.

As you begin, only nothing

Into a pillar of something,

But bit by bit, oh everyday,

You are to steal the dust away

.

Here, less and less means more and more,

Lighter stone means heavier heart,

As you dig out the purest core

What is broken leads to the start,

.

There is beauty in destruction

Which is sublimed by your action;

A carver’s work is peculiar

.

For the greatest pieces of art

Are made from bits you take apart

As if the truth made you liar.

.

Not entirely sure I’m completely satisfied with this poem, it still feel like rough piece of stone. I may have to carve it some more yet.

–

.

Upon the cliffs of Evermore

Under the sky and the lone cloud

Rests a dragon, old and weary,

– Aged he may be but ever proud –

Feasting upon wild blackberry,

To those who wish to ask but bore

Him he reserves a simple choice

Give him a word or keep your voice;

Many regret what they have told

Tongue is silver but silence gold.

.

Another poem written in the workshop, based on set words and the fact we had to add in a popular saying. Simple but I like what I’ve done with it in such a short time. Enjoy.

.

I walk a steady and long pace

While you prefer to slowly trace

The small alley, the tall building

Thus I end up often biding…

.

A short poem prompted during creative writing class today. It was supposed to be about a trait/a habit that unnerves us in an other person we know or knew. This is what came to mind…

.

She dances, though not for them,

Gracefully and skillfully,

And from this such great strengths stem,

A forged softness, painfully,

She dances not for others,

Oh the sake is purely hers,

For the simple joy of life

Endlessly she turns and twirls,

Faithfully she jumps in whirls,

All is shared with her soul wife,

The bright smiles and the loud laughs,

The sad frowns and tearful weeps,

The blisters and the small coughs,

The failures in boundless heaps,

Sometimes she runs and she shouts

When there simply are no outs,

When her groans are desperate calls,

When she stumbles and she falls,

Oh the eyes are not the worst,

She has long learned to close hers,

No the pain comes from the first

Still too far from her fingers,

Yet she cannot remain still,

She can never have her fill,

The passion is in her veins

And the steps break all the chains,

They may throw poisonous stings,

They may whisper in the dark,

They may mock her for her lack,

But an angel’s broken wings

Need only a single spark

To ever keep growing back.

.

What a feeling! ♪

.

When night is dark and full of terrors

When you are alone with your errors

When all will and strength have long vanished

And you are all but tired and famished

Broken into a million pieces

Ended by a somber world of pain

And pressure that always increases

When you missed the passage of the train

And must walk alone a thousand miles

Then your salvation becomes those smiles

No matter who they are or must be

Of the world-bush, they are the berry.

.

Probably a bit too short, rough and incomprehensible but heartfelt. At the image of the muse.

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A silent stroll on plains of sand

Alone with the wind and the clouds

As the mind explores newfound land

And the soul bleeds away from crowds,

A moment lying on the sheets

Beautiful music playing loud

As avatars accomplish feats

That make hearts swell and spirits proud,

In a chapel of empty seats

Only the faith keeps up the shroud

And to a world of flat-out cheats

Nothing matters but those who bowed,

At night under the far dreamland

One reaps what the sunlight has sowed

And in those moments feels the hand

To which their own being is vowed.

.

Sometimes it is important to be a wanderer above the sea of fog.

.

The hands are small and pale

But oh so far from frail

Delicately they trace

Firm words upon the page

As if the greatest race

Was to be won by age

Should I take on the task

Or sigh behind my mask

Of course responds your voice

Not giving me a choice

.

Incomplete.

.

Sugar rolls sweet upon my tongue

And once again I feel so young,

Back to the age when leaves were green

And the world had a lustrous sheen,

Back to the times of simple joy

When we could all truly be coy,

Labyrinth of precious pleasure,

Whence have I buried this treasure?

What a spoonful of white powder

Can conjure up in an instant,

How it can make old songs louder

And remote years no more distant

Than the silver under your thumb,

I cannot say nor can explain

But beware that it makes one numb

To the world which then becomes plain…

It is as treacherous as snow

Even to those that think they know,

Sinister wolf in sheep’s clothing

Seed of endless, painful loathing,

Beware for this lady of death

Tightens her claws with each new breath,

Sugar rolled sweet onto my tongue

And once again I wake and long…

.

O immerse a dear rug.

.

Voices running so far and near,

Footsteps seeking their goal with haste,

A few glances ever so chaste

And hair flowing from there to here,

Some hands are fast to the making

Others equally to taking,

A tongue is strong, a nose is sharp,

Some words are wrong, some try to warp,

Gold and silver rain down faster

Than water and reign true master,

Trophy hearts and loved jewels

Followed by old enamoured mules

Cross path with spirits marveling

At the fruit of their travelling,

And in the middle of this crowd

A pair of ears tries to listen

To all those musics which glisten

Even though their own is so loud.

.

The greatest loneliness is surrounded by a thousand voices that you know.

Here ‘loved’ is to be said ‘lo-vèd’, sort of a diaeresis but not exactly.