The Magnificence

Pen to paper, magic flows from the ink.
Words link together, sentences weave.
Poetry is formed like an angel sewing a blanket of inspiration.
But there are those, those who cannot believe, who cannot see;
The magnificence of the poem. 

They live in the darkest corners of the dustiest basement.
They thrive on the cores of rotten apples.
They feed off the lies of politicians and the flames of Satan.
They cannot appreciate what is great in this world, or
The magnificence of the poem.

But there are those who see, who understand, who absorb,
Everything the poem has to offer, from the tiniest similie,
To the greatest extended metaphor and the longest alliteration.
To the deeper meaning swimming inside the depths of words.
For the magnificent poem is one that can be seen through a thousand eyes.

These Thoughts

These thoughts are nagging at my bone and striking with the pain,
Off past things forgotten and feelings filled with the chains
Of a life gone past and a future far unmade,
Of the tightness in my chest I wish I could wish it all away.

These feelings I never wanted to feel,
Always trying to deny, have filled me with an uncertainty I always wanted to leave behind.
These feelings that I'm feeling would mess everything up,
Ruin all I've worked towards and thrown it into the dust.

 These things racing through my mind,
Never want to be ignored.
Yet I must, I know I must, I've got to keep on fighting.
I know I'm not strong enough for
These thoughts I've been thinking.

The Celtic Music- a villanelle in progress

The soft music fills the ear.

The sound of the Celtic fiddle sings a joyful beat.

The Irish castle looming in the distance.

A soothing voice gentles the pain.

The shine of a Claddagh warming in the heat.

The soft music fills the ear.

A history of bloodshed fills the hills like the story of Abel and Cain.

The young goats suckle on a mother’s teat

The Irish castle looming in the distance.

The silence of the grassy hills broken by the screech of a train.

The towering silver and gold and gems sparkle the noble’s seat.

The soft music fills the ear.

The shepherd relishes in his monetary gain.

The locals celebrate the latest hunt for meat.

The Irish castle looming in the distance.

The roads are soaked and flooded with the daily Irish rain.

The clothes line pulling in the wind, the little wife’s apron clean and neat.

The soft music fills the ear.

The Irish castle looming in the distance.

Oh the Places- a sestina in progress

I watch as little children in bright swimsuits settle in a circle, diligently digging a moat in the sand.

The black raven flies, drifting in the gentle wind in the sky.

I admire the slithering skinny worms crawling through the dirt.

I push aside towering leafy plants, finding my way in the labyrinth of the jungle.

Wildflowers blowing in the wind of the fluttering grass.

Hoping not to break their mothers’ backs, children leaping over the cracks in the concrete.

Construction workers drill in the squares of concrete.

My voice drowned in the crash of the foaming waves against the sand.

Livestock grazing and live off the fruits of the grass.

Giant white elephants and fluffy bunnies shape in the sky.

Shadows drift down from the heights of trees in the jungle.

The rainwater pounds on the ground, making mud pies from dirt.

Busy construction sites work, forming mountains of dirt.

Soaring skyscrapers bud from the sidewalks of broken concrete.

Patches of sticky moss take over the floor of the jungle.

I draw, tiny fingers tracing letters and drawing smiling faces in the sand.

My eyes are blinded by white light, a glowing ball of flame, rising in the sky.

Clean bright white picket fences sitting softly in the grass.

New red and green and yellow lawnmowers munch on blades of grass.

Huts sitting on a hill, hiding in thatched roofs with floors of dirt.

My shadow lurches in the darkness of the night sky.

Blots of blue and pink form lines and shapes from chalk on concrete.

Pale feet stumble and sink, lost in the depths of wet sand.

Hanging upside down, monkeys taunt my journey in the jungle.

Skins of slithering scaly bodies of lizards and snakes slide through the jungle.

The house is overcome with the smell of freshly cut grass.

I gargle as the salty taste of sea water fills the mouth, surrounded by sand.

Hiding black spots of arms and legs, beetles tunneling through the dirt.

Strings of clothing hang from looming apartments above the concrete.

The squawk of seagulls fills the sky.

The cold metal of roaring shining silver slip through the sky.

Color streak by, flashes of blues and reds from the feathers of talking birds in the jungle.

Rushing highways, painted with yellow and white, roar over concrete.

Tiny white round seeds, hiding in the patches of brown in the grass.

Giant brown drafts horses taking baths, rolling in the dirt.

I pick up colorful shells, of purple and pink and gray, hiding in the sand.

The coldness of concrete is warmed by the sun in the sky.

Small particles of sand hide in the dark depths of the jungle.

Blades of grass disappear in the mounds of dirt.

The Break Up- revised

“Let’s just take a break.”
“We’ll be ok.”
But it was all a lie, a complete and utter lie.
All the memories began to float away as
The pain of a needle settled into my heart.
The red rose from the first date at Ruggeri’s Italian Restaurant welted.
The stuffed animal panda from the carnival in Hatsfield became scratchy and broke.
The little red heart card claiming “Be mine forever” from Valentine’s Day ripped in half;
Just like my heart split after he broke up with me.

My room was no longer my room; it was a museum to his memory.
Sitting Indian style, curled up in the middle of the dulled blue carpet, forehead on knees, I cried.
There was the green hoodie hanging limp and spiritless from my bed post.
There was the Abercrombie navy blue t shirt I used to sleep in, wrinkled and dirty.
He had been my world, my first real boyfriend.

I couldn’t go back to that high school, not with all of them watching.
They would know; they would realize I wasn’t in the outfit he gave me for my birthday.
They would know I wouldn’t smell the same, wouldn’t have that rustic guy smell that was his scent alone, that smell of smoke and hazel and coffee all stirred together like stew in a pot.
They would see the bracelet gone, the little heart charms now hiding around my room, scattered from an angry rage.
They would notice the empty fingers without the many silver and gold rings he spoiled me with.
The Fenway Golf mini golf score card from our third date on June 4th was torn up and faded, swept by the wind out of my window like his love for me, gone just as quickly as it had come.

Behind a Dream- revised

Underneath a floating cloud, like a bubble just coming from its wand,
Covered in a thin silver lining, sits a magical dream from the essence of a unicorn’s hoofed feet.
A dream that keeps alive the human it belongs to,
That gives them something to strive for,
A dream that guides them on the rocky pebbled covered path that is life.
But a dream is only a dream after all, the smallest ripple in the winding stream.
Some believe it worthless, a penny thrown into a fountain never to be seen again.
Others believe unachievable like grasping a piece of thread from a haystack.
Some want to give up on what keeps them living.
But it is only a dream, a helpless dream, a drowning sea turtle lost in the waves,
That cannot do anything with itself.
It needs to be loved and handled with care, like a newborn puppy struggling to suckle.
It needs to have effort woven into it, a handmade quilt sewn together piece by piece,
And the deepest love of life sown into its fields, plowed in by the loving hand of the farmer.
It cannot be without the commitment or determination of the strongest among us,
Not without a certain courage and bravery of the heart, ready to defend and act at a moment’s notice.
But a dream is strong like a boulder covered in the moss of time.
It can make those believe in something seen as impossible as flying.
A dream gives the dreamer something to look forward to, like the promotion they’re yearning for,
And injects a needle of toughness and love in the mind and soul.
A dream can give a person just what they need,
Something to survive through the terrors of time.

Bleeding Heart

The heart does not bleed for pain, but for joy.
It bleeds of a love so pure, so innocent, so perfect;
That none other than the ones who share it understand.
The heart bleeds once it finds that person; that one person.

That one person to make a life complete.
That one person that can understand it all.
That one person that gives you a chance when you feel like you don't deserve it.
That one person that embodies the definition of soulmate.

Some believe the heart bleeds for pain;
For the wrenching feeling of a love long lost.
But it does not bleed then, it cries.
It only bleeds when the truest, purest form of love comes around.

"Death does not part true love; it can only delay it for awhile."

Behind a Dream- currently under revision

Underneath a floating cloud, covered in a thin silver lining,
Sits a dream, a magical dream, an impossible dream.
A dream that keeps the human it belongs to alive,
A dream that gives them something to strive for,
A dream that guides them on the path that is life.
But a dream is only a dream after all,
Some believe worthless; others believe unachievable.
Some want to give up on what keeps them living.
But it is only a dream, a helpless dream,
That cannot do anything with itself, it needs to be manipulated.
It needs to be loved and handled with care,
It needs to have effort woven into it,
And the deepest love of life sown into its fields.
It cannot be without commitment or determination,
Or with a certain courage of the heart.
But a dream is strong and a dream can turn the nonbelievers.
A dream can make those believe in something seen impossible.
A dream gives hope to those without any left in their hearts.
A dream injects an amount of toughness and love in the mind and soul.
A dream can give a person just what they need,
Something to live for.

Uncontrollable Thirst

Everywhere I go, it's there,
Nagging, pulling at my throat.
Yearning and begging for that one thing,
that could cure my uncontrollable thirst.

The need is strangled from a tired body and,
Needing it. must have it, for every drop of air.
For every pulse of blood running through my veins,
that could cure my uncontrollable need.

It's that thing called love,
Always there and never going away.
It fills the heart and soul,
and cures the uncontrollable thirst at last.

The Writer's Tale

Foot by foot,
Word by word,
Life goes on,
The story gets written.

Piece by piece,
Noun by noun,
Actions blur together,
Things begin existing.

Step by step,
Adjective by adjective,
We keep walking,
And the story gets longer.

Cloud by cloud,
Sentence by sentence,
The camera keeps rolling,
The writer weaves the words.

Heartbeats ring,
Emotions roar,
And the story of life,
Is never complete…