 10 transform his feelings into written lines
And hulk evolve as poetry's mastermind?
You know the answers if you're not gazing for 'amateur'
We are supersonic... We are not caricatures
We are superiority... We re not immatures
We are superheroes... The best among living creatures
Go back and resurrect that dead pen of yours
Open your book and ink down your elevated thoughts
Speak your mind, Open your heart, don't give up
We were born to do this, We were born to rule the WORLD
Go and reclaim Glory!!!
WE ARE THE SUPERHEROES THEY AINT SEEN YET
A Poet's Confession
It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................Shit, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
The 60s
American Bandstand, Aqua Velva Ads, Aretha Franklin, and, the Andy Griffith Show
Black lights, Bewitched, bean bag chairs, beads, Batman and the Beatles
Cleopatra, Corvairs, Corvettes, Chevelles, Captain Kangaroo, Civil Rights Movement
Dionne Warwick, Derek and the Dominoes, Dennis the Menace, and Dodge Dart.
Ed Sullivan’s Amateur Hour, Elvis Presley, the Edsel, and new expressions emerge.
Fiddler on the Roof , Flower Power painted vans, Free love, Fiber optic lights,
Giget, Green Acres, Glen Campbell, Gun Smoke, Go-Go Boots, “Go with the flow!”
Hello Dolly, Have Gun Will Travel,and the Hippie Movement begin...“Hang Ten”
Imperial (the car), I dream of Jeanie, and new phrases “In your face” crop up.
JFK youngest U.S. President, and Jackie Kennedy stylish First Lady,
Kennedy was assassinated and the nation mourned the loss of their young leader.
Lamborghini 350 GT, Lava Lamps, Lady and the Tramp, Lost in Space, Lassie
Mousekateers, mini-skirts, mobiles, macramé plant hangars, Mash, The Monkeys,
Nissan Skyline GT-R, Nash Metropolitan, and Nestles’ Nestle were signs of the times.
Ordinary people seek peace during the years of war and social change of the 60s.
Pillsbury Doughboy, Petticoat Junction,and Peter, Paul, and Mary, placate.
Queen for the Day TV show, bring a fantasy escape during radically changing times.
Rabbit ear antennas for TV shows: Route 66, and Rowan and Martin’s Laugh- In.
Sherri Lewis and Lamb Chop, Shake and Bake, and the sexual revolution start.
Twist to The Four Tops, The Flintstones,The Adam’s Family, The Twilight Zone.
“Up your nose with a rubber hose” and similar expressions are the times’ lingo.
Valley of the Dolls, Volkswagon Karmann Ghia, and Vanilla Fudge, gain popularity.
Wonderful World of Disney, Vietnam War, protests, and “Groovy” words crop up.
Xenoglossia emerges; “Make love, not war,” “Far out,” “Catch you on the flip-side.”
Yonderly Vietnam Veterans return home to social unrest without a hero’s honor.
Zanadu dances around in the minds of the partakers; religion is legal, not marijuana.
Sex, sweat and perfume
Sex,sweat and perfume
Still consume this room
The sheets washed a thousand times
Yet laced with our swansong
I lay on pillows new
But just like morning dew
As droplets of us are evaporating
I'm left...with all the aromas...and envisage what they bring
But there's nothing left to anticipate
A swansong heard now on death we await
To feel your lips upon mine one last time
Delicately parted by my tongue
My muse...my Alice Prin
Who brings forth unadulterated sin!
For the amount of canvases who have felt my strokes some may deem me amateur
Yet through constant connective awareness,readdressing and adjusting minute details
I have intensified my masterstroke so i fill the canvas and it swells to produce
Cream of the Crop
They said love conquers all
To believe that are you a fool?
To be questioned on passion, lust and love coexisting?
A question only asked by those still searching!!
For I won't settle for anything lessDevilishly deep eyes time stands still,
For a fool cannot find the will,
Stagger an eye for you the path he tread,
Left lingers the words you had said,
They look beyond the eyes you lure,
To fall and dive devilishly more,
There paused in time as both eyes lock,
As if her eyes could stop the clock.
A kiss amidst this air strays,
Lingers in wait and rose red,
Revives its eyes to tragic gaze,
Hopeless that all has shed.
A rosy kiss blown now beyond,
Whispers subtle, amidst this air,
But a breath of love, so fond,
An incomplete heart to care.
Breathless almost, the dreamer let,
Rosy red kiss which blew amidst,
Helpless lips near that met,
In lost eyes, love shan’t resist.
She sulks and sings
The sky the cloud brings,
In turn she sulks and sings,
Tear drops of her sorrow,
Drips from her tomorrow.
Her air she plenty knows,
Rides above winds she rose,
Lash the skies with ease,
Then dies down as she please.
Down field and pipe pours,
Draws her tears to yours,
Tries not release a drop of rain,
Slipping her cloud again.
Tearful cloud now free,
Them others cry unlike thee,
Now she will not sulk but sing,
Clearing skies will bring.
Her ore and shine she’s like the moon
To orbit these skies with lovers tune
Silvery splendor the nights only one
Moonlight it floods, till she’s gone
In wondrous clouds upon the waves
Mirrors her face, on ocean ways
Night of mine she’s amid the stars
Each never gleams, as quite you are
Distantly dazzle shall not wither
By my side, I ask to hither
Beautiful and rare like no other
Hand over my heart to my lover.
Them trenchers feet with knees knelt,
his brown eyes of soil washes away,
soldiers some ran, some they felt,
grass fields, or graveyards gray.
The trenches deep, like pits some fell,
stands there, wears the blood of war,
he cries endless fear as bullets yell,
knows of years of pain, he swore.
Theres a poets vault,
In it a million rhymes and charms,
Only the poets they fault,
Then perish with legs and arms.
But maybe little of a legend lies,
Though seek with open eyes.
Worthy writers do search,
On the only vault they hope,
The words of ease can perch,
And in a poets darkness grope.
To reach and smash book shelves,
But never true feelings they delve.
The amateur poet pens down,
Unleashing the words he writes,
But inspired by the suns crown,
His rhymes and charms take flight.
Digging deep and deeper still,
Yet just poems on a window sill.
Pick yourself up
Pick yourself up
with a tear in your eye,
White blinding light
you breath out a sigh,
Pain felt throughout
by this bewildered one,
Harm has been caused
the damage is done,
Unable to remember
the incident at all,
Lying in the road
curled in a ball,
Superhuman recovery
is the miracle you are,
To be in the accident
but not killed by the car,
Fate played its part
but luck had prevailed,
Fortunate for the individual
he could have been nailed,
A miraculous escape
for this idle fool,
should have been more wary
It could have ended it all.
The Moon
Luminous moon
Enlighten the night,
Twinkling stars
Glowing with light,
Behind is the sun
Keeping it bright,
Shining in darkness
It blazes alight.
Its just the beginning
Shady clouds break out
white lit sky – hidden away,
Rain showers fall from heaven
Eeriness turns to gray,
Strength up above
Peace – driven astray
Thrusts of wind
Leaves thrown into array