I’m wild and beautiful
A free spirit misunderstood
I sing to the moon
The most beautiful lullabies
But sometimes I tell her
My sorrows as well.
If you look deep into my eyes
You will find I’m not
The heartless monster
Of your nightmares,
I hope someday you can understand
That the beast is not before you
But in your mirror looking back.
We see what we want
Yet rarely chase it out of
Fear and long-standing despair
Never taking those random
Chances in life and love
That tend to spring up
As we battle our own
Inner demons and failures
Self-doubts abundant
Staggering thoughts
An angel on one shoulder
And a devil on the other
A perpetually confused mind.
Arguing with oneself is
Like arguing with a
Battered old suitcase
Tired and weary of the
Fight yet willing to carry
Our stories; it’s the
Will I won’t I, knowing
Desirable things come
When least we expect them
Depending on which
Shoulder we listen to.
The bed of river
sands
civilization dead
only the steadfast climbing
of pillars, relics of an ancient
past, steps leading to an
arcade
capturing history in
moments of transgression.
The sea winds by,
couples sit on a bench
loving,
History creeps in timelessness
I watch in upper Assam
temples a carnival of ceremony
a park where they worshipped Lord Shiva,
all along the river meanders,
so does history.
Dedicated to my best Romanian friend, Vasile.
I bloom, I glow…
I smile. I am happy…
I am charmed by your
beautiful soul.
On a clear night
I should see the moon full silver
in a sky shot by moonbeams,
Not greyed by a smoky mist
and dust clouds rising from the ruins.
I should see a black, black sky,
Not bright from the orange glow
from the fires of hell on earth
Which send sparks high enough
to compete with the stars,
the pinpoint moonbeam spangles,
Not beamed by lasers.
I should hear the silence
in the depth of the black night,
not the explosive cacophony
bought by the masters of war
and the silent screams
buried in the rubble.
I should hear people talking in the street
and the music and laughter of the night.
I should see them walking home
to feel firm flesh loving and soft
unsplintered and unblemished by shrapnel,
unbroken by the metal-clad monsters
masquerading as humanity and
wrapping themselves in the uniforms
of thousand year old myths
dressed up as history.
These should be my rights,
But they aren’t.
I have no rights,
Nor do you.
Only what they give us,
the men of the flags,
temporally.
More at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com.
They ponder and wonder about
The impossible, always
Thinking about the unanswered
Questions, always doubting,
Sitting in silence, seeing all,
Saying nothing, just listening
To the quietness of life,
Attempting to understand
The realities of our vain
Existence, pondering,
Wondering, looking
For answers to
Non-existent
Questions.
Open up that bottle of Barola
for the wedding of Mike and Lola
I should just stick to Coca-Cola
is this stuff butter or is it Mazola
Grandma spent her own mazoola
cookin her famous pasta fazoola
at the reception let’s all dance a hula
the couple plan to move to Missouila
Val-der-ree, val-der-ra
chechanee, chechnee’ya
check-nee-aha-ha-ha-ha-ha
my nap snack’s going back
Love came on a bullet train
the ride was fast
the price was high
as you can get
back then when muscles
ripped through satin sheets
blinded by smoke and sweat
washed up seaweed
onto sand
like a shelter dog
waiting to be loved again
Love came
On the mid life train
hard to resist
oven roasted crisp
inside a flash dance moment
sugar cube words
coating my tongue
that too came and went
like a shelter dog
waiting to be loved again
Terrible boredom holds sway at the mall.
The prophets have yet to arrive with their
new-fangled merchandise to dollop honey
and truth into minds dulled by the latest
movie screened in the far end of the mall.
It is in that far end of the mall that youth
get lost in images drenched in pulsing
carnage and throbbing sensuality. It is
where their parents lost their inner sight,
displaced by a digital, alt universe. The
outer view is dark and daunting, one of
sanguinary alarm. The sirens are screaming.
Dead litter the concourse and boutiques, and
blood pools in widening ponds to reflect the
40% discounts ads of the coming Friday. The
prophets needed to arrive. But they came late,
and they, too, now lay dead in the mall, just
more bodies sacrificed to the god of the mall.
The city of lights
is calling my name.
Oh, the sights I could see.
The city of lights is
the trip of my dreams.
More at http://poetry347.wordpress.com.