By fairydancer
come take a ride with me
on the free flow
of a thought-show
openly striding
freely confiding
persuasively gliding
happily abiding
all my time
lettin' go
in a natural stream
coaxing my muse to be centre
of the dream
while finding out
what I do, don't seem
to know
learning to grow
always searching for the effectual hammer
a real word slammer
(while trying to keep up with the grammar
...well, after a manner)
seeking that all elusive rhythm
that just sounds right
when the reader takes flight
throwing in the odd rhyme
when it seems the right time
or sucking on a lime
and spitting out the pips
puckering my lips
swaying my hips
to make love with the words
for free-thought
I have bought
through hard-earned experience
needs no dilutin'
or convolutin'
no disreputin'
nor reconstitutin'
and demonstrative words
need no aggressive absurds
so I'll just sit on the boundaries
of what is expected
and duly accepted
until they BURST
for who should tame an imagination
roaming free
who would even want to, see?
but hey, I'm just honing my skills
seeking my thrills
maybe one day, paying some bills!
ha! ha!
but for now I'm
feverishly brainstorming
avidly concept forming
placidly percept-adorning
literally heart-warming
or empathically warning
of life's perils
and it is about life
for a cascade of strife
drips liberally
from a well polished literary knife
and you will see
happiness flies
way above the clouds
in cosmic streams of Orion's paradise
to a poetic mind
every emotion, a treasured find
each life lesson another facet to grind
to an elegiac kind
every atom of creation shined
in the diffractions of a rhythmical prism
the contrasts in life, a schism
of royal-claret sunset polka hue
and all you need do
is read it
and think it
to feel it
God bless you!
x
| Author Notes |
Thank you so much to John J Mason for this beautiful photograph. I visited this waterfall when I was younger but could not remember where it was. Now, thanks to this artist, I can google it and find it again - THANK YOU :)))
Elegiac = literary, sad or mournful. Freestyle poetry does not contain a set meter or line structure. It may contain rhymes, but in no set pattern. Free style poetry often has its own rhythm, such as a rant rhythm or rap rhythm and it often takes some careful conjuring to create a natural-feeling rhythm (natural stream.) Free-thought - a reem of words that just pops into the head and is written down. |
By fairydancer
let me unleash
upon this world of possibilities
all that is deep within my soul
in a rush
of pure excited speed
I feel a need
to bleed
that part of me
previously untapped
but therefore untamed
in a wholly unritual game
of crying flames
and happy tears
no more literary shears
or resistant fears
I want to be free
to fly into
great big rivers of purple custard
surfin' the cosmic dust back thru time
swimming with Neptune's golden dolphins
'till we hit the crack where the dawn of time
seeped through in a splendiferous splash
of star spangled wonderment
and who knows
while fairies wisp their way
on treetops of emerald hopes
maybe we'll meet one moonrise
in a blue slipstream
of impossible improbability!
X
.
| Author Notes |
Thank you to helvi2 for this creative artwork :)
...and a great big manatee-mountain of thanks to Xy who completely inspired this poem with his words of poetic wisdom and his incredible imagination! If you have not checked out the poems of Xylok yet, PLEASE do so, they will soothe your soul and fuel your brain-fire!! |
By fairydancer
deep inside
resides an angel
she glides imaginary clouds
with thoughts that shoot like arrows
across a blank white sky
and paint a rainbow image
to every passerby
wings of whimsy waft
her wonder to the world
through hands that tremble as they write
steadied by her stubborn streak
guided by her gilded speak
yet deeper inside
a demon rides
upon a swarthy tide
of doubt
where nothing's let out
bar frustration
her blackened inky tresses
merely a disguise
for this siren won't inspire
any Lord Of The Flies
but tie up mind with half truths and lies
boredom groans and anger sighs
a war is raging in my head
where deeds are not done
and nothing is said
dark and light
in black and white
the truth a varying shade of grey
with dreams that dwell awhile then stray
this friendly fiend
a fickle fairy
with multiple personality disorder
two sides in constant battle
determined to rattle
my cage
| Author Notes |
The eternal battle of inspiration vs writers block. Written in free style form with occasional rhymes.
Blank white sky ~ blank white page. Swarthy ~ dark. Lord of the Flies is a novel by William Golding, a Nobel Prize-winning English author. It is about a group of British boys stuck on an uninhabited island who try to govern themselves with disastrous results. |
By fairydancer
I can feel you dance
in the very heart of me
your inspirations start
as my contemplations part
from average
thoughts and deeds
the savage side abides
for awhile
upon the changing tides
tensions rise and fall
passions wax and wane
'til ecstasies regain
a toxicating hold on me
the redolence
of magnolias in full bloom
invades my nostrils
from Juliet's lost tomb
and with experienced palette
I taste each vintage in your well kept-cellar
washed down with light from a distant Capella
through innocent eyes
I am forced to watch
Indians claiming well-earned scalps
or orchids dying in the highest alps
and yet what I see
is really up to me
for though you are an integral part
of my sane insanity
it's within my power to detach
and once again catch
reality
though I am the only loser
if you take your leave of me
for a block
like ice
chills my day
freezes my way
yet through it all
and not by chance
as my contemplations part
your inspirations start
and in the very heart of me
I can feel you dance
| Author Notes |
My muse is deep inside me. A little part of the divine, still in touch with the greater whole. A part of the spark that is my lifeforce :) Capella ~ bright star. |
By fairydancer
my waking mind
tortured by a strange confusion
reality seeping through the cracks
sleep overwhelming my mass
must have its soporific release
my slumberous eyes
now entranced by sweet visions
of thought's fantasies
the perfect distraction
for the cognizant side of me
allow the vital essence
that lies latently
deep within
aroused by circadian suggestion
to unfurl its primordial instincts
in a nocturnal dance
a shades of grey trance
where everything is possible
with time
and influence
though subliminal
is entirely universal
maybe even divine
the answers come unknowingly
unslowingly
when the sun returns its shine
what was once a glimmer
is expounded by rhythm and rhyme
to a brilliant shimmer
within my waking mind
| Author Notes |
Thank you to Angelheart for being able to accompany this beautiful artwork (again! :)
Free style poem with deliberate rhymes. This poem was inspired by a comment I received in a review for a different poem, from c_lucas: "How to write a poem? ...A simple suggestion. Before bedtime, write the thought down. While you sleep, the creative part of you, which you call your muse, will have it ready for you when you wake up..." Thank you Charlie :) I also like to think that there is an "inspirational (creative) force" in the universe which we can tap into (or it can tap into us); a divine force. So although this poem is about the creative force within each of us (our subconscious,) I included a hint at the mystical in the penultimate stanza. The lack of rhymes at the beginning of the poem with a slow build up of rhymes until the last stanza is DELIBERATE; as if the process I mention in the poem is taking place within this free style poem. Cognizant = conscious, aware, switched-on. Circadian = of biological processes that occur regularly at 24-hour intervals (in this case diurnally, in the day.) Latent = potential (waiting) Soporific and slumberous = sleepy Unslowingly = ok, I made that one up! |
By fairydancer
what brings a thought to life?
what creates that special something
that empowers us to write?
the flash of
ten thousand neurons
excitedly sparking
in perfect unison
from some scintillating stimulus?
or a flicker of divine consciousness
the energy that gives life
in all its preciousness
flowing through our bodies
with a vital forcefulness
yet energy
can neither be hatched
nor dispatched
merely transformed
into another wonder
of creation
so where does it go when we die?
what happens to our thoughts
our laughter and our cries?
they stay on written page
for an eternity
never to age
but thoughts are fleeting
and fickle
and dissipate with bodies phage
what miracle allows us
free thought?
not just to know
the sky is blue
or
my leg is caught
but to think
"I love you"
each of us vessels
of life's source
has our own theory
of creations force
but whatever that be
it is bigger than the all
an awesome concept to peruse
yet found in the tiniest cell ball
and so is our muse
| Author Notes |
A huge thank you to Angelheart for use of this beautiful artwork :)
Free style poem with some rhyming; no punctuation except for questions marks; no capitalisation. Law of Conservation of Energy = energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed from one form to another... Phage -- I am using it here to mean DISEASE [short for bacteriophage, a virus that lives within a bacteria.] |
By fairydancer
.
as I sit and wonder
my mind begins to wander
I kindle a jasmine flame
and as I stare
my hand takes aim
suddenly
ideas that belong not to me
seem to course right through me
as my quill joins in unison
with the cosmic flow
and the Universe
allows me, for a second
to know
I write
as though possessed
scratching and scrawling
faster and furiously
trying to capture
a glimpse of the mystical
almost magical
but all the time
I am present
living in the moment
for the dreams that
we create
and I feel so alive!
.
| Author Notes |
Thank you to Angelheart for this amazing and beautiful artwork.
|
By fairydancer
.
As comets sprinkle cosmic dust
from Saturn's rings to Orion's belt,
I wonder deep within my beating heart
about the great inspirer
of our universe.
The contemplation
of our creation
is truly overwhelming!
For in each and every one of us
he planted just one spark,
which grows to fuel
imaginations so wild
with flaming curiosity,
a wit so sharp,
a tongue so bold,
and the power of choice and free thought.
So, from pixie feet to solar eclipse,
my brain will soar and dive
as through the eyes of condors I shall see
the mountain tips of Andes ice,
and with the fins of dolphins
I shall feel the rush of swell and squall,
as lusts of sirens fill my veins
and might of Titan's rage
guides my sword arm through
a battle's haze,
and as my inner senses feed
upon the wonders that I feel,
I always shall remain in awe
of my amazing muse.
.
| Author Notes |
Thank you so much Angelheart, for this beautiful artwork.
In this poem I am talking about the type of muse who fills your head with words and should your pen not be in your hand quick enough, their beauty may forever be lost. The question I answer is "Where do I believe it comes from?" The answer: The higher power. Thank you Lord. |
By fairydancer
the first chapter
of the book that is me
was lovingly inscribed by God
bound with "leather" skin
and sent into the world
to fill
my parents took charge of the quill
for a while
as I grew
sometimes too much
sometimes not enough
until the day my poem
began to write itself
pictures were added
to support the text
~ memories ~
with some
their ink leaked through
ruining several pages
while others
brightened and rejuvenated
all they touched
eventually
new quills were placed into my hands
now, my children's, I guide
sometimes too much
sometimes not enough
whilst watching their poems grow
one day
they may
guide my quill
for awhile
until God once again
takes over
but I wonder...
...will my book be a romance?
novel
drama
suspense
or thriller?
more likely a mixture of many
...and what will the Cosmic Library be like?
| Author Notes |
Originally, books were often bound with leather (animal skin.) 147 words |
By fairydancer
oozing, sliding
gently colliding
with mocha locks
claret melds to living flesh
a clotting mesh
on silken cloth
a solitary moth
cleaves for a while
neath the artist's smile
tainted silver clock
ticks in the distance
time no longer in existence
cold hard steel
makes her reel
feathers tickle her fancy
for him, its necromancy
under the glare
of a rose stare
clinging to the cloud of musk
the darkening dusk
lingers on letters cut
on the mangy slut
of a whore
I once screwed
on the floor
of a pit
hanging on the hook
of a thought
spiralling
from the stamen of a daisy
to the part that's crazy
deep
steep
within us all
creep
weep
before you fall
at the call
of your inner
bladewriter
| Author Notes |
Rhyming free style poem (no set meter.)
Mostly metaphorical. Alluding to the many different scenarios we think up as writers, and, how sometimes, we (metaphorically) cut our own flesh just to see what it feels like, so we can describe it to others, so they can feel it. [PLEASE NOTE: The order of chapters in this book will be rearranged when the book is complete.] |
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