
EARTH (Acrostic)
Even nature
Always has a way of showing us
Right from wrong
Through time and the seasons
Helping us all life long
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EARTH (Acrostic)
Even nature
Always has a way of showing us
Right from wrong
Through time and the seasons
Helping us all life long
PM


LIGHT (Acrostic)
Light up the dark
In every way possible
Going from pitch black to pure brightness
Hoping to phase it out at the root
To also use light to fill up spaces of emptiness
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As poets
We become the words—
the written and heard,
the classic or absurd,
just simply; painting pictures with words,
lines and phrases,
nouns or verbs,
As poets,
We become the words—
in a world that we express,
within humanity to be nothing less,
a poetical success; as we possess,
a passion for the art—
that we often obsess over,
As we—
breathe life into poetry,
for each rhyme of the poetic lines,
signifies a thousand heartbeats that define,
as we clarify the thoughts of a poetic mind,
artistic and dignified,
poetic ideas classified—
until they land upon the page,
As we—
the poets continue to engage,
and wage poetical war upon each page,
As poets,
We become the words—
and the very surge of poetic energy;
and watch as we—
continue to converge,
and aim to emerge; at a higher poetic level,
unseen and unheard—
as we tend to,
smile at each subject and verb,
definitions and meanings—
held in place; with each poetic greeting,
but we never wave goodbye,
or move away from poetry—
As poets,
We become the words,
within concentrated fields and layers,
within devoted years and the purveyors,
artists and wordsmiths—
for when it comes to poetry,
we just can’t seem to resist,
writing or reciting,
as poetry feels so inviting,
pen in hand and held firmly by,
a very determined wrist—
paper just waiting to be filled,
and in these moments for us,
time seems to stand still,
just for us,
As we—
follow our minds and hearts,
instead of a syllabus,
poetic imagination running wild,
and doing so with a smile,
As we—
hold the poetical keys,
for what we do isn’t theoretical,
we just simply be,
with the joy of building each one,
upon completion; after what we’ve done,
for we are not the straight line,
but rather the curve—
and poetry gives back to us; what we deserve,
to share or self serve,
and not to be unnerved,
for with each poetic line—
we fly and climb like the birds,
so forget what you think,
what you might have heard,
or believe to know—
and from what may or may not occurred,
For we—
For we—
As poets,
Have truly become the words.
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I am on a poetic mission
With every poetic rendition
And I’m not waiting for permission
For I give myself permission
To be more of me
And as to what I can poetically achieve
The overall authority
To readily write poetry openly and freely
For I’m not waiting for what anyone may think
As I have lived on the edge and creative brink
Through the rough and tough and too much
Primarily due to someone believing I’m not enough
But so out of sorts and touch
With reality and the deepness of us
That is me and artistry
Me and also the art of poetry
The very thing that comes to me naturally
Skillfully and soulfully
Wholeheartedly and creatively
As I will no longer wait
To be the real me
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I have the right to express
And not suppress
I have the freedom to express
And do nothing more or less
I have the mind to express
And the desire to be a poetic success
For I have the heart to express
And surpass even at my best
I have the strength and poise
To bring on the poetic noise
Along with the soul to further attest
For nothing or no one will ever keep me
From all the ways to express
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Being a Poet….Post 1
One of the best things to ever happen to me. And one that I don’t take lightly or for granted. Though quite a journey for me, and for the majority quite nice. But I cannot say that ups and downs haven’t occurred. As with any artist and their artistry, this will and can happen from time to time. You second guess a piece, you’re wondering if to share it or not, life happens and maybe you’re not as active with it. But no matter what, keep pushing, keep on being that poet and the best one you can be.
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ANXIETY (Acrostic)
Against what the body needs
Natural response to stress that feeds
Xray self within to see what is the cause
In doing so refrain and draw away from
Every and any indication of this
To not worry so much or be fearful
Yet life happens but it’s how we respond that counts
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The pit and patter
The chit and chatter
As the man confused
Goes up and down the ladder
Moving around like a person drunk
As he tumbles and stumbles
After walking to his car
And then falls into
The open trunk
That he left opened
A while ago
As the neighbors next door
Are laughing and enjoying the show
For who knows
Just what this guy will do next
As he then pulls out his phone
Then begins to send
A very unwanted text
To the lady he holds most dear
With not much dignity left
Having stated the one thing he fears
While full of shame and tears
With much in his life to confess
As a man in disarray
And have fallen away
From being at his very best
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Sitting and thinking
About nothing in the moment
But then all of a sudden
Here comes a random idea
An idea that I
Never saw coming
But so glad that it arrived
And not bothering to ask why
Just basking in this sudden thought
And wondering as to where it could lead
As I didn’t feel the need
To think anything at that time
But this random idea seems so nice
That I couldn’t help but smile
For it showed up for a reason
It showed up for a specific purpose
And in the season thereof
For this random idea
Just seems like it came
From above
But who I am to judge
So I decided to take part in this
For this could be that one idea
That I’m glad I didn’t miss
And the acceptance of it
For I can really work with this
To construct and turn this into
Something extraordinary and unique
For random ideas are at times
Quite discreet
Not known to repeat
And laid dormant
Until it was time to meet
As random ideas are usually
The best ones that noone saw coming
Nor thought they would ever see
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A poem typed up
Doesn’t take away from the art
A poem typed up
Is still the sum of all of its parts
A poem typed up
Whether slow or done in a rush
A poem typed up
Still has a brush with words
A poem typed up
Is no less effective or creative
A poem typed up
Will still have just as much
Of an impact even when heard
A poem typed up
Is still very much poetry
And takes nothing away from it
Just because its done digitally
A poem typed up
Is still a poem
Still does poetry justice
Still possesses poetic attributes
It’s just being created in a different way
Type or write
Penned on paper
Or displayed by screen
For poetry done in this manner
Is still what it seems
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