Author: poetryfest

https://thelearnerin.wordpress.com/

To my dear sweetheart,
with lots of love…

I want you near me

So that every moment I can share,

My thoughts and my feelings

Every moment will be special,

Just spare some time from your routine…

I am fantasizing that night,

Where, I shall be close to you…

Sleeping between your arms

And some little cuddles…

I will be waiting for you.

Your presence shall warm up my night!

And a perfect candle light dinner…

Imagine!

A silent night will allow us to be together,

Our words shall meet our lips.

Two cocktail glasses for brandy…

And a contextual music playing…

And…

How about a sentimental ballad?

A slow couple dance…

Music on, “perfect”

In a romantic mood ,

Your hands against my waist

Holding me tight!

Lip-locked!

Sounds amazing…

Wish, that nightfall is coming soon

Awaiting, dreaming to meet you, darling

And, I am sorry if I have hurt you someday…

Trust me,

My love will never die even if you leave me

My passionating heart needs you honey…

~Navaparna💕

In my hand I hold a tissue as I talk to you
I play with it even though it’s already seen its use
Its texture is dampened but uncompromised
From its introduction to the corner of my eyes
But now it rests between my fingers
And is delicately folded over and over

Talking still, I place it down and spread it over my lap
I tug the corners to ensure that it is properly flat
Then I fold it in half, making sure it’s creased neatly
Then again and again until its folded symmetrically
Now it’s layered as thick as a wedding cake
But compact as my hands wished it to be made

The more I speak, the more I’m shorter of breath
But now I’ve got the tissue rolled up like a cigarette
I twist it like a towel and spin it around
I turn it over, side to side and upside down
I give it more thought than this conversation
What would you think if you saw me in this condition?

The end draws near and the rivers on my cheeks have begun to dry
But the tissue remains in my grasp and I don’t know why
How can my tears be carried by something so paper-thin?
What was it for if it just ends up in the bin?
It must have been some chat for my mind to stray so far
If only tissues could hide the weeping of my heart

You send up a flare everywhere you go,

walking under the cathedral’s arch,
in the anonymous grocery store line,
at work on an insufferable Tuesday.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

With God’s love so close, it would seem unnecessary,

this somber cry for recognition, though somehow
I doubt God is put off,

rather, more than gratified that in the flesh of things,

in the very skin of your history,

you find the grace to connect,

to bridge the silent passages from one day to the next with a body,

someone whose voice you can hear, and not be thought crazy,

as the saints were thought crazy in their age.

The fire that burns beneath all fires
is for a rare and courageous breed,

like the ecstatic early Christians

whose love of God was so intense,

they gladly flung themselves into the pit.

Or poets of a certain stripe,
dancing around their own
kind of fire, offering fervent verse

whose humble prayer may transform into
a more luminous light,

one that will cause a catch in the Lord’s throat,

should He be so moved.

I digress. We speak here of the flesh,

the unrelenting ache, the touch of hands,

the body’s own potent salve.

You send up a flare everywhere you go,

in search of a sacred gift,

one the angels can never know.

Ligeia, Annabel Lee, and Berenice,
Supernal beauties, pleasing to the eye,
Were temporary mates and marble-cheeked
Like timeless funerary monuments.

Tremaine’s Rowena, Lady Madeline,
Insidiously felled and pushed offstage,
Had met goth’s Mister Goodbar on the page.

First, females got top billed — — then burying.
What makes an author kill his heroines?

Recognizing a women’s grave could be
His open throat, death-bed vows memorized,
Poe’s pen despaired of daylight’s finitude.

Clocks ticking, wasted time, reminded him
The coffin waits and pages lie half done
In desolation. Anonymity’s
Curse frightens writers more than Roderick
Encountering his sister’s open crypt.

Unholy was the hesitation left behind,
His desk in disarray, the inkwell filled,
Quills conjured up another sinister
Enchantress. Edgar’s poised to start again.

How do we trust our government when the President is a pathological liar?

Reagan, Trump and the Cruelty of Indifference — Art by Rob Goldstein

In the days of physical elasticity,instant sparks of electricityand youthful hunger,whether in daylight, twilight or moonlight,lips and teeth tended to tattoo and collide on the soft skin of the underside. Now I love to tangle in the copper hairon forearms, chest and belly, wherewinter frost has started to appear,but it is on the soft skin […]

On the Soft Skin of the Underside — writing in north norfolk

When I was in the theater, I ran across a unit for creating characters by taking found objects and listing characteristics of the object to build aspects of your character. For example: This fern might be characterized as vulnerable delicate circular green united Taking those characterizations, one might get a picture of an innocent young […]

Writing Tip: Found Object Poetry — Rie Sheridan Rose

For those who are not aware, I am an author of a short poetry ebook on Amazon called Sensations and stars and other poems. Do check it out ❤️ And some of my amazing followers have requested for me to do a post on some poetry tips, and I know that there are some really […]

10 of my TOP tips for writing Poetry!!! — Penable

(Oh, yes!)

A blot of an ink on a boxed paper board;
A wedge of that mouse that runs as a bow;
An effort from us with hope that it would…
Better the globe, change rotting world.

(And we know that…)

One year plus three, a term to behold.
Wrote on the board what’s good for the world.
Dropped in a box and off we then go…
Each one’s routine; then, hope that duty done
Will one day translate to what we were told.

Be awake! Don’t you sleep. Hey!
There’s a guy, working thief.Hey
Purging votes…orders it. Hey!
Orange turd…inmate turf. Hey!
Actively, let’s be part
Of the process, for we have
Democracy to keep.

(Please remember that…)

Leaders of the pack are ordinary men.
They have the will and dyadic swell.
Off flow the “good” when platform bestowed.
Soon bad would flow if no one would crow.

(So be vigilant and…)

Soar to the world; see how they perform.
First year overflowed with peaches and cream.
Following months, served with decaying fruits…
Good to the cronies; bad to those weren’t reached
With the magic wand of the elected.

It is “them” to be blamed? Hey!
You’ve put laurels on them! Hey
Trusting them; then, you dreamed. Hey!
Be awake! Words and actions haven’t matched;
Then, we cried for a failed task!

(And then…)

We mustered the disgruntled; we marched to the streets.
To the leaders, we’re roaches to be quashed and contained.
We joined forces to startle and threaten…
Wishing for more strength; but, alas! ‘Twas hard to gain.

(And achtung!)

Chaos started all around. Hey!
Goons were here, everywhere. Hey!
Infiltrators were also here. Hey!
Molotovs were in the air!

(Achtung)

Many of us raised our hands up.
Others showed thumbs for the lame.
The herd disoriented! Others jumped off! Some were maimed.
Those voices so strong before. Now, just whispers of dying men.

(But hey!)

Not the end yet, full term’s here.
Hey!
Everyone’s life so dear.

(And so…)

Let’s cast our vote wisely this time.
Mark those names who have brains and brawns for the country
And morals pleasing to God and not just a show off to men!

Edmund Melig Industan
Las Vegas, NV

We keep walking, testing the ground

with the naked skin of our toes. Here

a ridge in the dirt, a broken twig. Next

step, the earth gets cooler and softer

as if recently wet. Now what feels like

a plank bridge over a stream, edges

of the boards close-spaced, a burble

of water on pebbles. We are stepping

on stiff prickers from crushed weeds.

Clearly somebody else tromped here

ahead of us. We are frightened but so

hopeful: let someone kind be waiting

for us at the end of the path. We may

call it God or peace or understanding,

or let it be the oldest dog in the world

come to lick our sore feet.