Stars & William Shakespeare.

Stars & William Shakespeare.

“When he shall die, take him out and cut him into the shape of Stars for he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world be in love with night.” -juliet’s monologue excerpt from Romeo and Juliet , William Shakespeare.

I had bullet proof stars in my ears

Stars & William Shakespeare.

bullet proof stars in my eyes

When I was just a wee lass

I stood up at

the head of my Drama Class

and I performed this monologue

of Juliets from Shakespeare.

My teacher called me brass

and bold, before I even began

because She said Shakespeare

was too advanced for high school kids.

I think she even laughed and made fun

of me. But still there I stood

like a shadow

eager to please yet with legs

made up entirely

of wood!!!

After I began, the room

filled with silence

as i mildly

ROCKED IT!!!

Me, my shadow self, wearing

only a black half nightgown slip

and some sort of tank top or t-shirt

i might have been even barefoot?

but mostly i remember the shiny

black half slip with lace round the edges

and the smile on my teachers lips-

so surprised

she gave me an “A”

not just for that performance

but for the entire class too;

i played many roles in high school.

Taitchaba the “witch” from the Crucible-

part of the chorus in Camelot

part of the chorus in “Bye bye birdie.”

but my favorite role

was that of a secret wrapped up

into a surprise

when our teacher said we were too young to

be doing Shakespeare

I had bullet proof

stars in my eyes.

It was quite the surprise

this lone wolf misfit

this strange creature

a punk-rocker, an art-fag,a silent talker

a shadow self

thin enough to slip under

my jar of memories.

I had bullet proof stars in my ears

Stars & William Shakespeare.

bullet proof stars in my eyes

boy was she ever surprised!!!

Here between my easel and I:

What does lie,

here between

my Easel & I?

apathy

empty

blank white titanium

flat canvas

and I

am ever the Greatest-

procrastinator, it seems

of all time.

What does lie between,

my Easel and I?

a heightened sense of imperfection.

tears of frustration

of hesitation

they run down my face

almost invisible,

as if I am only crying on the inside

for my cheeks lie

both bare & dry.

But the true color of my tears,

are those of unspent, built up:

cadmium yellow hue,

alizarin crimson streaks,

dabs of cobalt blue

puddles of pink & purple

and shades of

burnt sienna.

Acrylic shiny colorful tears

that refuse to budge or give in,

tears that refuse to splatter

shatter the ground

and fall

like broken ideas at my feet.

What stands between my easel & I?

Pented up emotions.

Broken Daydreams.

Unspoken fantasy.

Un-Spilled milk running,

like unspoken poetry

and unpainted starbursts

of foggy, hazy, unspent

lately-

the ghost of my

own creativity.

CAM00673

 

The Reaping of the Poem-hunter

The reaping of the poem-hunter.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I plow
my minds eye
just in time
to gather together
another
string of words
loosely tied together
into a verse
of poetry.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I re-hearse
in my journal
the pickings are slim
and fare between

greedy fingers, I savor the best ones, for
the pickings later
so I can tuck away
a poem a day
to put into

another collection of printed
verse. The raw, runny, dull stuff
I plant onto cyberspace
like seeds of flowers
hoping that perhaps

the smallest might
grow
some sort of potential
like a diamond in the rough.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I re-hearse
in my journal
the pickings are slim
and fare between.

greedy fingers, I savor the best ones, for
the pickings later
so I can tuck away
a poem a day
to put into a big Jar above my head.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I plow
my minds eye
just in time
to gather together
another
string of words
loosely tied together
into a verse
of poetry.

As a poem hunter I collect
verbs, simple nouns, similes
and metaphors-gather them together
like loosely filled twine
trying to thread the ever-searching needle,
for the perfect rhyme.

My Muse is a slave-driver

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

My Muse

thinks she is both the bullseye and the target.

She whispers nonsense into my ears,

until there is nothing else

I can even hear-except the drone,

of a rambling ancient old Crone.

My Muse of Poetry,

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chain-saw massacre, breathing down my neck.

And I cannot hold anything against her.

Inspiration, however random is still

something akin

to the answers of a prayer.

Without my Muse,

I am nothing more than a

babbling fool.

Poetry-this writing Life,

it eats the good ones first,

then the young ones,

folks like me she leaves for dessert

a mushy mess of a chocolate brownie

a mushy mess of a middle-old aged woman

a clown, who never properly learned

the art and skill

of juggling.

My Muse, is a slave-driver.

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

Running on E

Running on E,

Empty, my thoughts have

decided to run away,

they flee free me.

 

Running on E,

I let the empty get the best 

of Me. I reach out-

towards the empty sky,

not a cloud in sight.

 

Running on E,

Grabbing outwards for the 

poetry. To take a hold of Me.

But too much everything equates

a void.

 

Running on E,

but I digress.

Where did I misplace the Lioness?

Where did I misplace the Poetess?

 

Running on E,

nothing comes very easy.

The thoughts all roll right out of my brain,

catching like embers burning into fire,

as the free-verse falls down.

 

Running on E,

a hapless clown.

How to quench this thirst,

of creating something out of

nothing?

 

Running on E,

it leaves me screaming-

so loud- my lips leave no sound.

The words all blocked up,

a corked up wine bottle.

 

Running on E,

the empty sound of silence,

What is left to say?

Where do the poem-words take you,

Anyway?

 

Empty, Empty, Empty,

and then like Humpty Dupty,

We All fall down.

Falling down again.

With a crash.

Something singular sinful…

Something singular sinful,

sitting here listening to music.

swaying to the beat, listening to lyrics-

soaking the words up into a sweat

of something singular sinful.

 

I wish things would move, change and collide

before my eyes. That the world might

evolve and change-wait no, that’s me-

that needs changing.

now i see.

a change of attitude,

is in order.

a change for the better.

just now i need to close both eyes,

and compromise.

For a better Today and a brighter tomorrow.

It only the art of allowance, was just this easy-

wait, maybe it is.

Hope.

Dream.

Think big.

Encompass an inner tidal wave,

in order to ride the Stars,

skyward bound, all earth-bound creatures,

we scatter and rush to

make the best of

Us. 

Trying to locate the bright side with my star trek decoder ring?

I am looking for the light

at the end of the tunnel,

I am trying to locate the bright side-

I am trying to find and then analyze,

the silver lining in the gray storm clouds which

to my everlasting annoyance hang out

beside my brow under my head…

I am trying to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,

the butterfly breaking loose out of her cocoon.

I am trying to not worry so ever much

that I hold onto this mantle

of doom and gloom.

 

For everything there is a price you pay,

For every stray thought or feeling or word,

you might say, there is a consequence.

 

There is always an end result to any hypothetical

hypothesis, to any purely scientific, mathematical, theoretical

equation. There is always an answer.

So when in doubt,

go bravely out into the big

crazy world, gather facts, data and then find out-

your very own answer.

 

Because in our ever-expanding, mind-blowing

universe there are several.

Answers I mean. To any one questions, at any one time,

it will blow your mind.

 

Reach as far as your fat fist will travel,

grasp every bit of pure white light imaginable,

and cling fast and hard

to both Hope and Faith.

 

Never assume you know the truth,

go out and discover the bits and pieces

of your hungry self.

 

But beyond all this;

try to locate the bright side beneath all the darkness.

Look for the light which dances among shadows,

it is a choice to pick one or the other-

which one to pay attention to-the shadows or the

pretty white gleam of happiness, pleasure, and pure joy.

 

 

Poetry Junkie

Hi my name is Emily with a ‘Y’,

and I am a Poetry Addict.

I cannot stop writing them,

and really it’s becoming no fun.

I’m addicted to the words,

especially the verbs-

-the crunchy kind.

I’m shifty and slightly,

untrustworthy;

especially around word games,

like scrabble.

I’m sure to cheat, throw in a personal-pronoun,

I’m in way too deep.

And there are words, literally

everywhere.

I look and I cannot,

get away fast enough!

I am a poetry addict,

one or two poems, a day-

is never enough.

Some I would suppose-

would doubt my sincerity.

Some I would suppose-

would doubt my sanity.

Some I would suppose would just

assume its harmless fun.

But I become ruthless and ravenous,

when I’m around words,

I cannot help myself.

Prayers from the Galactic Center

Beautiful poetry.

Wuji Seshat

My lord takes his delight in stars
In the middle regions of the sky
In blessed spirits that mirror light
Radiant with the music of the night

My Queen takes her movement
From the waves, from the rain
Her wondrous effulgence
*
In each of her beloved thoughts
It pours and pours and never ceases
She is nature without judgment
Cycles without wait, nectars of belonging

Vaster than global consciousness
On that shore that is not a city
My lord and my Queen reside in thee
With pure white of white, delight and fire.

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