Wildly careening
prose portrayed as poetry
fools no one but me.
Tag Archives: WRITING
A POET’S VIEW
Paper of every color and hue
unrolls from thousands of inner tubes
that I might write upon a page;
so bright, it dims the sight
and opens the mind to such delight
in cerulean, amaranth, celadon,
garnet, crimson, vermillion
violet, tangerine, ecru and Eton-blue;
colors I can taste and feel
as they unroll reel by reel
so real they dance and sing and swell
until the pen dips in the well.
I wrap each page around each cell
and feel the energy seep through
blood and bone and sinew
into every soft tissue
that pulses with breath
and laughter and tears,
and beats with heart-felt truth
so hard and fast it hardly knows
what words spill out upon the page,
which black marks ink signs
to tell me the way
while you can see and understand
before I can even comprehend
that a poem has unfurled from tubes
not of cardboard but of gold.
Writing is the treasure of stories untold
and waiting to be wrapped
then given as gifts as colors unfold.
w’s
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what use words
when loneliness fills
wells long in drought
where the only wet thing
wipes ink on the page
while we die of thirst
waiting.
POETIC POWER
Poems are carrots in front of the nose,
meant to stir the desire to go
by horses so attune to the reins
they have forgotten how to trot
down the lane
on their own.
Poems are a kick in the rump
meant to raise to action
those sitting on the fence
prone to inaction
when what they need
is a sense of dissatisfaction.
Poems are mere words
until they are not
to those who feel their power
and find themselves caught
in new ways of seeing
and thinking
and feeling.
Filed under POETRY
SIGHT UNSEEN
Meaning hides behind the curtain of words
strung on steel spines laid across windows
open to the view of curiosity seekers
walking the borders of meadows
where secrets are held in shallow graves.
I watch their progress across the land
mined with traps of grammar and rhyme,
their trampling feet raising dust to obscure
whatever truths they might find
should their path be more certain, more sure.
Discoveries are few and far between.
They wander and look everywhere but
where the treasures lie sight unseen.
Makes me wonder why poets write,
what they expect others to glean
from meaning hidden in plain site.
Filed under POETRY
SLEEPLESS NIGHTS
What brings the night to bear
such weighted worry and care
that sleep eludes the grip
of dreams yearning to appear
and yawning gasps for air ?
Breath settles too deep
in lungs already fast asleep
while brain sizzles and burns
in a body which tosses and turns.
And thus, I leave my bed to write
of nothing even close to delight,
knowing I shall face down dawn
weary, drooped and drawn.
The words continue awake and long
for a place I can feel strong.
Filed under POETRY
WORDS AT PLAY
I don’t understand poems,
or words, or chatter.
How do they form like loose clay
around the mold of earthly matter?
Words cast up their account
of what lies in the gut
and rise to the mouth
to utter and strut.
Do we have no power
over what we say ?
Are we merely overpowered
by a shower of words at play?
Somedays, words are so strong
they insist and persist, bursting the cork.
Other days, words are so weak
pulling them out is too much work.
The worst thing is not silence.
The worst thing is a paragraph
dragged out with violence.
Today, all words can do is laugh.
Filed under Uncategorized
annarino writes 