The loveliest girl

This side of the world,

Shelters the recherché wealth

Of her lilac legged seas,

From the hounding beastly sun’s

Opaque eye of scalded miseries,

Vaulting through monochrome skies,

Ugly with volatile thirst,

That paints turpentine deserts

With scorch stroked wrath,

Upon the soft velvet curves

Of her lavender crowned path.

Ergo, the jilted jealousies

Of the smoldering sun,

Divebomb with headstrong fury

And thermonuclear blood,

Its iron willed ire,

Aimed at the heart of her love,

To barter with the spangled halo of stars

For her silken flowered touch.

And the riot act of Psalms

Was written bloody on her palms.

The loveliest girl

This side of the world,

Slips into daydreams

Of spring’s nubile skin,

As the rose of her lips

Dances a shimmering grin,

While February’s grey curtain sky

Peeks its smoky rimmed light,

Through the wintering sleep

Of its half shuttered eyes.

And the ruby flame stars

Are girded divine,

Like God’s garments dipped

In the finest of wine.

The wild dance of her lips

Grows breathless for night,

As the sun shunned and scorned

Pouts out it’s dimmed light;

And she smiles with ease

Though love tarries long,

As she waits for June’s mariner

To court her through song.

And the ruby flame stars

Are girded divine,

Like God’s garments dipped

In the finest of wine.

The loveliest girl

This side of the world,

Readies dawn’s pulse

For her swim through the earth;

And love’s feathered bride,

Dove hearted and frail,

Will soon shed the skin

Of winter’s dark veil.

Is our reality a controlled hallucination? Do we actually have a physical existence or are we merely four dimensional thoughts? Is our consciousness actually just a continuance of our unconscious mind? What is behind the perception of our perspective? Is our reality created by our necessities? Is it all simply adaptive reality? Are we all irreducible representations of the symmetries of space time?

Questions that I ponder when the stress piles up in my life. I don’t know the exact answers to these questions, a lot are based on theoretical ideas and some like the problems in my life are transitory. They help me not to dwell on the negative and to work towards the positive. No matter how complicated it gets.

I mainly write poetry as an outlet for my pent up emotion

The thoughts in my head constantly causing commotion

I don't read poetry on my downtime for pleasure,

But from a young age Dr Seuss taught me about rhyme and about measure

Usually in couplet form because that's typically how my brain works

But my creativity can do much more than that, it's one of the many perks

Now and then I'll come up with something beautiful for an object around me

But they are few and my emotions demand attention because they are confounding

Reflections of happiness, pain, anger, and humanity

I bleed on the pages to restore my ever slipping sanity

Sharing my heartache so that maybe someone won't feel so alone

Demonstrating that honesty with yourself is the only way to feel at home

Just understand that most of what I write are my inner thoughts and personal feelings

You'll get to know me pretty well if you pay attention and are interested in real things.

As If Today

Is the End of Days

Acknowledging I Am

In Motion and Matter

Arisen Master

Inspired By THEE

Authorial Intent

Ideating Me

@bykaileyann

--

#poetry #freeverse #prose

my hair

long

shining with vitality

absorbing the light, and the water

making love with the breeze

feeling the ambience

an extension of my energy

my head

my arms

my hands

my legs

my portal

it is my holy clothing

I am a writer.

Am I a writer?

When do I go from a writer

Who waits

To a waiter

Who writes as a hobby?

I'm not a waiter.

Why'd I say waiter?

What metaphor am I trying to achieve?

That's it --trying

Always reaching

Never grasping

Always just shy

Or this close.

No awards, no accolades

No recognition

No published work

And I'm thirty.

Not an ingenue

Not a new voice

Not a brilliant prodigy.

Thirty

And my book is still half written

And my poems are still trite

And naive

And irrelevant

Ever increasingly irrelevant

Because as I grow older

I fall ever away

From the people, to which

I long to relate

I am a writer.

Am I a writer?

Sometimes I wonder

Because I feel like a writer

When one line of brilliance

Hits my insomniac mind

And I cannot sleep

Until it's written

On any scrap of paper

To be found

But I wake up in the morning

And that sentence, so profound

Is gibberish, it makes no sense

Am I a writer?

I write a new word

But I hate it

The old word was better

But no longer fits

I feel like that word

Never right, never fitting

Always searching

I think I lost my generation

Or maybe it doesn't exist

Because we're all consumed

With chasing fleeting

Fragments of the past

That we hold nothing

That's just ours

I am no voice

To that generation

Because that generation

Is voiceless by choice

Everyone has their own drum

And they beat to their content

They don't need a guide

So why do I still

Feel this need to fill some void

That if I write for long enough

Or say enough

Perhaps I'll find some meaning

They'll find some meaning.

I hold that flickering hope

A candle flame

I make believe it's a torch.

And then I'll swear that I'm done

I'll blow out the flame.

I'll give up forever.

And then I'll wake

And I'll pick up a pen.

We see the damage that humans do to nature every day. We see it in the gray smoke being pumped into the air from the factories, in the iridescent oil slick on top of the blue water, in the stray dog eating fast food scraps off of the concrete, in the sound of a tree trunk splintering and breaking, in the constant pacing of the animal who has been confined to a cage, in construction set to replace green grass with black asphalt, in the prevalence of another announcement that an endangered species is now extinct, in the piles of garbage that collect in land fills.

At the same time, we can see how humans do damage to one another. We manipulate, steal, abuse, neglect, violate, enslave and kill each other. We talk down to one another. We hurt people who then go on to hurt other people. We continue the cycle and pass trauma from generation to generation, never ending.

What humans have failed to realize is that nature is more resilient than humanity. Nature's cycle is one of destruction and rebuilding. A fire will burn down the forrest in order for the forrest to grow new luscious life. Humanity's fate has been sealed by the collectives' actions. Humans will be the cause of the end of everything we know. And nature will rebuild. The green weeds will slip through the cracks of the concrete. Vines will wrap around the deteriorating corporate buildings. Trees will grow through the asphalt that was meant to keep them out. Nature has inhabited this planet long before humans arrived and will be here long after we leave.

The hunter in the tangled thicket looked out through bloodshot eyes at the forest clearing before he ran toward his prey. He felt his anger boiling up from his cauldron of festering rage. Why did his father dislike him so much that his only childhood memories were of beatings and scathing remarks? He still had the scars that his father had inflicted. Even his mother hadn’t wanted him. Sometimes, she even sent him to bed without supper for no reason at all. Now that he was no longer a child, he could finally get back at all those who had caused him grief. His world was a dark, foreboding place as he tried to keep his escalating insanity in check.

A young woman was kneeling on the yellowed grass in the open space, picking wild strawberries and humming a little melody. Why should she be happy when he was so miserable? He took careful aim with his rifle, imagining she was a rabbit, and shot her in the back. She moaned as she flailed her limbs, trying to survive as she gasped her last breath.

The huntsman smiled to himself as he pondered his name, Chase. It was such an appropriate name for one who preyed on others. Running over to his young victim, he prodded her with his rifle but she didn’t budge. He wiped the saliva from his toothless mouth, slung her over his back, and headed back into the forest to the little dingy cabin where he lived.

“Ma! Pa!” he yelled, still trying to attain their approval after all this time. “Here’s another one for the barbie! Stoke up the grill!”