Posts tagged creative writing
The grey hued thoughts
Laugh at what life has wrought
And I wonder at them
Within this tattered poem.
The blue of my soul
Colors me as a whole
And it bewilders me
As I write my poetry.
When did my heart decide
To not listen, but abide
By the war within my mind?
When did I say goodbye
Within the soundless, hollow cry
Of a synesthetic blind?
I do not know
Where my soul will go,
But I have hope,
And, somehow, I’ll cope.
For now I’ll make do
With all I believe to be true
And I’ll be free,
For this is what writing gifts to me.
I’ve been old, you see. I’ve been young.
I’ve thought a song was left unsung,
But you see, the shining harmony
has always been playing endlessly
And in this journey, I have found
That it is composed of lovely sounds
And until the day I understand,
I shall write with these color-stained hands.
You sat against the window ledge with your heart on your sleeve,
crying into the darkness; you waited
but no one could hear.
Begging for a way out with dreams and needs,
yet no one bothered to lift you up
when you were at your most empty, starlight dripping in your eyes.
Too many ups and downs, while the world was shoving you
this way and that, forced down while I fear sometimes:
I will not be able to say I love you before you go.
Angry because you couldn’t find your way into the dark,
yet you screamed at me to let you jump and meet the concrete;
I waited for you to speak to me as the wind rushed in your ears.
Time passed and the terror subsided, knowing you were frightened;
tormented, torturous lies; deep in my throat I hated for you,
until all I knew was the power of words, some sting like bees.
Sticks and stones may break my bones yet words dig
far deeper and circumstances cut scars so much further than
that knife and the drop staring back at you, little spider scenes.
In the end you could not fit through the window,
scratches and scrapes; still
I would beg you to stay, any day.
the afternoon folded into another lonely tangerine
and I was left to scramble for my own bearings
it was alarming to see time slip furiously away
into portions of light which smoldered into clay
in brief seconds the smell of stale dust grew
tickling the fringe of noses as black stole blue
it was the remnants of how the day had raced
tiny planktons of air for land whales to be traced
so I summoned a shadow in places I could
and removed the gauze when wounds looked good
I dabbed it a concentrate of your heart’s blood
so I could sleep, numbed, with your heart’s thud
fingers impinge on the chest
they circle around where soft hairs
curled, or waved, or bent down - stayed.
a number eight, it would draw
imaginary ink on brown paper.
it would end with a period. pinches
where crimson ovals grew.
whims strike the direction
as sun on grass and morning dew.
until downwards it seeks to explore
when eight is enough
and sixty-nine is a bore.
When there is no longer
I will not cry for the ink.
When the tear
and the well has ignited
into its own sandy death
I will not
When my eyes - removed by the stretching masks,
fill no place inside my head
I will not bleed.
And when the
flows free from dissected veins
my mind will not think on it.
The wet ochre
flow will permeate the
unlimited space and will
be carried by the wind - to create the
that is no longer
written on paper.
And the mind
will be free.
were rose petals
and we melted;
nose to nose,
all the while
and your body is the last great frontier, I will spend months creating my map of pure beauty as I mark down each of your favorite places to be touched.
My lips will journey from the tips of your toes to the nape of your neck, I will travel from valley to mountain, from river to forest, leaving no landscape undiscovered.
Ordinary men are propelled to greatness by great passions and none before mine for you have been this monumental.
I will worship your body as the priest at his pulpit, singing out my praise for all of heaven and earth to hear.
Helen of troy inspired a war between empires, for you I shall conquer the universe
In the late along a road
from a city lights in fade
back to bleak, cold and quiet
through the silver wash of car splash,
inside her head, a car crash,
the moon held her soul
instead of crumbs of bread
she trailed tears, each one a silver drop
little lakes for ants
slugs on gravel black, a puddle
on she walks
stiletto through rubble
an ankle wobble
slip sprained and collapse
her head a hit
with the bricks
above she looked
and curtains pulled
and sky revealed
a ballerina of herself
grace and circles swam the clouds
and twist around
a glowing globe
of treaded path
and paper shredded
no more, no more, talking
no more his eyes
no more his mouth hanging
no more, no more sorry
the raindrops tapping fingers
the fields combing, waving
the house stood a still gravestone
and the road a car running headlights
beside the kerb a cold kill reminder
an outstretch, a far reach
to a path
an island safely
she diving board readied
she open lips spoke
a final thank you upward
for the black, the tarmac bed
she cracked like a nutshell
while the moon
held her soul.
You are a window in a ranch house in Georgia;
the view of you is an expanse of crops more beautiful than city lights;
the gossamer dew drops that lie more closely to your base
are little orbs of sunshine - the amorphous babes of nature’s race;
the chickens are grazing the grounds, looking for a little bite to eat -
they rise before I open my eyes and sing their morning song with ease;
and the citrus trees, all in a row, shake gently, gently, in the breeze.
You, the window, cry all day long - no one knows it ‘til it rains;
because you, the window, are a two-way portal to beauty -
to a beauty that you will never be able to touch, to a beauty
that you can do nothing more with than see.
the heel of my
shoe was falling
off, scraping against
the cracked sidewalk
i was walking across,
waiting on a bus, a bus
that would take me to
the next drink, the
next drunk, the next
i kept tripping
on the heel, stumbling,
and wondering what
it must look like
too innocent bystanders
setting off to start their
days, watching me
trip and stumble before
the 10 a.m bus
as it rained down on the
broken cement and the
burnt grass and me,
i wondered why i didn’t
care what they thought
after the 3 a.m bus
dropped me off.
mercury is in snyc
with every satellite.
the whales moan -
and i am swelling in
the whale’s silver belly
with gepetto, with noah.
within the tide,
the slipper-fish stutter
in one glossy throng.
i slit gills across my throat.
i fuse with the resonance
i glide through
anemic echos to you.
It reminds me of my childhood,
Crushed flowers in a small, sheer bag
Under my pillow;
Rest easy, sweet pea.
It reminds me of my backyard,
Growing prolifically, like a weed,
Only far more welcome and beautiful;
Not here, not there, but everywhere.
It reminds me of death,
The scent lingering on her favorite sheet,
Forever retired to a quiet box;
But my feelings can’t be trapped with it.
It reminds me of you,
So sweet and nostalgic, delightful and sensual,
Bringing me into your heart to stay;
Come back to me, angel.
Come back angel, please come back.
We’ll walk together through the tea gardens
And stop to plant some seeds—lavender.
One day it’ll be a patch just for us, and we’ll pick them,
And smell them,
And remember them: nostalgia.
And we’ll be together for as long as the lavender
Can retain meaning for me, for us.
That’ll be a long time, I know.
Pick some lavender with me.
I knelt as the grass caught fire
nodding to spirals of smoke -
catching and holding them in
I broke through the sub-zero dawn
heart racing to my stomach
jittery from family tree withdrawals
and thinning blood
Worn heels slide over needles
as a balloon sinks into a yard
full of brush and mouths
waiting for the cries of dogs
and scurrying steps of jack rabbits -
this is evening
A sick feeling enters my body and I swallow hard
I walk back, but it doesn’t feel like I’m going home
Powder blue tracing into white washed pink,
seamless colours tumbling above like folds of silk,
wedding dress clouds and sari sky, tinted with ink and gold,
blazing bright and blinding in the sun. Orange drips into dipped ochre and bronze
and flying starlings rustle and collect in swooping feathered flocks
caressing the sea-worn green of oak leaves as they sweep
the surface of the earth. Apricots dazzle the orchard,
bumping softly furred skins and as I bite
the juice spills down my chin.
Dappled shade traces lines of moss coloured lace
across the peached and freckled skin of my shoulders and I sigh
a small sigh as the breeze licks the leaves into a whispering cacophony.
Stretching out into the shape of my limbs I curl and relax as a cat would, yawning,
fuzzy and warm in the swirling idyl of natural pigments whilst rising sea-blue
violet pillars sprinkled with mahogany mark the neighbouring trees,
casting a conscious eye over the soil and as I breathe
the earth spins, above and beyond and beside.