God employs several translators #poem #wordsmatter #blog

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God employs several translators

More than kisses, letters
Alphabets of musings, mingled souls
I to writers, for writers, must watch
The scripts are for minds
Such as them, and verse

Like love built on beauty
Soon beauty dies, we have but
One small voice, one timid note of Spring
These poems be it said
Were as my own personal serenity of heaven
That drip, drop, sunsets in my mind
To bathe in harmless greatness
With enlightenment, nature’s masterpieces
May your words, be thine own palace
Thy own lover’s make, repeat

These mantras that God employs
In us, we are but translators, preachers
Of the doctrine of the universe
But I do nothing upon myself
Yet I am my own celebrator
Since you would read none of me
I will bury my freedom here
In symbols of pleasure derived
And delivered solely unto me
For myself as kisses, letters

Alphabets of song and ruin
Pleasure diversified, words not ignored
For God’s sake do not hold your tongue
But speak your part to the world’s
Brittle make, not often is a poet born

The days will break, but not thy heart
And a thousand poems be born form thy pen.

Poems for Pretence #Writing #Amwriting #wordsmatter

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Poems for Pretence

They say print is dead
Our poems are stuck to the left margin
A self-published hoax

A charm of unread blogs
Liberty means we set our own price
Freedom requires we write
In obscurity, floating words

That aren’t sustainable
The memory of poems
The pain of going unread

How much does Amazon take
Skim off the top, and publisher’s?
What does it take to print a book of poems?

Luck, an MFA, friends?
If I never see a book of poems
Crafted in my own heart
They say what you wrote

“Your poem” was enjoyed
By the writer, the guidelines of copyright
States it auto-deletes in a few weeks
For humanity cannot be allowed

To keep their soul
They offer us to submit our poem again
However the analytics proved
It was not original, not state-approved

The best the staff can do
Is read it, sincerely, the editor
Please understand that you won’t
Be able to write poems any longer

The audience has died, the young
People do not read text more than three lines.

Experience #Poetry #poem

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I Bask in dreams of Experience

The cure for the incurable is experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for curiosity

We have to follow
The majesty of the heart
How many do not listen
Lying to yourselves

I want to build a resume of sincerity
Authentic to myself
In youth, it was an easy thing

So sure to live my own theories I was
But now the things I know I know
Are not the things I do or know how to do
And if you do not like me so

To hell, of course, to hell with you
For why would I stake to please
The people that do not care
The people who are not close

The remedy for sanity is dear experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for experience
I hate having written, but I love writing

Don’t read this poem with that tone of voice
Tell God I was fucking busy—or vice versa
I’ve lived enough in poems, to fill a few brains
With envy, content, and sufficient champagne

Curiosity and freckles, if we are talking of youth
If I didn’t care for life so much
I’d probably not amount to much
But brevity, is the soul of dreams

Mortality, the sinner of hope
Regret, the grandmother of art
And if my heart became scarred or burned,
The safer I suspect, to find love in poems.

The morning of Clarity #NationalPoetryMonth #NaPoWriMo

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Narcissism of the meek

The light is clear like an avocado this morning
I am alone with myself
It seems we are all cheated
Of some marvellous experience

But I can accept anything about life
Even my own mysteriousness
Partly because the orange tulips will rise
Partly because I like secrecy

O god it’s wonderful to be out of bed
Before eight, I am the least difficult of men
All I want is a boundless love
Today, I shall find it, as April turns to May

There’s something so spiritual
About being happy, you can’t miss it
Because it doesn’t last
If pain produces logic, I will remain

The most illogical of creatures
I will stay the dumbest of men.