There are occasions when
that ever-burning flicker
of a flame is suddenly swept up
by gale-force inspiration and grows
into giant whorls of blazing creativity
as the mind sheds its inner turbulence
and spills it out onto the canvass of the page.
During these moments that little flicker
suddenly spreads into a scorching
wildfire of thoughts, its flames lashing out
like fiery orange fangs biting upward at the sky.
They say that writing
is shaping reality with words.
Sometimes all I see is a pen,
twitching on paper.
Sometimes all I see are
small round lenses,
a fastidious professor,
masticating on words
scrawled on a board.
But I have to/want to
believe
there is some shaping
to the art.
Beautiful afternoon
My heart is full of words
I try to them on paper
Even amongst the mires and marshes
at our beginnings we envied the birds
their song grown sweet amid the tawny thorns
of survival. Schemes were lit and fires
laid smoke to climb through the roast heat of bones
and blister of wings until the remains
displayed their hollow, fleshless tunnel caves
here the first enchantments lifted from lips,
swift fingers coaxed the perforated pieces
of death to a fresh flight of flurried dance
now strumming soul soft from our stereos.
The deli coffee was good this morning
Wired me enough to scribe my manifesto
This is what you get from reading Bukowski before bed
Failure never looked so pretty as it does from his hand
A mother wound
lives under the skin.
Raw at first,
throbbing less in time.
It dwells into other losses
of the tongue
that grew mute, unraveled,
the morning sounds
of night-shift cracking bones,
damp cloth on feverish foreheads,
eggplant salad, complicit smiles.
A language of lacks, body as implement.
Slowly, one poem bears the next,
descending the page like a string tie.
At the end of the day, I weigh
the unsaid, the misspelt, the in-betweens.
The poem cracks. On the page,
the learned foreign letters
give pain a loud, bearable voice.
The wound tingles, the words breathe.
One dying leaves room for poetry.
Many other deaths follow.
When are we to be saved when we disregard helpful fact?
When are we to be free from misty mind?
Folks of today!
When are we to consider not the truth?
Truth afore our plain eyes…. less important.
When’ll our mind be clear from ash and cinder?
When we disregard our past… our “Now” near perplix miles.
Answer placed at the socket of our hearts.
Why do we fancy not tips that helps brownish teeths look attractive.
Junks everywhere…. placed beneath, hang in altitude.
Why do we waste our goody assets on blinks?
It won’t last!
Why do we keep our eyes to deadly poison?
You know how it hurt and the burning pains wrath on skin.
Why do we keep our eyes to enmity?
World are destroyed.
Globe are unsold.
Lifes are lost and tears of blood that gleam on slow track in sad rudiment.
We wreck ourselves everyday, we wreck our help, we wreck our hope in help and can we wreck the wreck that hope no grace in us.
See tears.. evryday it grows like sour fruits of Eden.
Why do we keep all our sensory organs to what wreck ourpeace?
Made real
this person I crave to be
no longer swept away
by injurious words
the small frame of views
from others
no longer defined by
criticism, that easy art
practiced in the absence
of real action, of creation
made real.
With loss bundled into my being
I exile myself and my Ovidian soul
Singing the songs of time as a burden
for those without a muse
As it fades
Dissolves
Into the cosmos
More at https://www.taralynnhawk.com/.
They come weilding a moral purview of the truth,
they decode sentences and go into raptures about thinking,
positivist, meta, they are a breed. Call them intellectuals, call them new brands of a new age.
I wish I were one!