Poetry competition CLOSED 7th April 2017 9:55am
WINNER
seekingkate (kateA)
seekingkate (kateA)
Page:
Dancing Barefoot
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Riding Horses
The slightly warped vinyl platter
spins on the secondhand turntable
with piano notes soulful despite
the crackling of tinny speakers.
The princess of punk sings,
“Jesus died for somebody’s
sins but not mine,” and stakes
her claim in the heart of a young
man desperate for answers
in matters of the restless heart.
A desire to define how a life
with dreams sanitized
to the point of impotency
can be translated into passion
by the poetry of New York City.
The singer’s voice and words
vulnerable yet fearless
lighting up the crevices
of an imagination heretofore
closed during the afterhours,
beckoning me to hold tight
to the reins of song and dance.
The slightly warped vinyl platter
spins on the secondhand turntable
with piano notes soulful despite
the crackling of tinny speakers.
The princess of punk sings,
“Jesus died for somebody’s
sins but not mine,” and stakes
her claim in the heart of a young
man desperate for answers
in matters of the restless heart.
A desire to define how a life
with dreams sanitized
to the point of impotency
can be translated into passion
by the poetry of New York City.
The singer’s voice and words
vulnerable yet fearless
lighting up the crevices
of an imagination heretofore
closed during the afterhours,
beckoning me to hold tight
to the reins of song and dance.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
I'll be back---I absolutely love Patti, and my beloved friend and soulmate, Michael, who passed, was a friend of Patti and her children, as well as her son's first employer when he was a teen. Lots of poetry forming right now--stay tuned!
Edit--here you go:
The Muse Of Chelsea
When he died, I
ran back to the city, searching
for the places we once
walked---
the streets, the tea room,
your doorstep…
Did you see us there, beyond
your windows, in
the night?
May I come in, this time?
He’s gone—you know
how that feels, when
your soul is ripped out, at
the departure of
the one, true one.
“Maybe we will come back, someday…”
But the East River still
churns it’s strange, circular,
currents, and I touched
the walls of The Chelsea, hoping
to absorb your muse, and
wisdom of poets past.
A bit of your strength, is
all I need.
Perhaps I shall see
you on the M-train
someday, and tell you
how beautiful you are
Edit--here you go:
The Muse Of Chelsea
When he died, I
ran back to the city, searching
for the places we once
walked---
the streets, the tea room,
your doorstep…
Did you see us there, beyond
your windows, in
the night?
May I come in, this time?
He’s gone—you know
how that feels, when
your soul is ripped out, at
the departure of
the one, true one.
“Maybe we will come back, someday…”
But the East River still
churns it’s strange, circular,
currents, and I touched
the walls of The Chelsea, hoping
to absorb your muse, and
wisdom of poets past.
A bit of your strength, is
all I need.
Perhaps I shall see
you on the M-train
someday, and tell you
how beautiful you are
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
She crow midnight
But not for me
Or any other girl I see, see
She got generations up her sleeve
And whiles the time
Still making them mine
I own images of a red dress falling to the floor
And my fantasy knocking at my door
As the twelfth strike chimes
Carnal sins my own and shared by some
On my back but not on God''s son
She sets
Me free while she does sing
Her guitar secures my liberty.....
But not for me
Or any other girl I see, see
She got generations up her sleeve
And whiles the time
Still making them mine
I own images of a red dress falling to the floor
And my fantasy knocking at my door
As the twelfth strike chimes
Carnal sins my own and shared by some
On my back but not on God''s son
She sets
Me free while she does sing
Her guitar secures my liberty.....
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
A Voice Admired
your voice soars
not soft like an angel
but with strength and force
you made me listen
to your rhythm and reasons
you said people have the power
and I believe in that
you sang of the night belonging to lovers
and I was a lover there too
as if I know you intimately
words of songs
lyrics in every lilts
told of life and living
of lovers, haters and gamblers
living together in this world
alive in your songs.
your voice soars
not soft like an angel
but with strength and force
you made me listen
to your rhythm and reasons
you said people have the power
and I believe in that
you sang of the night belonging to lovers
and I was a lover there too
as if I know you intimately
words of songs
lyrics in every lilts
told of life and living
of lovers, haters and gamblers
living together in this world
alive in your songs.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
because the night
patti smith
in this water soaked environment
where rain has coloured
everything green a stunning emerald
I ponder what to say, what to scribe
bout how you make me feel
when I read your words
because I love the way you write
It’s not your music that inspires me
it’s your words I love
the way you form them
the journey you take me on
how you paint your kaleidoscope life
applauding people to embrace themselves
be who they are, not someone else
your intelligence cloaks the
alluring innocence of your soul
you're a constant reminder for me
to salute my muse
the world
on a Sunday night soon
surrounded by an opera house of fans
I will sit enraptured by your presence
listening to the crone
the wise woman
patti smith
in her own words
© Kate Adams 4/4/17
patti smith
in this water soaked environment
where rain has coloured
everything green a stunning emerald
I ponder what to say, what to scribe
bout how you make me feel
when I read your words
because I love the way you write
It’s not your music that inspires me
it’s your words I love
the way you form them
the journey you take me on
how you paint your kaleidoscope life
applauding people to embrace themselves
be who they are, not someone else
your intelligence cloaks the
alluring innocence of your soul
you're a constant reminder for me
to salute my muse
the world
on a Sunday night soon
surrounded by an opera house of fans
I will sit enraptured by your presence
listening to the crone
the wise woman
patti smith
in her own words
© Kate Adams 4/4/17
I met her, my gypsy lass,
Dancing barefoot on the grass,
As the fiddle played away
When eve took over from day,
Fire casting light on her face,
Long hair casting o'er the place.
I discerned a spirit free,
Yet not without modesty.
Her skin tanned from years outdoors
With Roma blood added cause,
Her dark eyes cast glance at me
I fall into reverie.
She was dancing to a tune
As old as the sun and moon,
Making me want to cast shoes
Aside, as town thoughts I lose,
Stand up, take her by the hand
Let her wish be my command.
