Ars Poetica

I rather like the ten syllable line                      
Not knowing where the stresses fall is fine                      
For me, to be ignorant of such stuff,                      
Knowing prosodists' exists, 'tis enough!                      
                       
For those who will, will find some successes              
Following impulse and ancient senses,                      
I say reach up as high as you can go                      
Then strain, strain, and stand out, on your tiptoe...                      
                   
The way to write is, impulsive,  do it               
Then put trust in instinct when you edit,         
 But ne'er wr'te i' P'ope's tort'rous lines        
A needy truncater to fit in his rhymes.           
               
We were taught rhythm in the mother's womb                      
A million years before language bloomed,                      
And used that rhythm to run down the deer                        
Listen, it's still there when want brings fear.                
                  
And that rhythm brought us twins song and dance                      
Hear, burbling babies, see them jig and prance,                      
Inherent instinct cannot be denied                        
Though age slows down the beats they do not die.                      
                       
Who hasn't heard in seashells and breezes                      
A future tune which tantalizes, teases,                      
And wills itself to be heard, writ, engraved,                      
In our books, or cave walls by ancient braves?                      
                       
And be sure to make art from simple things                        
This fit for all pens, commoner or king's,                      
So all things from under the furthest sun                      
Is your subject nothing barred no, not one.              
                       
And worried to stretch your education                        
Research, Research, like the Bard of Avon,                      
That's stuff's been done since prehistoric times                      
Those cave wall paintings are just, these few lines.                      
                       
                       
 

While they all left it was you that stayed
And helped me make sense of the messes I made

Quiet and stoic when Im releaing my rage
When I feel invisible you give me a stage

My wingman when I want to capture a heart
You soak up my ugliness and make it an art

In times when I feel like I need some insight
You come to me softly and tell me to write

My soul finds a calmness I desperately need
Never controlling you follow my lead

Through the depths I have traveled with you at my side
Never once have you judged me, Ive no need to hide

Celebrated my victories and cried at my pain
Youve been my constant, you kept me sane

Inseparable from the day we first met
Youve made me remember and helped me forget

In a world that craves lies, you kept me true
When darkness clouds my vision you see me through

The first love of my life, you're my day one
Ill keep you with me till my journey is done

Im committed to you as you are to me
My essense, my soul, my poetry

Make disciples of all men
so I’m writing again

Social influencers take note:
better than a vote

That’s your great commission:
poetry with a mission

A poem is only a visible deity
as a raspberry sundae peony,
 
Possessing the gaul
to die upon its green pedestal,
 
Falling
silently upon its earthen vault—
 
A Poem doesn't desire to be
a wild beast marking territory,
 
Its roaring mouth  
watering puberty's drought.  
 
It's not a royal subject  
regally crowned in public,  
 
But a pauper in the streets  
offering salvation to the meek—  
 
Its worn baskets  
overflow in humility,
 
It eschews front row seats  
to the symphony
and any semblance of luxury.
 
It doesn’t understand
the need for grand-strands.
 
It wanders through slums
sups with sinners and publicans,  
 
Offers coffers of wealth
from its own breath.  
 
It doesn’t live in a mansion
but under the banyan,  
 
Its branches thick with protection.  
 
It suffers children and villains  
heavy laden and unforgiven.
its lesson—
 
A Poem is conceived  
from a spirit of belief,
 
It rises above  
petty squabbles and war.  
 
It is slowly nursed  
from a poet’s breast  
 
Until released  
to become wholly itself.  

Words

Everything starts with a word
The same word ends it all.
How can a word build a world
And the same causes it to fall?

Wanting me to write a word
of love and hate to say it all.
A word no one has heard
or written on paper or wall.

I shouldn't have said a word.
Words are ever my fall
from the Nite like a Bird.
Enthralled in lovers brawl.

I've been called many a word
non that mattered at all.
The last I have heard
went deep into my soul.

I'm not going to say a word,
comment or scrawl.
My words might be slurred
from pain or alcohol.

This is the last of my word
to the world and to all
who might recall that words
hurt and bring oneself to fall.

Everything ended with a word
of farewell as you recall.
Don't forget the words you have heard
when we danced together in my hall.

squelch the thug that lives inside
who bullies bards with ego's pride
and sneers at every freakin' word
and calls your heartfelt spill absurd

write it full without the reins
just pull the plug or cut the vein
and let words flow 'cross the page
expressing love or joy or rage

then later when the mind is still
take up a learned poet's quill
and turn that leaden verse to gold
that it might touch another's soul

but what of times when no words come
when mind goes blank and heart goes numb?

remember words will come in time
and if you must, resort to rhyme

I sit completely naked,
and this usually occurs
in the dead of night.

I turn off the lights,
and with the illumination of the candle,
I think I can handle
feeding the starving creativity
that needs to ingest letters
so it can regurgitate words,
preferably those not often heard.

Warding off writer’s block or not,
I gawk at the blank page.
Rage nestles next to my reasoning.
I try seasoning the letters
and stir the pot; it is naught.

I do not know where to begin.
My patience is running thin,
and I wonder
if I can sunder this self-contempt
as I attempt to write poetry.

There is no hurry yet,
but time is ticking,
and words are not clicking.

Looking for the zone
where I can hone in on an idea.
Somewhere dyspnea
is not suffocating my thoughts
where concentrating comes effortlessly.

This feels like a curse,
not being able to just free verse.

Fuck it, pick a poetry form already
and begin the brainstorm
because I am ready
to put my pencil down
and put on my nightgown.