Harmony in Pure Nature

magnetic

This is a poem created using Magnetic Poetry and I was inspired to use it after a fellow blogger used it as well and provided a link to it. Quite fun, actually.

Harmony in Pure Nature

By nature’s secret
Only of the spirit
Dark air could light intuition
Live like an insect
Through thick root
If you have life
Never know wild grass is
Her deep sacred rose &
Winter tree
Beautiful as said spring prairie
Always breathe above earth
See me in bright sanctuary
Rest in vivid river song
Sun over a cold dawn fruit


Writing 201

From Bare to Brilliant White

“How dare you mock me?”, I say,
squatting near your dusty wall,
your drawers of ripe old age,
have witnessed much life, much
rise and fall;
You’ve been with me through many tears,
witnessed hopes, dreams, and fears,
trials and tribulations,
“Wow, I can’t believe I’ve kept you all of these years.”
Were there when I was a baby,
and have witnessed so much more,
watched me grow up fast,
walk through many bedroom doors;
Ah! What a brilliant shade of white,
it shouted anew in 2010,
Contained within it’s
ever changing confines,
are an assortment of odds and ends:
A jar of beer caps, some flossers, and
guitar tuner which is likely dead;
The 80s live on in an old baseball handbook
while a memory book lies above
college diploma, received from
all those painstakingly boring classes I took;
And the ties of assorted taste, and
honor roll medal from high school,
discarded toothbrush in the back,
and hydrocodones from the old Liz I knew;
Let me keep you, dearly durable drawer,
and all of your companions,
Because I love you to the moon and more;
I have never had another dresser,
this same one from my youth,
and as the years roll on,
and life changes colors,
I realize I can never let go of you

Writing 201

Magical Ore of Words

My mind is at ease, familiar click of the keys as I write down these words, taking me back to that happy place. The perennial pen that produces my thoughts, undeniable taught with wisdom, courage, and understanding. The slow flow of a constant show to unravel the answer of me. Tapping into the magical ore within, drawing out inspiration, pulling through desperation, it’s going to be my innovation.

The words seek to be approved, I bust my way through to be improved, tapping the magical well until the keys start to swell, it’s either heaven or hell, as my words form a shell of my utter existence. Like the glittery firebugs that light up the night, electrical synapses from my brain power the prose that flows down like rain, until I am completely dry. But satisfaction never comes, as the magical ore refills once more, and the magical pen starts in again, pulling me through the gates to a peaceful bed of literary resistance.

Writing 201

Ballad of Selma’s Hero

the voice of the trodden,
he turned the world around
the voice of the trodden,
burned segregation
to the ground;

I say to you, Mr. King,
you are a true icon to me
I say to you, Mr. King,
your legacy lives on for eternity;

he had a dream
that the world would
come together:
not just fifty shades
of black and white,
but every thread of
the proverbial
sweater;

he had a dream
that we all could
sit down together
peacefully;
could go to work
together peacefully;
could ride the bus
together peacefully;
could cross the street
together peacefully;

he had a dream
that our votes belonged
in the same box;
our education
in the same box;
our athletic talents
in the same box;
our political agenda
in the same box;

realize what Mr. King did,
shattered years of
racial hatred;
broke down the
proverbial Berlin Wall,
made us realize
we were all human, the
same after all

and now we have
a monument to
remember him;
and now we have
a way to pay our
respects to him;
and now we have
his powerful words
persevered in our history;
and now we have
his message being
heard universally

but this does not
change the fact
that his dream is still
spit on;
this does not
change the fact
that still a great many
have the utter most hate on;

but I’ll keep the ballad
of Selma’s dear hero
a happy soulful one for now;
I’ll keep the ballad
of Martin Luther King, Jr.
my grand respect for
his dream come true,
a happy tribute for now

Writing201

The Metaphorical Fog

I’ll fight my way through the darkness, finding the writer in me,

Pushing through that dense fog, vanquishing with brilliancy;

Recalling summer days, when I was brimming with potential,

And those cold winter nights, when all was uneventful

In mid-evening, I strolled along that sandy encrusted shoreline,

Heard the waves crash, the ship’s horn call in rhyme;

The beast in the distance, eyeing me with vague mystery,

Bare feet on a warm bed of proverbial hot tamales

Unable to see clearly for the light that shines on the bay,

This hark feat of nature, the thing that blocks my way;

Looking through the clouds, for thy shape that is great,

Struggling through well run dry, rolling the red tape

The great thing about writing, it’s either a half full or empty glass:

You either look to the future or stay stuck in troubled past

For much of it all, does not deal with cemented perfection;

This metaphorical fog, it’s always causing digression

I hear the seagulls cry, scattering along the endless beach,

My mind sinking in quicksand, striking with careful beats

#Writing201

Concrete Life

Life

is breathing air,                 deep mahogany

earth, wind, rain,                             sweet as honey

The deer roam freely

in spite of

man’s

fearsome pursuit

While nightingale song                        on golden pond

Bluegrass swings                                                                            swinging along

And the buzzing bees                               birds and trees

Running through cornfields

Scraping your knees

And the shuffling seasons

Keep us on

Our feet

While the music is as graceful as

the moose grazing in a

field of azure

My own life  with

sleepy cats

About as quiet as the

grizzly going through glorified winter’s nap

             The threads of life                                  that mortal our existence

As real

As the moment of

First kiss:

Emotional,

Sweet,

Mysterious

#Writing201

Trust No One

Taking them seriously was only just jeering
Rising up from the ashes, I could newly see them peering
Under the moonlight, my mind began to brew
Starting to make sense of it all
Trusting no one but you

“No, I see it there, the way you stare,
Oh, I can’t just believe you, know the hurtful things you’ll do”

Only then will it begin
Nearing the light, repenting sin
Everything I’ll become, will be because I won

#Writing201


So basically the first verse of my poem is about not trusting anyone in this world, not even your closest friends or family, since you’ll only feel worse when something bad happens. The second verse is about being aware in a relationship since things usually never come out untarnished. And the final verse is about trusting only yourself, and a spiritual being if you may, in what you believe the most to be righteous and honest.

Loony Lonely Limerick

Just joggin’ along the junction
Feet scorched, air punchin’
Jumped a jittery thug
Who just wanted a hug
I kindly rejected
He solemnly shrugged
That was quite a dysfunction

#Writing201

No Fear

Ice water flows through 

Like a mighty march of men

Chills me to the bone


OK, so this isn’t my first rodeo at doing haiku or poetry for that matter, but Writing 201 serves as a way to refocus my writing of poetry, and now of course, I have learned I’ve been doing haikus basically all wrong in the recent past, not paying attention to the 5/7/5 syllable format (if that is what is said in the official poetry handbook, if there is one). Oh, well. We all learn eventually.

Basically, my haiku describes the term “ice water in your veins”, to have no fear, no pressure, to be calm, cool, and collected. A more creative interpretation could be using the haiku to describe the drain in the picture, its “bone” being the metal.