Tag: poetic

The Unknown Woman

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Wisdom is an unknown woman

her identity absent for too long now

a distorted image of degrees and formulas

neatly wrapped into the deceptive image

of professors and graduates of universities

with egos that stand taller than the academic buildings

from which they’ve misplaced their minds

creativity hung

twisted

in the silent hallways of repeated ignorance

wisdom is an unknown woman

hastening to make herself known to those who seek her

a radiant beauty of lawful lips she descends

into the beautiful body of instruction

only the most sincere men are courageous enough to approach her

and only the strong can be heard by her

for she whispers soft delicacies

into ears that wish her breath to brush upon their cheeks

but she is abandoned by men who do not delight in her structures

who believe her throne is a worthless scepter

that she wears like a burden

too foolish to know that there is nothing

that she cannot carry

But fools do not speak the language of wisdom

cannot hear the prayers coming from her tongues

the songs pouring forth from her words

wisdom is an unknown woman

to the man

to the woman

to the person

who values the knowledge of custom papers

with expensive ink,

this they chose over her

they cannot see that gold is but a little sand in her sight

and that silver is like clay before her

because her radiance never ceases

and in her hands is unaccounted

wealth

Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge – Poetic Justice

Today I’m using one of my own quotes for Colleen and Ronovans weekly Writer’s Quote Wednesday Challenge. Today’s theme is Art or Artist:

I've always loved the look of wings on a pagethe way the wind blowswhen they flap against the airthe way they soartaking my mind with themThe wings are symbolic of freedom. To me writing is the most important kind of art because words live. To me, ink meets paper to create something spiritual. Not only can we see the beauty of words, but we can feel it. I would define my style of writing, poetry or otherwise, as poetic justice because I am always seeking to free people, to include myself, from the limited ways we tend to think and to feel. This is not always an easy task and so as I write, the keystrokes are heavy with the responsibility my purpose carries. The weight of the kinds of things that I write always looms in the background of the page as if daring me to go on. And this is always the moment when I know that I must.

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Paper

Nice. This the kind of writing that makes me want to write a poem, yesss. Excellent. Love the Imagery.

Unknown's avatarObject relations

paper

I like to think of my paper, my notebook sheets, as having texture. I want the lines to stick like staples punched through to the other side. Their long, skinny forms, plucked up from the page in an effort to rise above. I want the page to feel rough and gritty. Hard and torn through in spaces just empty enough to fill with small rips of imperfection. Lines like ridges would guide my pen in a steady cadence. Trotting through a white desert, my landscape would guide me in the right direction.

Instead my page is one long ice rink. Its smoothness leaves no gaps big enough to see through. The torn spots and crinkled edges are invisible. My paper has flat lined.

My instant reaction is to pump it back to life. Electricity in the shape of a fat black marker needs to run down the center. Cutting up…

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Insomnia

Caught a glimpse of your shadow last night
would have missed that much had not the wind whistled
like it does when it wants the curtains to dance.
And she so coy,
the way she looks over her shoulders
when nobody’s watching
giggling fabric
She so cool
love the effortless sway from moonlight to windowsill
It was this lovemaking of the wind and my curtains
that alerted me to your footsteps
and though short-lived, I can still smell the essence
that is your backbone
a taste of perfection after a clean death
…but you didn’t kiss my grave rejuvenation last night.
I waited for you
like a desperate lover on the edge of embrace
hoping for your calm to hold back my storms
for your peace to let down the curtains of drooping eyelids
but dear sleep,

I was your fool last night.

Words Are Worth It

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Corroded behavior reveals the unpolished stains left dangling from the heart
Brimming from the mind and falling from the mouth
A surge of power tap dancing in the air and building meaning on the ground
A melting pot of consonant sounds and vowels finding way to my skin
Seeking to build homes in the goosebumps on my arms
Making noise
Unnecessary sounds like the mimic of my own voice
But you do not live here
Have not walked on top the coals that once found residence between my toes
to know what this ground taste like
a skin black leather like strength
I was not born among glass
and will not break easily
I doubt then that this impression will go successful
Sneaky words
Empty tongues
Idle existence
a reverberation of shame creaking against emotion is your birthplace
dare you seek to give of me a world of illusion
a day dream of fairy-tale hopscotching around in my mouth
an elusive sleep walk
a collection of letters too light to gravity the ground
too corroded to fly
bouncing off the walls of thought
dare you pretend the taste of burnt ash that fell from mouth and consumed a life
did not first have a home in heart
all these bodies collecting black and bruise
bruise and black
and bone and stitch
I am no fool
Dear Words
I choose to choose you carefully
To examine your wings before deciding that they should take flight
To taste your essence one syllable at a time
Seasoning as needed
You see words,
I’m on to you
I know how powerful you really are.

If You Forget Me | Pablo Neruda

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I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine