*Note: Am participating in the #Write28Days (February) hosted by Anita Ojeda. Click here if you would like tp participate.
I’m experimenting with yet another form of poetry, Gogyohka
a shattered vase
on the floor
water spreading like blood
I can’t breathe
as the pieces of my heart pierce the skin
Pixabay Free Images
*Note: This form is called “found” and I’ve taken snippets from several of my favorite songs to create this particular poem.
is a hollow muscular organ
influenced by hard rock and heavy metal
pain
shortness of breath
You know something here just ain’t right
what about love?
Baby, don’t hurt me
don’t hurt me no more
Like a knife that cuts you the wound heals
but the scar, that scar remains
there’s nothing I can do
Total eclipse of the heart
Baby, I won’t shed a tear for you
I was such a fool
boy, I gave you all my heart and all you do is tear it up
We could have had it all,
but
this hollow heart of mine
is ringing out the song of hope
for I have
the heart of a fighter
I will survive
by gillesgrimoin on DevianArt
Is that dance slowing in the mind of man
The head of a sleeping man
My mind was going numb –
I need a place to sing, and dancing-room,
Wrecked, solitary, here –
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-
With blood
And then I heard them lift a Box
The deathly guests had not been satisfied
*Taken from the following poems:
Waking In Winter by Sylvia Plath
God Lay Dead In Heaven by Stephen Crane
I Felt A Funeral In My Brain by Emily Dickinson
The Dance by Theodore Roethke
*Note: Am participating in the #Write28Days (February) hosted by Anita Ojeda. Click here if you would like tp participate.
A writer is not just a creator,
she is a builder
of kingdoms and worlds
constructing and putting together
all the pieces that make up the story
giving life
to characters, large and small
painting, sculpting
to bring each setting to
its glorious and colorful
splendor
To build, create
is every writer’s hidden power
whether she choose
to give it life, or not
lies in her hands
For the entire month of February, I will be participating in a daily blogging challenge called #Write28Days (click on it for more information).
a stone in the cemetery
holds my heart
…in pieces
Photo Credit: Pixabay Free Images
This poem was written for the prompt, seashells, for StorySaturday on Twitter who gives a new prompt each week.
I wrote this poem not too long ago about my thoughts on nature, and how man tries to imitate it with his own creation. Below you can either read it, or watch in video format.
Beauty and magic
are found in nature
where the urban
landscape
only hopes to
emulate
Guardian, keeper
of sacred and pure
unmarked, noble
from man’s
immoral hands
these peaks stand
This world darker it
grows, compelling me
to the mountains
in search
of what my heart,
soul yearn for
No city or wealth
created by man’s
hands can provide
the hope
and harmony
crafted by earth
Now I understand
the soldiers’ need of
retreat to the
quiet
after wars
to a place where true
healing exists
untouched, unblemished
by man’s hands
I’m continuing a series I began on my other blog (Only the Lonely Press), Dead Poets Society, with a poem by Edgar Allan Poe:
