Category Archives: Poem – Not Written By Me Though

Tick Tock

Tick tock clock click
Clunk click every trip*
Locked in up tight
Count down to zero

~~~~~~~

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clunk_Click_Every_Trip

Seasonings

.

Time is no straight line,

it is a serpent

crossing the room sideways

like a glance.

It burns rubber

careening

around every corner

tossing irony,

like bits of confetti

into our pockets.

Time dances a circle

around the fire of desire

then churns out to sea

on a wave of kelp,

unraveling one dream

weaving another.

It flip flops

in crazy eights,

bounces like a rubber ball

on a hot sidewalk

reflecting all angles

oblique and acute

but always right.

At its best

time is a spiral

lifting our vision

until the end

when it shrinks into a dot

in the palm of our hand,

and with one breath

blows us away

into the heart of forever.

.

© 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post)

.

View original post

Literary ‘dead’

Brooding Secrets

Pen; a shamefully legalized sword and
a paper of forced reflections, I am just
a rented massacre frantically walking on a narrow lane,
burdened with ostracized thoughts and glimpses of reality;
denied, I was once told that my words have the power
to change the stagnant and uplift the meek voices,
but I am a fiction; dead, poetry; marginalized,
a novel unheard
for all they wear is white and all I know is to stain.

View original post

Spritely

Truly enviable, Bella. And what a shame “masterful” remains so tainted with outdated and unwelcome sexism. 😦

belas bright ideas

That strong wiry body she wore
like a curse, smiling all the while,
nature diffusing her with passion
for dun and verdant, fruit and flowers
astounding nimble fingers, eyes darting
and dancing with delight not reciprocated
in a world of humans she tried to forgive
as we communed in silence, renegotiated
until endings inserted themselves
as they will, all gardens being temporary;

And refusing to take further insult
from a species short on integrity tried
to end it, booze and pills, vomit clumped
in a long tangle of hula hair, cradled
skeleton rocking back and forth, back
and forth, rejoin the living, meet us
again on terms of this earth, let us touch
the sparkle, share wisdom and laughter
while sifting over mounds of harvest
heaped onto old unblemished porcelain
as we pass time reflecting on budding
cloves and sliding doors to worlds
beyond the veil.

View original post

Song of the Soul

belas bright ideas

I grew up amidst plenty, Depression-era
lack transformed into expensive Japanese
silk paintings hung above a cut glass table,
black lacquer chairs, raw silk seats reserved
for holidays unfit for seven children, dreams
of people I never really knew, though
they precipitated my life;

I might have preferred distressed plank flooring
and a wood-fired oven over cork and carpet
and all the confusion, byproducts of too much
striving and not enough stillness;
motivations well understood by me now,
having thrown myself into enough fires
to acknowledge and amend miscues, misdeeds;

Like Arjuna in the Baghavad Gita,
many have have beheld the face of divinity
as it exists in all creatures and life forms
everywhere, whether perceived as good or bad;

I, too, tremble at the feet of this knowing.

View original post

Corner of the Eye

simonhlilly

2017/07/img_2881.jpg

CORNER OF THE EYE
(A touch of faery sight)

I see, and not quite see, this sleek man in blue
Quietly through the oak woods of Sunart,
(Just so, as through your own mind now),
The whispered past and the roaring futures.
Green rock, black root, the boulder house split,
Door leaning ajar, and the elders:
Roof and walls of a tumbled croft,
And hearth music in the song of insects
That drub the late summer air
In the folded waiting of the far north.
Listen to a tuning fork, high and clear struck.
The sense of it continuing on, a breath on sound,
A pulse of wingbeats. That is how it feels,
Stepping between the path and the oak
And the high larch, and the dripped lichen.
Watched by the timeless, curious eye.
Gone, to them, in a single blink,
As they to me, a flit of mind
Between…

View original post 22 more words

On Losing Hope by Jill Talbot

The Machinery - A literary collection.

Illustration by Arushi Gupta Illustration by Arushi Gupta

Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.
– Anne Lamott

If Hope were a guest I would lock her in a cellar.

If Hope were a movie I would not eat the popcorn.

If I saw Hope on a sidewalk, half broken, I would keep on driving.

If Hope knew the real me she would run screaming.

If Hope were a digestive biscuit she would be full of animal fat.

If Hope attended your wedding you can be sure you’ll end in divorce.

If Hope were sitting here I would tell her I want her back.

If Hope saw me naked she would say, We’ve got work to do.

If Hope found this poem she would burn it.

If Hope were a bartender everything would be on the house.

If Hope were a fruit she would be an apple.

I lost…

View original post 172 more words

The growing chronicles #3 Hypochondria

This is why.

TheFeatheredSleep


It’s still a man’s world

a world where most of the earth

would stone two women in love

and those women who break the glass ceiling are often

unrecognizable as women

for they eat

with their bean soup

the dry wafer of other females
If I tell you

I am not prideful

it is the quiet and the book

an occasion of solitude

interspersed with longing

I’ll never be a loud mouthed girl to hang your spurs upon

but still I know how to talk to the moon

and I believe in you
At night

poorly lit by lamps

like yellow faces downcast

we walk vigorously

hand folded in hand

and that simple act

I cherish

above any gift or benediction
When we are apart

monsters live under my bed

shadows rinse in continuing pass

the joy of breaking bread

shatters

as bloodied

the unseen art of war

within gentle…

View original post 185 more words

Between

Eyes + Words

Written by Jacob Ibrag

Infused with intentions to question

every direction, she stood tall between mythical

creatures and fictional characters. ‘I see through your

words and misguided suggestions. Others feast on your

promises of limitless pleasures, rejecting the road painted

with growth and lack of instant gratification. I pray to fail

and rise, to drive through all your influence, to laugh

when I’ve fallen, to never give you an inch.’


Photography by Luca Pierro

View original post

Reflective

“Share this.” OK … (And I love it BTW)

belas bright ideas

I never told you I loved you enough, the only ones
to whom it might have mattered and mattered much,
how could I? There are certain things one apprehends
only with age, the fact that most parents were
mere children themselves when they raised us up;

Now when I look back, I am able to glimpse humanity
more humbly instead of simply placing familiar labels,
Mom and Dad, great brazen fire-breathing dragons
of the household, both admired and feared
for their outsized demeanor, similar to the church God
I prayed daily would grant me safety and comfort
in place of the warm arms I yearned to fold myself
into, though dared never trust;

Even with busy single parenting, I was not able
to reflect upon the scope of the job, absorbed
as I was in all things survival to comprehend;
too enraptured in my own harried drama to sit back
and draw…

View original post 255 more words

Music for the End

“And with endings”

(Which always beget beginnings,)

simonhlilly

2017/04/img_2695.jpg

MUSIC FOR THE END

I shall not go into tomorrow
( though I may dream there).

These poems poised to begin again.
Our music, the only thing to give us birth.
What the endless aeons of starlight have waited for.

At this river’s edge – the taste of tears and flowers.
I shall dream tonight the distance –
Roaring waterfalls in Yolmo,
And the pearl liquid silent waters:
Loch Craignish after rain.

Do what we may, it will never be enough.
We paint the day and start again.
The gods have cursed us with their beautiful weaknesses.
With poetry that will not stay,
With friends and with loves
And with endings.

View original post