Category Abstract and Modern Freestyle Poetry
Monotone silences and idle gossip and smiles that just decay,
Laughter that fizzles past the lips of superfluous strangers,
Hospital rooms and bathroom stalls saving you from dangers,
Gripping writing tools like vices for the future,
Avoiding full eye contact and solidifying closure,
Running up ramp ways and giggling like it’s pleasantry,
Bells ringing like Notre Dame ignoring all the travesty,
Under the sky
On a star-studded night.
The waves would echo
Tumultuous roar
And we shall be lost in one in one.
He fell from the edge of my rhymes,
He fell out of my poems,
He slipped from between the lines.
His lips were made of paper,
Unkissable and cold,
But his hands were a sonnet
So beautifully told.
Like a village beacon lit for a celebration,
The mind’s halls are lit up, all by music.
Each note, sustained by that intuitive
Leap of faith, restores doubt with rock-strength
As the virtuoso hand trembles and resonates
On the chords of our innermost essence.
peanuts all night long and drives me
out of my mind when she gets
herself a selfie with swinging medallions.
She asks for forgiveness from Mrs. Magician and
her dear one, the sunbather at Finnegan’s wake.
During the cruel war, the idol with the golden
head felt a little bit lied to
on the dirt road by Susan Surftone,
so it went away and brought plague to a place
where a pounding boogie put
candlelight under its thumb
As I sit in a boat afloat, I admit, through the sea of life
I saw myself without spiritual wealth,
Shipwrecked, turned and tossed, I yearned
from truth-aloof in my youth, I was lost,
On a voyage under nights-roof darkest, aloof-alone,
only stars atone with a glowing harkness,
Would, by knowing which one I should follow,
be an escape from the agape of sea and dark to swallow?
Be showing a way as I drift astray?
May the chosen star in my nightmare dream – gleam a light – beam as I pray for day,
Beaming aglow, it would brighten my dream’s darkly plight of a woeful night,
bears memories buried
in the corolla of a rose,
in the odours of my childhood,
barely woken from a dream,
our tryst abandoned.
swims against the tides of fate,
clashes with uptight currents,
is buoyed by gentle waves
like a bolt into a dream made out of nothingness,
crowns of hope
along the touch of nature.No golden shoes enfold the feet.
They are bare and wounded.
your shoes are large and I put them
on, trying to ache through the miles
you had walked from this wild grass
I no longer mow. Pronged fibers curl
above my steps, gathering the way
smoke shoulders its particles up the
exhaust hood. But idle feet can’t tar
the silky palace of nights revenge
the desert dreaming of a storm
the voice whispering across the back of a neck,
Longing quantified and articulated
yours is the touch
that lights the forever fires
seethes the trembling earth,
