I pound the words
As best
I can
Trying to force
The pieces
Into the puzzle
That is an emotion
Edges break off
Not fully revealing
The total picture
How I long
For others
To recognize
The thought
To find common ground
In something
We can share
ripe fruit
poems appear in my mind
like ripe fruit on a tree
near, but out of reach
ah, to muster the gumption
to climb the fence
and traipse through thicket
to pick them
wet words
sometimes my mind is a desert landscape
and thoughts are like bleached bones in the sand
then suddenly the words seem to fall like rain
from the sky – a trickle, then a downpour and I’m
frantically throwing out buckets to catch them,
knowing the dry spell may soon return
ball point
a poem may be like
the stubborn ball point pen that
refuses to leave a mark
I must scratch around in circles
before the ink will flow
don’t think – just write
Like a prospector
You search for a vein
Of truth
For pure ore
Words that shine
A golden vision
Of subjects
Important to you
Meanings buried
From the ordinary eye
Ideas you choose
To explore
To show others
As much
As for yourself
In the stream of thought
You find nuggets
But never enough
To quell
Your curiosity
I know so well the warmth of cold moonlight,
For night is home to all keen thought, blissfully unmaligned.
Helios holds no sway with me, his journey out of sight,
Selene, my muse, guides my sweet nocturnal mind.
Supine, I float, and watch my ethereal phosphenes fly,
Till epiphany alights and I feverishly spring to write.
Mellifluous the ring of ink, as the paper I glorify,
Eloquent with ease, till the sharp break of Aurora’s light.
The ephemerality of my life seems with my heart to brawl,
Under shadow, ponder I, if unturned I leave life’s stone.
Yet Nyx’s reign inveigles me like sonorous siren call,
And so I sit, to on paper bleed, on my solemn wooden throne.
To live and write in lonely dark is my god-given right,
I’d rather live to shine in shadow than disappear in light.
I want to weave words
I want to create
My own patterns
To not drop stitches
As I lay out
The intricate colors
I see in my mind
I want others
To feel the ideas
The smoothness
Of my logic fabric
To accept the textures
As truth
Me, as an artist
Who pulls
The silky thoughts
From the cocoon
That is my heart
The smell of freshly sharpened pencils
upon her slender, stained fingertips.
The taste of daisies and forget-me-nots
upon her pursed, concentrating lips.
She shudders, as her imagination
runs rampant up the throat of her soul
and bursts colourfully out of her mind
through wide, dazzling eyes.
Attacking the workbench with majestic arcs,
finger whips and thumbprint smudges.
Water is easy… it’s trickling the depth
whilst retaining the veneer that counts.
Fog… still has to be focused.
Trees… firework up out of the ground.
Hills roll or are monument.
The shadows… alive
or merely dormant, wasted spaces.
To trap ‘Energy’ within a single teardrop.
To mirror a ‘Love Sonnet’ upon the reflection
of a mischievous, half-scowling raven’s eye.
To creatively EXPLODE from the roots of the heart…
out onto the page or canvas,
is the very difference between mere pictures and Art.
More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Throwing mud
Making a being
From the clay
The essential element
Of the earth
Shaping with molding hands
A vision
Others cannot see
Until it is done
It is a lonely world
The artist vision
That sees beyond
20/20
The wheels turning
Both in the head
And with the manipulation
The earth showing
Its resistance
Just like
The times
When it pulls down
Creation
But there is a stubborn will
The long-sought perfection
He will never know
But the potter’s fingers
Are much more
Than the critic’s eye
His is the path
To an immortality
None of us
While living
Will ever reach
With a yellow pad
And a funeral home pen
I struggle with words
Lining them up
To give meaning
To thought
I have not clearly defined
A line of clarification
So many attempts
Stacks of crumbled yellow
Projectiles that do not reach
The overflowing trash can
I struggle
Stopping to read others
Whose hands is guided
By an intellect
I do not possess
I leave the cross-outs
Starts and stops
Then abandoned pieces
I hope to return to
To give order
To rank and align
Metaphors and similes
Until I please me
Some thoughts
Will not let me go
They come back
In various forms
Scolding me
To find my way
From the dry docks
Where my ambition
Is moored
My fare is basic
Plain bread lines
Water the only beverage
Peasant ramblings
With no interest
In cloth napkins
And finger bowls
The smooth language
Of couplets
Of iambic pentameter
That takes away
From the message
I long to leave
My yarn
Visible without finesse
Is not for everyone
It is bone and marrow
Nothing
To ponder
To find signs and signals
Half-hidden images
Among the cuteness
Of word juggling
I am
Open and available
Exposing
The pure nakedness
Of thought
Don’t chain me
to rhyme or metrical
expectations, let
words fall
where they
may
This is not a problem
but process
statement
stacked
One of play because
if adults can’t play
with words, well then
Where can they play?