Stand Still | Alan Inman
Stand still
so I can paint you
capture your locks
your lovely energy
through the focused
point of a thin brush
scraping on void
canvas space.
creativity poems
Restless Muse | Angelica Fuse
Wandering night
shores
my restless muse
keeps me spinning
summoning
life in ink.
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Driftwood – A Poem by Roy Pullam
The spring rains
Brought driftwood
Down the river
Depositing it
At the boat ramp
A mess
That blocked the launch
Of recreational craft
I saw her approach
Pulling a little cart
She gleaned the pile
Moving the limbs
Searching for the pieces
Bleached white
By the turgid foam
She eyed it
Rejecting some
Gathering others
She seeing a finished product
Something special
Where I only saw sticks
Her little cart full
She pulled it away
With glue, ribbons and insight
The rubble had new life
Cute folk art
She would sell
It is the artist vision
That sees beauty
When others
See only trash
It is the master
That reminds us
How narrow
Is our sight
How much
We have yet to see
Putting Pen to Paper – A Poem by Mehar Anaokar
It’s the first thought that really counts
And, like a burst of flame
It ignites a world that only you can see
Your senses overwhelm you
And while you may be sitting alone in your room
Or on the bus home
Or at a coffee shop sipping on something warm
Your mind is somewhere else, it’s flying high
It’s crouching low, it’s swimming
You can see the fire burning around you
And the ashes suspended in the air
You can feel them settle in your hair and on your shoulders
You can feel the warmth of the flame filling you up like hot chocolate
You can smell the smoke, taste the heat
It makes your eyes stream and it makes you choke
And yet, you beg for more
You don’t want to return to the silence in your room, the noise on the bus,
Or the smell of cocoa in the coffee shop
You want to stay in that realm of blissful torture
You want to stay in the fleeting moment of discovery
The second where you’ve found a thought
And a world that has stemmed from the thought
And a universe of your own
A universe that only you can see,
That only you created
Your first instinct is to share
To scribble and to illustrate with words,
The view you see before you.
You hold your fleeting thoughts as stencils for the lines to come
You try to spread your arms and catch this world, like a fly in a web
You try and you try in vain
For all the sounds and symphonies have escaped your grip, you know what to say
But you know not how
And yet again, you try
Your heart pumps the ink into your bloodstream, pulsing warmly
Until it reaches your fingertips
And you set your palm on the sheet before you
The first line is etched, shaky and hesitant
But your heart is persistent, and the ink runs deep
As you continue, you find a flow
Gentler than that a drizzle, powerful as a storm
Alphabets huddle together in words,
Words sit side by side in rows and stanzas
And finally as you exhale in relief, you realise that you’ve done it.
You have done it, and it was all worth it.
More at https://justmastuff.wordpress.com/.
A Poet’s Mind | John Baverstock
Is it hard to conceive?
Just wanting someone to believe,
The words and the things you write about,
Built up by a life of worthless self-doubt,
Your creations all from your mind,
Built up through,
Long periods of time,
Not always battered,
Just significant times that mattered,
Words can be abused,
And can sometimes leave you bruised,
Yet they can be written,
In a way to understand,
Revealing the cards,
That life has presented in your hand,
Occasionally Poets enter,
the dark places of their conscience,
Trawl through experiences,
which have had a consequence,
A happening that is hard to shut away,
Something that’s in your mind,
you visit day to day,
It maybe that people will never really know,
These dark places that poets often go,
Just to find the words,
That let them express,
Their inner thoughts of pain,
Quite often tinged with sadness,
Maybe that feeling of unworthiness,
is also a place,
Which is so often masked,
behind a smiling face,
Maybe it’s Poets,
Who will only ever know,
these strange dark places,
That Poets so often go.
Mode | JD DeHart
What does word have
that gesture doesn’t? We each sit
in an experience, stand in a way of living.
We express our life,
prioritize what we feel we must –
Gathering the world together
onto a white board, listing the order
of our day, our reflections,
What can be done with lips
can be done with hands, no barrier
holds language back, it is a flood.
We are bubbling with expression.
The Magic Words | Michael Kagan
A gazelle
Leaping
In a herd of human expression
Fleet of foot
A golden bird
Just found the words of fable
That could sew our world back together
In a silken bag
tied to a balloon
floating over our heads
And even if we caught it
And spelled the whole thing out
Who’s left
Clear enough
To pronounce the perfect words
Our Lady | Igor Goldkind
You are our lady
of grace.
And now your dress
Is flames.
The beauty of your sunken dome from a drone
Is a poem in itself.
Written by us and
Destroyed by chaos.
This is what we do that rivals the stature of the gods:
To astound ourselves and each other,
With the wonder of
Pure, enduring creation.
The sacrifice we all make to our better selves
Who gave buildings wings and
Laid the foundation stones of our own perfecting.
Epiphany is not found in the act of worship
It is to be found in the insight gained by gratitude for the world.
Exactly the way we built it.
Exactly the way we know it to be.
Whispered prayers are but poetry
That none other than you will listen to
But it is good to talk to yourself
To sing in harmony with all those other selves
Who are listening,
Wearing
Not false, but true masks
Revealing the kind of truth that can only be told with a lie.
The subtler architecture that creates heavens from grand spaces on this earth.
Reconstructing what can be seen behind your faces,
Behind all the saints who guard you,
Behind the divine grace of your stature.
The sensuousness of your catastrophe is breathtaking.
More at https://igorgoldkind.wordpress.com/.
Believe It or Not | Stan Morrison
there’s no hill in hillsboro
and no gold in goldsboro
crocodiles actually do shed tears
as proven in a court of their peers
clocks don’t really say the time
they stay quiet like a sorta mime
elephants have been known to forget
waterproof raincoats always get wet
no wonder there’s so much confusion
even a mirage can turn into an illusion
Right Time Right Place | Michael Kagan
I just happened to be passing by
there it was
lying in a garbage can
a post card
in a knotted language
I could not read it
but somehow it was clear
the long awaited answer
the elusive one we hoped for
looking so humble
for all the world it contains
I will have it faithfully restored
professionally mounted
and elegantly framed
a feature documentary
about building a long wall
out of a billion lost emails
with innocent burnt edges
limited edition books
a full-length movie
smoke and mirrors
make the point
with a great supporting cast
the wonder of it all
I just happened to be passing by