Tag: Creative Writing – Poetry

“Finding Happiness”

After the Myth of Sisyphus

Pushing,
Restless to climb,
Doomed to absurdity,
To toil at an ungrateful task,
Before having to watch it all,
Her struggles and her pains
Reduced in an instant
To nothing.

Alone,
Down again she goes.
The men who pass by mock her,
Claiming she is being punished for her arrogance.
Bit off more than she can chew, serves her right!
Maybe… But then why would she go back
To her lifelong companion
Willingly?

And again,
Refusing to defect.
Or maybe striving to satisfy her spite
In the sharp unkindness of the stone, in its strain on her body?
When with an empty gaze, she follows its roll down the hill,
Does she like the racket it makes?
Relishing in the din perhaps as
In music?

Oh, by the Gods,
The greedy ache to comfort her!
To let her rest under my shadowy wings,
And stop the everlasting curse from destroying her.
But no, nothing shall be done. For on the fool’s face, I recognize it. Under the sun’s gash and the blast’s whipping, as she descends for the…
Howmanyeth time? There lies, unaltered
Yet flickering,
A smile.

Images: © Blanche Darbord

Glass ship of Goodbyes

I took the sadness from my heart;
I took a bottle by its neck.
A storm was raging in the clouds;
A cloud came carrying all my hurt.

I took a locket from my chest;
I took a bottle by its neck.
The waves still swam beneath my feet,
Its wails slicing my beating breast.

I took a letter soft with dew;
I slit the bottle by its neck.
And in the bottle sadly placed,
My words of lasting love to you.

A storm was raging in the clouds;
A cloud came down upon the sea.
And in the mourning waters went,
My letter, floating in your shrouds.

 

The Delusional Philosopher

A wise man reads,
His white beard long
Beneath his chin.

He reads of sun and moon,
Of oceans dried too soon.
He reads of lost ships
and long-forgotten crypts.

A young, ignorant boy,
Who cannot read
And never touched a book:
He runs under the sun,
Sleeps under the moon,
And sails on sparkling seas.
The old man,
Wise as he was,
Wrote about the world.

His wise words are
“philosophical”, “timeless”
                         – We say

Yes, they are timeless,
Truthful by fantasies,
Ignorant of life.

 

The Promise of Stones

In the New Land waited
A man
Sitting before an ageing
Ocean wide.
“Wait for me,” she had said.
“I shall come back,”
She had promised.

But the ocean turned to mist
And the man’s eyes turned to foam,
And he wailed across the sea,
A last solitary plea.

The ocean that would carry
His love was, oh, so empty.
Lo! She would not come
If he had but dirt to pawn!

So, above the cliffs,
For her he chose,
A garden of whens
A forest of ifs.

And on that land across the sea,
Rich with uncertain certainty,
He carved treasures into the stone;
He carved his future in a home.

But lo! ‘Twas not a house he built,
‘Twas a castle that proudly stood,
Lofty towers eyeing the waves,
Strong stones with bliss to save.

And, across the carved ramparts,
History wore its mighty crown,
Mysterious monoliths
Majestic obelisks
Stood in harmony
In this kingdom by the sea,
Waiting. Waiting for its queen.

For hours, days, and years,
He worked and toiled,
Worked with hands alone
And alone built a castle tall.

How… remains a mystery,
Its knowledge buried in the sea.

Yet, today there remains,
This kingdom by the sea.
‘Tis named Coral Castle
And stands, waiting still.

Author: Anonymous

under this mascara
under this face
where am I?

under this shyness
under this act
what am I?

am I anything
other than that?

am I anything
but a face and a hat?

you are what you eat
say those who eat best

you think, therefore you are
say those who think best

so what am I?
…this?

Image: © Creative Commons, license link here

Author: Laure Cepl

 

Doll locked in a closet, longing alone

for the one who’ll save her.

Dull are the days for the fair maiden of ivory skin,

spinning around, trying to find angles in a full moon shaped room.

High in that tower, deep is her sorrow.

The Lady they call Rapunzel.

 

Red lips, out of her velvet mouth come sounds of the

rarest beauty. Errant in this waste night and day, I may have lost

my way. Riding astray from the path,

her voice awaked and guided me.

I stared at this fortress. No entrance, damsel in distress.

I called her: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

 

Mild voice, “Milady” she called me, “climb up to meet me.”

And she let down her long-braided hair.

They were garnished with flowers – violets, violets everywhere.

Once I got up there, I found my Sappho. “Oh, my dear,

give me love!” She cried, “for I have been so lonely.”

“Music”, she breathed, “let’s make music” she whispered in my ear.

 

Far away they will hear us, our delightful symphony.

On her grand piano, we get lost in the sheets,

I let her play her favorite sonata in F minor,

chords, arpeggios and rubatos – her fingers run free on my keyboard.

Every touch makes all the wires vibrate in me,

a whole note followed by a rest – a sigh.

 

Solitude shared, four hands duo every night,

for seven months, seven weeks and seven days,

we have learnt to play each other’s melody.

Our metronomes are fully in tune, emotions in crescendo,

I follow the motive, pitch variations, we broke the sordina.

This song still resonates in my heart, after all these years.

 

Lamentations, alas, you came back. I climbed the

ladder too many times, once I had to fall.

You listened to what they said. How such a delicate ear

could pay attention to the cacophony of their voices?

Remember, it is they who put you in that tower,

cursed, they judged, banished the masterpiece you were.

 

Since, “sweet flower”, scared of blooming you pushed me down that stage,

cutting our bond with scissors, watching me

sink. In the brambles, blind I still ramble,

playing requiems yearning for a Muse lost long ago.

That is what she taught me about Music. If you take out her heart,

Only art survives.

 

Image: Lighthouse at Stora Bält (Anton Melbye, 1846). Source – CC License

Author: Antonino Mangiaracina

No hut, in life and fear, except reason;
And yet men voted other ways, by choice;
They turned themselves in painters each season,
Their never-ending lines cover the voice.
A whispering blank canvas with a truth
Too hard to hear is coated in lies;
The bright colours pursue mercy and youth,
Delusions all, since everybody dies.
It may appear untrue, but all is real;
Afraid is every man of the unknown;
So he shapes what he sees to his ideal,
As beliefs builded not to feel alone.
People must learn luxuries are no need
And put an end to rules we never agreed.

Image: “Footprint” by Conal Gallagher. Source – CC License

Author: Guy Da Costa

Christmas Spirit

I am not a poet and never will be.
I lack rhythm. My rhymes are poor and so is my poetry.
Scroll back up or down to the last or next prodigy.
Although you shouldn’t, you keep watching into me.
Outside I wrote my cleverest mandalas in pee
Spring blew them away. We could not agree.

Tracks and remains are deeper in the snow
And better kissers under the mistletoe.
It is Christmas and I have to let you know
That with all this fondue you should pray to a crow.
Your car has drowned and they’d help your child grow
In a world of funny fumes and they will never have to row.

As you join your hands thinking about Crow-Jesus
You ask yourself why Santa and his circus
Offer life while they’re as sterile as a cactus.
Black feathers snuggle to Mount Olympus
The crystals who now sleep in a hot bubbly mattress.
You alone and happy saved the whole world and us.

Snow is dying so I get in my car
And waste some gas hoping to outlive
The Greatest Addressee banned from any bar.
I sit, change my seat again, drink and try to dry heave
my pale songs of pee, bad even with a guitar.
I forgot to put on my licence what to believe.

Snow melts and I want to be drunk Penguins.

---

From Ludlow to Eternity

I have never been fond of fancied worlds
So imagine how I feel about the outside one.
On the way from Ludlow to Eternity
My shoes went flat between
Dixville Notch and Millsfield
Because I kicked a cat. He cried booze and moonshine.

My nails started bleeding and my feet
were shrinking. I fell and the hairy sky
swam in red feathers hanged by its handy ankle.
I ate a lot of plums hence my blues could see
A veteran elephant and a bold donkey.
Concerned by my situation, they cut my legs off.

The elephant threw me on his back.
His feet wounded by grey feathers
weighing heavily on the ground.
He was protective and carried me
To an even older elephant cemetery.
He crawled in a hole. I drilled the donkey.

They would talk loudly about circles and lines and repeat again.
I met all their donkey-friends that would guide me to Eternity.
My mechanic arm would stretch and once I saw a ditch.
They were so obnoxious and never noticed the gap.
Instead of a final leap, I beheaded this jackass
with anecdotal facts and only seventy dollars per year.

Laying on the ground I met a companion. His name was
Thunder Jr. and he brought me to Eternity.
As I waved him away, I understood that there will always be
an elephant waiting for a cemetery,
and in the shrewdest snow lost in the crowd another donkey.
Yet, I am still legless, hopeless and lonely.

Image: © Corey Raymond Heimlich

Author: Corey Raymond Heimlich

Dude, this guy is straight up cre-cre…

All this got me like hey yo, this fool for real?

Dat one crazy gringo bra

oye ese güey está bien loco…qué desmadre

 

I’ve dabbled in everything, from real estate to reality TV,

I even founded a university giving phony degrees.

I’m not racist I own a few Harlem brownstones,

Can’t wait to take the White House and the joystick of drones.

 

I’m fed up with all this political correctness,

I’m white and I’m proud and you know it’s infectious.

I’m not afraid to call it by its name,

It’s Islamic terrorism and Muslims are to blame.

 

White men with ties, now that’s whom to trust,

We’re Christian and righteous and can turn you to dust.

I kill it with charm and law and order,

I’ll build a great wall along the Mexican Border.

 

Brought up by my bootstraps, I’m a working-class hero,

I’ll make everything great again, starting from zero.

All politicians lie, it’s part of this business,

I’ll make sure everyone has a tremendous Christmas.

 

Twitter them this and twitter them back,

Shovel them shit just make sure it’s whack.

I might add that I love a good artichoke,

The world isn’t warming it’s a ludicrous hoax.

 

Doesn’t my daughter have a “nice figure?”

I just wish her knockers were a little bit bigger.

I love women for everything they’re worth,

I mean at the end of the day, I don’t think I could give birth.

 

Did I leave anything out? sometimes I get sloppy,

 The Mexicans at my hotels make great chicken teriyaki.

The media lies about me, it’s very unfair,

I’m the president for all Americans, I got here fair and square.

 

Of course, I’m all for the LGBTQ,

It’s a nice club they’ve got, I just wish it were true.

Of course Black Lives Matter, I listen to Tupac,

His star’s next to mine on Hollywood’s sidewalk.

 

And one last thing about the KKK,

I don’t see a problem and I don’t wear a toupee.

Putin and I will be the best of buds,

We’ll rid the world of these terrible thugs.

 

Can you believe it they voted for me?

We’ll be lucky to be left with a pile of debris.

What’s wrong with me this sounds like Dr. Seuss,

A Grinch and a conman is on the loose.

 

It is with great sadness that I bid you adieu,

I must head downtown for an important rendezvous.

Pondering all I’ve said from the top of Trump Tower,

I plan my next tweet over a tremendous whiskey sour.

Image: © Miljan Micakovic

Author: Miljan Micakovic

 

Inside and Outside

 

Marshall went to the shop,

To by some milk and meat,

He even ate some Pop-

Corn while starring at the cashier’s tit-

 

-le, yes, she was “cashier in chief”.

Marshall was greatly surprised

For her face led in disbelief,

Indeed, lacking an eye under the left lid.

 

He tried to makes sense in vain.

He paid the goods and, outside,

As he was peeping again,

He perceived what was blackness inside.

 

---

The Eraser

 

The woken claim a piercing speech

Crossing, cutting the morning glass

How long will it take for each

To realize away they pass,

 

To see that the sleeping never cry,

Nor that any sound drifts in the air

And yet all throw far away an eye,

With the other at themselves they glare,

 

With the never-ending question,

“But what is my name?”

Out loud and fishing for attention,

They shout with no sense of shame.

 

---

A Light-hearted self

 

To feel like a monster, a common fate,

Falling on the head completely unprepared,

Seizing all, mind, hands and eyes

Forcing all to follow a soft voice:

 

The inner one, the one that comes along

That is familiar but to you alone.

Yet a pleasure flowing everywhere

For an instant so real yet so true;

 

At last, pulling you down from

Where all aroused, you shall see

That you’re flying back and away.

Perhaps, that wasn’t the wrong way.

 

---

The Mess

 

Oh boy, my paper’s black,

The ink even got to the back!

What a mess I’ve done!

All that work made for none.

 

Okay, Okay let’s do it over

Again, but this time no shower,

No diluvian rain of chemical

Texture, baby, let’s get clinical!

 

Precise and neat, straight and clear

Like an athlete throwing a spear

Throw, throw my thought throw

On the paper that must be hollow.

 

---

The Smoky House

 

Among others around it,

Almost identical; same number

of floors, same wideness and height,

All having little flames burning in

through the windows, none but one,

This house, pours the grey smoke.

 

Among those lights, it perfumes

The air without invading, harassing

The senses, yet distinguishable and ironical.

The fire, alone, becomes the father.

 

Childless, bright and clear, fires

burn, consume the smoky air.

 

---

___________________

 

A straight line above another, those rails Stop where the page ends, although no pages are the same, nor the paper, nor the ink And the words look odd because none are Thought but from the white alone.

Image: Mountain © Olena Danylovych

Author: Olena Danylovych

Momentous

 

Is this a mountain that I see before me?

So vast and powerful its face.

It rises from the earth below me,

Cemented in history’s trace.

 

In summer when the weather’s fair,

It flourishes with life and leaf.

In winter when its front is bare,

It stands resistant to insidious grief.

 

Sunshine and blue sky are best

For mirthful and sweet disposition,

But earthquake is the final test

Of mountains’ sturdy disposition.

 

In shrieking gales and howling rain,

When lightning splinters our soft core,

The mountains stand to entertain

This bleating that they’ve heard before.

 

The solid stump is evidence

Of many centuries of pain endured.

Yet sharp and creviced stony peaks

Attest to readiness for more.

 

But rains will end and sunshine come

And hardened face will turn from stone.

And tender greens will whisper out,

Breathing new life to hardened bone.

 

While frozen evils strike the land,

And petrify each living thing,

The inner stump will surely stand,

Awaiting warmth for flowering.

 

It’s no small wonder, then, to turn

To these great palaces of rock;

Through times of ravages and mourn,

And other feats of absent luck,

They’ll shed like feathers their adorn,

And still maintain their stalwart stock.

Image: © Deviant Art Bianca Masnikac, link here

Author: Kit Schofield

Winter is Coming

 

I feel its bite upon my face,

At first it merely nibbled my nose,

But now this hound begins to race,

Through all my spine, my head and toes.

 

The mountains are the first to fall,

The springs grow cold and cease to trickle,

We must retreat to fire and hall,

Escape this killer, oh so fickle.

 

As its chill extends to our home,

We hide inside our stone-made keeps,

This cold assassin continues to roam,

Surrounded! All around it creeps.

 

Our roses have long since faded,

The birds forgotten how to sing,

Our colourful trees appear so jaded,

It’s almost here. Winter’s coming.