Beautifully written

The Eggplant Elephant

Ideally she’s an addict

But that isn’t the right word

That conveys the daze

Which challenges her lungs and energy.

I’m drawn to her emotions

A runaway locomotion of late

Dictating her next move

Or rather lack there of.

Puking her world onto a page

Colours acting saviors

A Sharp construction messiah

An insight instructional guide to who I am.

I’m critical and analytical

A cerebral libran

Caught in a square web

Confusing me

While she’s ballooning away from we

Waiting for a sigh that breathes freed

Not me

She’s got it all.

Wishing she could walk into a room

Dripping in gold

I wish I’d told her she already does.

Transcending power to scour friendships to admirers

Tiring to watch.

Trying to force each notch into a space it won’t fit

To discover later she’s got a full scripted skit

Of nothing satisfying.

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Finding heaven in our hearts, “Ay, there’s the rub.”

Diamond Mike Watson


Heaven Lives Inside Our Hearts

Even when I shield my eyes
I see all beauty in my mind
And though I warmly cuff my ears
A melody I sweetly hear

A paradise lives deep inside
With peaceful streams and trees
Eternal rainbows arch above
And paint the sky for me

A perfect world at my command
Is this a Grand Design?
Or is it just one Giant Thought
That’s formed inside my mind?

An inner calm I always find
Her arms of love, all things defined
A planted seed, a tiny voice
That’s grown so loud, I have no choice

Now everything that touches me
Brings joy and deep tranquility
I am a drop of consciousness
In every endless sea

Serenity is all around
You first must close your eyes
To know the universe gives love
Makes all of us alive

I hope you see, as morning starts
That heaven…

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this is engaging, soul searching stuff

The thought that escaped

The beginning found as an end was sealed
Shaking my head to be sure it was real
Understanding once more what I seemed to forget
Love waits for no man or even respect
Each day to the next I walked in a dream
Falling without end for all I had seen
The secret we kept too smiles all were blind
Till without warning you announced you were mine
The future and past seemed to blend as one
I knew at last that love had come home
Nagging doubt dismissed but never quite gone
Ever in the darkness which it was from
poison seeped in but told no lie
Septic as the nature you could not deny
When I look back to the loves I have known
Scars from them all I happily show
But never before has my only regret
Been cursing the day that we ever met

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Life is a journey


In the heart of the flower Rose
may be the end of my journey,
the reason for poems and prose
is just waiting there to be found.

Why we live, and why we die,
what follows up when all is over,
the Rose must know and doesn’t lie,
she promises the secret truth.

Should I open up the Rose now
and find all answers lying there?
If I do, will it tell me how
I can make such a rose myself?

I’ll leave the Rose alone to grow,
her lovely petals stay intact.
I do not really want to know
the reasons. Let me wonder them.

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Inspirational indeed

The Bailey Daily





There are words out there

waiting to be thought

in a perfect sequence,

rushing forward like a train

from a spit of inspiration

slamming to a halt,

crashing headfirst into a

terrible stab of punctuation  .

It slices apart the thoughts

the inspirations

the waterfall of letters

tumbling down

to the stagnant paper and

flowing across the page

haphazardly, like the first draft of

Creation itself.



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Powerful poem

Clod & Pebble

So many different kinds,
yet only one vague word.
And the Eskimos
with twenty-six words for snow,

such a fine alertness
to what variously presses down.
Yesterday I saw lovers
hugging in the street,

making everyone around them
feel lonely, and the lovers themselves —
wasn’t a deferred loneliness
waiting for them?

There must be words

for what our aged mothers, removed
in those unchosen homes, keep inside,
and a separate word for us
who’ve sent them there, a word

for the secret loneliness of salesmen,
for how I feel touching you
when I’m out of touch.
The contorted, pocked, terribly ugly man

shopping in the 24-hour supermarket
at 3 A. M. — a word for him —
and something, please,
for this nameless ache here

in this nameless spot.
If we paid half as much attention
to our lives as Eskimos to snow …
Still, the little lies,


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“Her soul in division from itself”…… Nice line

Tiny Thought Revolution

THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea”
W.B. Yeats, The Collected Poems

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