This is a free flow piece which was strictly inspired by poetry in a chat room
It's
awkward...we meet every week..
At the same place..planned by the
event...
and the silent ellipses accumulates..nestles in the warmth
of our rib
A
prison... I'd give my life ransom, even for my worst enemy
A wish... I hope I didn't
have to make...but its how much I'm prepared to give when I see
you
I
spoke... but my tongue waved the passion of my words back
And it's hard to swallow them... again...the fight feels like a dull
dagger through my gleaming soul.
The
dullness hurts and tears...and leaves an oozing gash...
And if I had to
choose; it would be the lesser of two evils
If death... let it be quickly,
painlessly
i i wished... we sat close...just
once
maybe serendipity will show up in a mini red dress...
I hope...she does... when we meet.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Will
The last reference I've made with nature was a past love
Now that love has broken...
And... I'm on the sail again;tasting the exciting splash of frisky raindrops
And now, with the memory of poetry and moonshine
Now with the reality of handsome hands kissing every beat of my heart...
To function...
To survive...
To open....
I'm appalled...
Like, a featherless bird that fell from the nest to the floor
To be satisfied and sufficient with the surgeon of your soul
Your beautiful, luminous spirit
Blowing puffs of air ...as what a child would do... to a balloon
You innocently, obliviously...giving it the power to eventually ascend for the world to know
And in its innocence; there's a flame of sincerity
This is what you do...
Oblivious... to the intimacy with which this rescue creates
Innocent... to the lip of your persona only inches away from the cheek of my gratitude
Innocent to the turn of my face to you
Giving reality a pen
And she's saying:
as we breathe and stare into each other's eyes
As we draw closer...to each other...
My pen is praying...with my heart
Please, don't make me choose
Simply, I hate to lose you
My spiritual mate
We've cushioned the fall of emotions
We've listened and nursed the harshness of events
Don't make me choose your lips and lose a heart...my heart
Lips which are the temporary in exchange for the permanent
Trust...that is cemented
If you shatter this cement..you'll shatter me
I will fight for you...as you are for me
I feel for you...as you do me
But you must know...like your spirit which is bandage to my wound
Our pure spirits are platelets to a laceration called weakness
Pure spirits which is a leveled yolk
Keys to a sober, untainted and unquenchable love
Now that love has broken...
And... I'm on the sail again;tasting the exciting splash of frisky raindrops
And now, with the memory of poetry and moonshine
Now with the reality of handsome hands kissing every beat of my heart...
To function...
To survive...
To open....
I'm appalled...
Like, a featherless bird that fell from the nest to the floor
To be satisfied and sufficient with the surgeon of your soul
Your beautiful, luminous spirit
Blowing puffs of air ...as what a child would do... to a balloon
You innocently, obliviously...giving it the power to eventually ascend for the world to know
And in its innocence; there's a flame of sincerity
This is what you do...
Oblivious... to the intimacy with which this rescue creates
Innocent... to the lip of your persona only inches away from the cheek of my gratitude
Innocent to the turn of my face to you
Giving reality a pen
And she's saying:
as we breathe and stare into each other's eyes
As we draw closer...to each other...
My pen is praying...with my heart
Please, don't make me choose
Simply, I hate to lose you
My spiritual mate
We've cushioned the fall of emotions
We've listened and nursed the harshness of events
Don't make me choose your lips and lose a heart...my heart
Lips which are the temporary in exchange for the permanent
Trust...that is cemented
If you shatter this cement..you'll shatter me
I will fight for you...as you are for me
I feel for you...as you do me
But you must know...like your spirit which is bandage to my wound
Our pure spirits are platelets to a laceration called weakness
Pure spirits which is a leveled yolk
Keys to a sober, untainted and unquenchable love
The Christmas poem
The
Mistletoe hangs with its own memory of Christmas and the radiant green,
represents the cycle of seasons relived..seasons which swell each
droplet of dew that drip from Christmas trees on Christmas eve
And the merriment identifies with snow cones and kids, as the red and white delights Santa's bag of gifts
And we think of pot roast chicken with extra sauce, Ginger beer, Cheese snips, Pepper pot and Garlic Pork with a kick !
As the Season's tidings combay a cascade of creative happenings
We hit and break glasses as the noise mounts with bottles of rum!
Rolling with laughter and diving for treats only to find none!
Each fairy lit scene overflows into another as the days count down
and trees rise up with....the suspense of tiny strings
And so with these memories we cook, we clean and we greet strangers anew
Gather in carolling to sing hymns about the peace and happiness this season brings
And this random choir welcomes the spirit of our King: the reason for the overflow of joy and well wishing
But, like the putty that's smeared in the cracks and creases we choose to notice now in our houses
We melt...we melt at the core..which we often try to cover up with fancy blouses
Peace... sends our hearts roaming for a soft fill of memories we once neglected and...when found, we laugh or present it with a gift
Then, we choose to keep this awesome glory, by holding hands, calling up and hugging
And...as the aroma of ham shrivel our noses, churn our stomachs and stir the excitement of an imminent feast,
Even as the decor sits on the summit of our clothing and our doors they colourfully, gracefully hang!
The presence...the presence of friends and family will always harness the reign.. of Christ's beautiful birthing!
And the merriment identifies with snow cones and kids, as the red and white delights Santa's bag of gifts
And we think of pot roast chicken with extra sauce, Ginger beer, Cheese snips, Pepper pot and Garlic Pork with a kick !
As the Season's tidings combay a cascade of creative happenings
We hit and break glasses as the noise mounts with bottles of rum!
Rolling with laughter and diving for treats only to find none!
Each fairy lit scene overflows into another as the days count down
and trees rise up with....the suspense of tiny strings
And so with these memories we cook, we clean and we greet strangers anew
Gather in carolling to sing hymns about the peace and happiness this season brings
And this random choir welcomes the spirit of our King: the reason for the overflow of joy and well wishing
But, like the putty that's smeared in the cracks and creases we choose to notice now in our houses
We melt...we melt at the core..which we often try to cover up with fancy blouses
Peace... sends our hearts roaming for a soft fill of memories we once neglected and...when found, we laugh or present it with a gift
Then, we choose to keep this awesome glory, by holding hands, calling up and hugging
And...as the aroma of ham shrivel our noses, churn our stomachs and stir the excitement of an imminent feast,
Even as the decor sits on the summit of our clothing and our doors they colourfully, gracefully hang!
The presence...the presence of friends and family will always harness the reign.. of Christ's beautiful birthing!
Common Equals
Would
it be different?....tell me.
Would it be different now?!
Rowing on the rough river of fond memories with a paddle that knew no sorrow? a As souls that knew no end?
"Tomorrow is a promise to no one, so live like its your last!" They say.
I'm rubbing against the board of reality:
Pungent and friendly
Like the Tailor who swipes sleep with a crisp blue bill
I refuse... to frill the oriental draperies of my happiness to perfume your feet and decorate your motives.
As we lock the maturity of a memory brewed now...
Understand a new seed has sown...
Understand that....as I cup your face with half swollen fingers
And press my lips against your cheek:
Accept my wishes and be free
Than to ignore them and your curiosity will rot your masculinity
When we cross paths...let there, too, be a common wind of closure
As we are common spirits taking a sober departure
Would it be different now?!
Rowing on the rough river of fond memories with a paddle that knew no sorrow? a As souls that knew no end?
"Tomorrow is a promise to no one, so live like its your last!" They say.
I'm rubbing against the board of reality:
Pungent and friendly
Like the Tailor who swipes sleep with a crisp blue bill
I refuse... to frill the oriental draperies of my happiness to perfume your feet and decorate your motives.
As we lock the maturity of a memory brewed now...
Understand a new seed has sown...
Understand that....as I cup your face with half swollen fingers
And press my lips against your cheek:
Accept my wishes and be free
Than to ignore them and your curiosity will rot your masculinity
When we cross paths...let there, too, be a common wind of closure
As we are common spirits taking a sober departure
Random Cafe
Wonderful inspiration; common experience!
based on a real scene!
Round rough nose, slippers as worn as his hands
Hands, which if detached, will be as monstrous as skeletons in the closet which can be reciprocated for his character but his wisdom lends things anew.
Only a few possess...only a few possess his humility. Like a child. A mature yet idle child...sticking his huge fingers in glue...
to which he applies to story books neatly stacked at either side of his hands but singly removed...as if with some intent to care but smothers glue skilfully.
I watched him... continue... as if his calling was to be the unusual artist he is...shirt brown and long sleeved to camouflage the rust of his calves at the wrists.
He glanced... in my direction for a while...with eyes that were meaningless.
He doesn't know that I'll have this record of history...
In the scaffold of my bosom wherever I go..
He doesn't know that his grandchildren, had he been a sane man, would identify and fit to this chapter of his life...
He doesn't know that the bags sitting at his feet would have evolved spaces in time to accommodate other sentiments of future pasts..
based on a real scene!
Round rough nose, slippers as worn as his hands
Hands, which if detached, will be as monstrous as skeletons in the closet which can be reciprocated for his character but his wisdom lends things anew.
Only a few possess...only a few possess his humility. Like a child. A mature yet idle child...sticking his huge fingers in glue...
to which he applies to story books neatly stacked at either side of his hands but singly removed...as if with some intent to care but smothers glue skilfully.
I watched him... continue... as if his calling was to be the unusual artist he is...shirt brown and long sleeved to camouflage the rust of his calves at the wrists.
He glanced... in my direction for a while...with eyes that were meaningless.
He doesn't know that I'll have this record of history...
In the scaffold of my bosom wherever I go..
He doesn't know that his grandchildren, had he been a sane man, would identify and fit to this chapter of his life...
He doesn't know that the bags sitting at his feet would have evolved spaces in time to accommodate other sentiments of future pasts..
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