BUILT (Acrostic)
Become the very best poet
Unapologetic and truly magnetic
Ignited by a fire that never goes out
Loving the art of poetry full blown
Taking the art to new heights without a shadow of doubt
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HELLO (Acrostic)
How you treat someone
Echoes much about oneself
Learning who reflects back in the mirror
Long term and through interactions
Ongoing and well beyond just your life alone
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Like a wilted flower
so is a poet that; loses their passion for the art,
or one that has gone on hiatus for a long time,
affected by writer’s block—
or other factors of life getting in the way,
for even one day,
without a poet attached to poetry,
is a moment of silent absence; and reclusion
or may have temporarily; lost the feeling of inclusion,
and I’m not one to just say—
but rather a poet that knows it,
and has unfortunately happened to,
here and there,
and never seems fair—
for poetry has always been a home,
and a sweet escape; into the world of words,
a dimension or realm of poetic lines,
and would never mind; abiding within the confines,
of the art of poetry—
no place for a poet to be,
no area for the poetic mind to reside,
and felt deep down inside,
as poetry for a poet—
was always meant to feel alive,
occur often and rise,
and poetically shine—
beyond everyday life itself; and through the hard times,
with a poetic smile buried deep within,
and just simply being and not pretending,
so I implore every poet—
to not allow this to happen to you,
if it can be helped,
for the art of poetry—
wouldn’t be the same; if you aren’t yourself,
and without you contributing and crafting,
more into its further existence,
and vital importance—
and the hope and pulse—
to never allow or show,
be blocked or feel off as we know it,
for we cannot allow ourselves to be,
or ever succumb to—
The falloff period of a poet.
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Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com The art of poetry
is so unique,
in and of itself—-
and cannot compare it; to nothing else,
very much an art form,
that is both unorthodox; and the norm,
a synergy in the midst of the storm,
impressive and expressive—-
and open to much interpretations,
yet greatly addressing; the very creative attributes,
with no need of any corrections,
poetic constructs and inventions—-
that have every intention,
of not only standing out,
but to know and experience,
what poetry is all about—-
and again being,
like nothing else,
for poetry is a wonder—-
Of the art itself.
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An ode
To poetry,
And to all the pens that wrote
Many beginnings of poetry
But with no end in sight
With a deep respect to all of the poems
That they decided to write
And a firm salute also to all of the poets
That came before me
For alas,
The art of poetry that stems from the past
Garnered and seen in the present
And aimed towards the unknown future
Just waiting to be created
For every stroke of the pen
For every word that was penned
And the ink from a bottle
Settled in the glass and ready to
Amass many poems to come
And with much variety that will
Undeniably,
And unequivocally,
Ink poetic and literary filled lines
Betwixt the poem and poet
And even moreso,
When they constellate and articulate
Poetry as wide as the mickle sky
For poetry will always be
Concupiscible,
As the poets of old
Clearly conveyed
As art in motion
Swift and bonded
While channeling a sincere connection
To the paper and pen
As poetry being invented
Even more and hitherto,
Poetic ideas dreamt of
Made present and feathered
From this,
With deep and free flowing penmanship
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Entering the doorway into a place
Where artists truly meet
Live and breathe
And with hopes to succeed
With their particular talents or skill sets
Upon various degrees
A passage with permission to enter
Into the world of artistry
An invitation also granted
For the pure artists to be free
Their passion and antics
You will see or fondly read
Their creative and imaginative works
Felt and allowed to just be
A welcoming admission
For them to go on an artistic spree
A way in so that they
Can be accepted and never have to flee
And an open gate into the great unknown
With their heart as the artistic key
A little song, a little dance
Wearing art as romance
Bathing in its light
And staying in the best trance
If done without limits
And given the best chance
For what artist under these conditions
Wouldn’t head towards this entrance
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Floating words
inside my head,
there in the dawn of morning—
and here at night before bed,
even floating around in my sleep,
creating new memories—
for me to write and keep,
as these poetic words; are circling my mind,
every hour of the day—
and late at night all the time,
for I just can’t resist,
thinking creatively and critically,
with an open hand; and a closed fist,
for the pen is my sword,
and the paper is my shield,
because poetry; can be a just reward,
as time will unveil and reveal—
here in the one place,
that not one person can steal,
just trying to sort; through them all,
As they reside in my mind still.
Piecing them together
and using them; in a collective effort,
as I attach them to a title—
and must put this in gear,
for this to materialize; and finally appear,
outside of my mind—
and make a true appearance,
as it moves away from idle,
to construct and build; an original work of art,
never before seen or heard—
as it all stemmed from,
Those cool floating words.
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A tree
Fell in a forest
But yes it made a sound
For it made quite a thud and thump
When it fell over below and hit the ground
But this same said tree has more going on than this
For what was it doing right before this and in the midst
Of the forest within for this tree had a life before but did it truly end
Feel the pulse
And the heartbeat
Of these peculiar streets
And the things that have happened
Within them that have been so bleak
Wide open as well as being so discreet
And feel the vibration of it beneath your feet
As one wanders aimlessly around or decides take a seat
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The tick and tock
of the unwatched clock,
as I chill into the sunset evening,
while sitting upon the dock—
resting away—
with not a care in the world,
in this moment,
as I’m too busy taking in,
the natural environment; surrounding me,
for I am not lonely here—
but rather right in my element,
relaxation felt and precious time spent,
no thoughts of mine,
rolling around at this point in time,
and also no time; being kept up with,
for I’m just escaping—
into the peaceful bliss,
of the open quiet that’s in the midst,
as I continue to sit—
upon the dock,
with no interference—
of ticks and tocks,
all while taking and enjoying—
the nice and sweet quality,
of being in—
The present company of me.
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The black
the white; and the in between gray,
looking at life—
from left to right,
right to left,
and for some; they look no where else,
two extremes—
that seem to be the norm,
And left at times with; one or the other.
But then here comes
the color of gray—
and it has a whole lot to say; as well,
a pure mixture of the previous two,
the two most common ways,
compelled to bond with,
many circumstances and outcomes,
one is going one way,
the other one a different way,
while the one in the center dances,
to a completely different tune—
and sometimes often ignored,
or discouraged also from looking,
at this point of view—
as if it’s unimportant,
Has no place; or doesn’t exist at all.
But ironically and realistically
it most certainly does,
and in more ways than one—
a critical piece and component,
of a centralized idea,
a middle ground if you will,
and also a place—
that maybe; just maybe,
a pause or a standstill could occur,
to see beyond the obvious,
yet still very much based,
in our reality—
come night or day,
and come what may,
open and flexible,
or stuck in a foggy haze,
and looking at life,
from more than just two ways,
for life definitely consist of,
Shades of gray.
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