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Class Queen—My Heart’s Reflection! 

a poem by Joseph Spence

It has been a long time since,

she was fine—flourishing!

She always seemed so

naturally desiring, nourishing,

My mind going lispingly loco,

she was like bubbling hot mocha

Such an awesome creation

made of fine ebony cocoa,

Imagination going wild

I bet she could have had the spoil

No doubt I would have been

captured with her winning style.

 

She was like the cool soft touch

of autumn’s evening breeze

Passing me just mesmerizingly

tickling my cheeks,

Hair starting to grow on the back

of my neck clinging to static

Transformation of her electric

tranquility illuminates like magic,

Feet felt like walking

on thin air of invisible clouds

My heart could not whisper

and started shouting out loud

—“Hello!”

 

Uncontrollable urges

wildly fighting my spirit

Battle within to win like a

fighting marine of great merits,

An about face I had to make

because she was my taste

Not lost in time and space

she was like Susie Q from the waist,

I was not a French Foreign Legion

soldier lost in the desert

Absolutely not a mirage before me,

passing me

—removing my shirt!

 

Soaking in the tan from the resonating heat

just drenched on my feet

She was so neat,

complete, looked so sweet,

creation could not repeat,

The street turned to pastures,

picnic baskets, butterflies, fragrance

Switching to white sandy beaches,

blankets, and building sand castles,

Voice weak,

I squeaked a peep,

she turned, my world stood still

Mind floating as if I had taken a pill,

like a flash

—Help me, I felt a chill!

 

She smiled,

lips parted,

tongue moved, I had a notion

Still turning, her hair moving slowly,

like a karate kick in slow motion,

Eyes blinking, I could not move,

“Yes I remember,”

she whispered

Her memory better than mine,

“How are you?”

My bread was buttered,

It has been years since,

queen of the prom,

homecoming queen,

My ship has landed,

“Coffee at noon?”

My heart whispered

—“Yes!”

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My Way

Spent so long following the beaten path
The one lit up with tales of the right way
But I’ve been on this path for years
And I’m nowhere near where I wanna be
So I’m gonna turn here and
Go down that dark trail
And let the fire in me light the way
Tempting me with the easy road
The one that’s been tried and true
But for me that just won’t do
I don’t wanna make it to the other side
With my dreams as the sacrifice

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What is Poetry? – part 3

What is Poetry? – part 3

Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,

it just climbs out of the mind,

out of a recess in time,

obsessed with success

and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.

It’s a mess, it’s sublime,

it’s a knife as a prize,

it is life in the eyes,

it is death, of a kind,

it’s leaving something behind,

it’s caressing the past

and the future that lies,

dormant though brooding

ahead.

Who says poetry is dead?

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Let Her Fall

Just maybe when you fall.  This time.

There will be beds of cloud-like linens.

A sea of infinite warm goodness.

Maybe this time.  When you fall.  Softness awaits.

And the cross you bear will be of Balsam Popular.

And sticky sweet molasses.

Instead of Ironwood and nails.

Maybe.  This time.

 

Photography by Clarke Sanders

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Intertwined.

There you are again, surrounding me,
showing up anytime you please.
Everywhere–materializing in the obscure,
bits and pieces of you embedded in the cracks.

There you are in my favorite book,
reading between my lines in a tactile manner.
And there, you’re a lyric of a brilliant song,
singing me everything I need to understand.
Over there. I find you smirking through
the steam of my mug of coffee,
reminding me of your warmth.

I find you in my dreams,
behind my eyelids,
on my skin, in my mouth.
Most of all, you emerge
from my pencil,
and I can’t keep you away.
You have a home on these
pages, spilling out each day,
in shapes and patterns from
the words I write for you.

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What is Poetry? Part 2

 

What is Poetry? – Part 2

Poetry is the forsaken cry, the loneliest voices with the loudest minds,
captured in ink, blighted by drink, or bolstered,
emboldened with the bravado to think big,
to sing on a page,
to rage against the silence of days
spent drifting through the passive malaise,
the love of something and not for how it pays.

Poetry is the air up there, despair in the mind of a scribe
at not being able to fly, so it is
the flight of birds described by those who live in unknowns
to those who dream of being free.
Poetry is anything between a sucker punch or a long lunch,
a coupe de grace or a warm embrace.
It’s the lines of life in a face,
the wrinkled space between
never and eternity.

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Parched Lips

My lips have become

A parched land

From the drought

Of not saying your name

For so long,

Even when my tongue

Brushes over the cracked surface

I feel a familiar ache

To just return to the taste of you

Upon my lips,

But then I remember,

No matter the yearning for you to be the one,

There were empty kisses you left behind,

A trail my lips have tried to erase,

But, parches over instead,

Leaving croaks of syllables in the air.

 

© Soshinie Singh

Author of the Phoenix Letters and the Mist Calling

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Heavy Eyelids

Spending days in a daze
of windowless monotony,
absentmindedly existing,
horizontally wondering
why I can’t be wandering
trying to find the words to
coerce my voice to triumph
above the noise within me.
Beyond the symphonies
of high-pitched flutters,
forcing my attention away
from what really matters,
it was so easy to accept the
liquid that put my mind
at ease, that erased any trace
of actual, true-to-life peace.
Fortunately, when I was
in too deep, you consistently
delivered to me, love, yes,
but the promise of devotion
for eternity. Reminding me
of my beauty, strength, and
tenacity, gently commanding
me to peek at my worth and
see that my life deserves more
than what I was able to see.

 

______________________

Photo Credit: Lanaya

@writing.for.the.calm

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What is Poetry? Part 1

What is Poetry? Part 1

Poetry is the expanse of
the imagination that lies,
dormant though brooding
until it manifests itself in a bloom.

Poetry is a womb,
obsessed with itself
but self-aware enough
to know that it is bound for a tomb.

Poetry is a wound,
heartache expressed in words,
the reaction to how it hurts,
feeling how pain works,
like peeling back layers of a scab.

Poetry is a drab day,
suddenly lit by the sun’s rays,
bursting through gray cloud,
and splaying out, proud
to have finally beaten the gloom
and touching as much as it can.