Written for the pub patrons at dversepoets
You seek release frombondage, subjugation ofcold dark night. Shaking shoulders, wrackedwith grief over a lovethat never existed, you cryaloud, begging warmth andintimacy to wind aroundyour forgotten soul. I see you, your pain restson my heart.I cry tears of sorrow,your torment almosttoo much to bear. I come to liberate youfrom your personalhell. I take you into my warmth,cloak you with compassionsurround you withsomething new. Your mind is meldedwithin the depths of mine.Our thoughts mingle,jesting and playfullyprodding laughter out ofa darkened pit Your voice trapsbreath in my throat.No songbird has sungwith such angelic tones Your body is a canvas,artist’s fingers arebrushes.Swirling patterns of loveappear as if by magicon your perfect skin. Your kiss so sweetsoft and sensuous.passion riseswith your touch. My heart beats wildly,sings rhapsodies of joy.You discovered love.My love.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
January 24, 2013
I am writing. I am writing a fair bit. I have published a number of poems on my website this month, and I am proud of each of them. They have been received differently. One of them fell flat, and garnered no response online, and the verbal response was not great. Most people were shocked by the style, the darkness. It was not me, not my usual style of writing. Very true, but as with everything I publish, I like it. I understand that not everybody likes everything, and that's ok. The important thing is that I am writing. So far, 2013 has been very kind to my words and thoughts. And I hope to explore different styles, different themes and different words. It's what keeps it fresh.
FF
FF
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
A Whispered Glance
Posted for #OpenLinkNight at DVersePoets Pub
A whispered glancethat peeks out from yourdowncast eyes becomesa muted greeting. Your voice is shrouded in silence,as if the mystery of what you sayis to remainonly a thought. Sshhh! Don't think aloud;share what only wesee. A look into the crystal ballshows us the pastthat doesn't matter,and a future whichexists in our hopesand dreams. Shout from the heights!Share our joywith the skeptics andnaysayers. We win!Love always wins. I want the world to knowthat you and I work.Our love knows no bounds,our desires and passionsgrow with time. But we're silent.The stars allude to usas their brightness fillsthe midnight sky, yetthey refrain from fallinginto the hearts of thosewho need to hear ourprofession of love. But that glance,the whispered glancethat brushes overmy heart tells meeverything I need to know. You love me.&I love you.
A whispered glancethat peeks out from yourdowncast eyes becomesa muted greeting. Your voice is shrouded in silence,as if the mystery of what you sayis to remainonly a thought. Sshhh! Don't think aloud;share what only wesee. A look into the crystal ballshows us the pastthat doesn't matter,and a future whichexists in our hopesand dreams. Shout from the heights!Share our joywith the skeptics andnaysayers. We win!Love always wins. I want the world to knowthat you and I work.Our love knows no bounds,our desires and passionsgrow with time. But we're silent.The stars allude to usas their brightness fillsthe midnight sky, yetthey refrain from fallinginto the hearts of thosewho need to hear ourprofession of love. But that glance,the whispered glancethat brushes overmy heart tells meeverything I need to know. You love me.&I love you.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Rage
Written from a dark place, on a dark day, from a dark perspective
A blanket of red fills mecovers my eyes, I can't see straight.My mind is consumedby the blackest of rage. I won't listen to reason,my fury ignites thepassion in my voice. Anger.Venom.I regret my words. You're hurt by mylack of control.I'm aware of your tears.It makes no difference. There is no stoppingas the level of my irerises. I can't stop.The devil lives in meand is winning. Stop! Don't speak!You'll only make ithurt more. Your words, meant to healonly cause more pain. Stay away! Leave me alone! I am not open to reasonI won't barter.My wrath knowsno bounds. I'm wrong, so verywrong.Forgive me, my love Help me! I need to bereleased from thebondage of mytemper. Hold me! Stop me from lashing out.Bind my arms so theycan't reach outwith malice. Help! Don't give up.I'm coming backfrom that dark placethat existsrarely. Forgive me.Love me. Please?
A blanket of red fills mecovers my eyes, I can't see straight.My mind is consumedby the blackest of rage. I won't listen to reason,my fury ignites thepassion in my voice. Anger.Venom.I regret my words. You're hurt by mylack of control.I'm aware of your tears.It makes no difference. There is no stoppingas the level of my irerises. I can't stop.The devil lives in meand is winning. Stop! Don't speak!You'll only make ithurt more. Your words, meant to healonly cause more pain. Stay away! Leave me alone! I am not open to reasonI won't barter.My wrath knowsno bounds. I'm wrong, so verywrong.Forgive me, my love Help me! I need to bereleased from thebondage of mytemper. Hold me! Stop me from lashing out.Bind my arms so theycan't reach outwith malice. Help! Don't give up.I'm coming backfrom that dark placethat existsrarely. Forgive me.Love me. Please?
Saturday, January 12, 2013
97 Years
Written for Dversepoets and the prompt given by Stuart McPherson with the theme of ‘Growing Up’
97 years of memoriesfail to yield a single thought.Only the albums of historytell the tale of a manwho has seen it all. From wars that stoppedthe forces of evilto the rose colored blushof the woman he loved,colorful pictures exist. He doesn’t recallthe friends of his youth,but the picture of boyhoodin black & white huesreveals a simple happiness. the faces of his parentsare whispers in the darkenedeyes of his mind.They are long gone, buttheir effect on himshows in how he livedhis life. Strong and proudhe grew from boyto man under hisown terms.Life’s harsh realitybecame mere bumpsin the road tomaturity. 97 years.A lifetime ofmemories are gonefrom a man whoalways remaineda boy.
97 years of memoriesfail to yield a single thought.Only the albums of historytell the tale of a manwho has seen it all. From wars that stoppedthe forces of evilto the rose colored blushof the woman he loved,colorful pictures exist. He doesn’t recallthe friends of his youth,but the picture of boyhoodin black & white huesreveals a simple happiness. the faces of his parentsare whispers in the darkenedeyes of his mind.They are long gone, buttheir effect on himshows in how he livedhis life. Strong and proudhe grew from boyto man under hisown terms.Life’s harsh realitybecame mere bumpsin the road tomaturity. 97 years.A lifetime ofmemories are gonefrom a man whoalways remaineda boy.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Pub Night
This is quite possibly the strangest piece I have ever written. It's inspiration comes from listening the music of Tom Waits.
But don't tell him that...
This tattered old barstool is home
to the back end of this tired poet.Surrounded by whiskey voices and cigarette singersevery day is thanksgiving as I enjoysome wild turkey.Oh, I'm happy enough to chat with you,but if I had my druthers, I'd stay far awayfrom your breath that will strip paint ormake me gravely ill with the second handexhalation of carcinogens.The bartender wanders over and gives mea look that says I've had enough.I tap the counter with two fingers, typingout my order in staccato make it a double,barkeep. An impatient lapse of time betweenempty and full, a glance around the roomreveals a cloud of smoke harboringthe secrets being hidden by the drinkers. The green felt on the pool table runs intopockets which hold no balls.The vending machines sell smokesand protection against the nights that seetoo much booze get consumed.The jukebox is lit up like a Christmas tree,but its voice is not heard. Instead,a raven haired angel plays the spatulaagainst the strings of a pinkFender Stratocaster And the mirror behind the barreflects an old poet whosewords start to get slurred. Stop the terrible music,there's poetry to be read. For this poet will write, even throughthe haze of pollution and thecaterwauling of a bad singer.That's the goal for this night atthe pub. To pen some thoughts,and find the muse at the bottomof a dirty glass. Leave me alone,you drinkers, players andgravelly voiced singers.The words are flowing fasterthan the bottle is emptying. Yep, this old barstool iswitness.The words that are writteninspire more...and conspire withthat wily old turkey to keep me goingfor the rest of the year.
But don't tell him that...
This tattered old barstool is home
to the back end of this tired poet.Surrounded by whiskey voices and cigarette singersevery day is thanksgiving as I enjoysome wild turkey.Oh, I'm happy enough to chat with you,but if I had my druthers, I'd stay far awayfrom your breath that will strip paint ormake me gravely ill with the second handexhalation of carcinogens.The bartender wanders over and gives mea look that says I've had enough.I tap the counter with two fingers, typingout my order in staccato make it a double,barkeep. An impatient lapse of time betweenempty and full, a glance around the roomreveals a cloud of smoke harboringthe secrets being hidden by the drinkers. The green felt on the pool table runs intopockets which hold no balls.The vending machines sell smokesand protection against the nights that seetoo much booze get consumed.The jukebox is lit up like a Christmas tree,but its voice is not heard. Instead,a raven haired angel plays the spatulaagainst the strings of a pinkFender Stratocaster And the mirror behind the barreflects an old poet whosewords start to get slurred. Stop the terrible music,there's poetry to be read. For this poet will write, even throughthe haze of pollution and thecaterwauling of a bad singer.That's the goal for this night atthe pub. To pen some thoughts,and find the muse at the bottomof a dirty glass. Leave me alone,you drinkers, players andgravelly voiced singers.The words are flowing fasterthan the bottle is emptying. Yep, this old barstool iswitness.The words that are writteninspire more...and conspire withthat wily old turkey to keep me goingfor the rest of the year.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
January 6, 2013
If my writing was judged solely by the quantity of pieces I publish on my website, I would stand before a very harsh verdict. Oh, I could stand before the judges and sputter on about the process of writing, and how I go about coming up with something I am proud of. But it would do no good as judgements can be made without the information that really helps. The truth of the matter is that I do not write quantity nor quality every day. There are even days when I write nothing at all. But I am constantly writing in my head, my mind buzzes along at 102 Kph and is always on the lookout for that next glimpse of inspiration. Sometimes I see it, sometimes I don't. One thing I am learning is not to panic. The words will get written. So don't judge on what you think you know. Judge solely on the product that I choose to share. Otherwise, grab your own pen and write.
I didn't think so.
FF
I didn't think so.
FF
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
January 1, 2013
I don't make New Years resolutions. I have in the past, and I've rarely kept them. And so I don't feel the need to promise myself something when I am quite sure I will break said vow. Nope, no resolutions here. However, I do make some plans, mostly based around achievable improvements. And this year is no different. There are a few things (ok, lots of things) that I want to improve on. In no particular order, here are some of them: I want to be a better husband, a better dad, a better Christian and a better writer. All of these are very achievable, and the nice thing is that even if I succeed in improving on these things, there will be even more room for improvement. Thus my plans for next year can follow the same pattern. No, I don't believe this a cop out. I strongly feel that these are some areas for improvement. And so, I will work hard at improving on them in this, a brand new year. No resolutions, just plans.
Happy new year.
FF
Happy new year.
FF
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