Impressions

The one who gracefully lands into the hands of God,
Not a victim of the wicked ways of man.
Impressions.

With writing so therapeutic,
Let the worries and needs be expressed.
Don't fear impressions.

The ironed blouse and fitted skirt,
The black buckled business shoes.
Impressions.

The media and its restrictions,
Accompanied by the beady eyes of on-lookers.
Don't fear impressions.

In the whirlwinds, the tall buildings, the city streets.
In the midst of all this-

Re-discover the desired impression.

 Re-discover you.

Atrium

A sample of every clique

scattered throughout the room.

High ceilings accompanied by

windows on surrounding doors

letting in the cascading sunlight.

Clean checkered floors

lay in a pentagon shape.

The colossal staircase is

the focal point of the room,

where the girl gets studied

up and down,

up and down.

Five little grey boxes with

illuminated red letters

E

X

I

T

Square light fixtures

in pairs and in

pairs of pairs.

One is burnt out to grey.

Cylindrical teal poles pose.

One has a heavy load,

it has a t.v attached.

A man in a brown shirt walks by,

about forty years in age,

he does not go here.

Atriumians wonder why he’s walking

through this teenage wasteland.

A hamburger bun clings to the ceiling.

What makes it stick?

A Frisbee is jammed beside a window.

How did it get there?

The mysterious of the atrium are only

discoverable if present.

The usual chaos of this room

is on pause,

the only noise at this time is

the interruption of the Lakers

and the various voices scattered.

The sound of the bell-

such a small noise with

such a large affect.

The room is suddenly

overpowered with clamor.

People are late for class.

No it is not a hotel room.

Not it is not a jungle.

It is the centre of social groups.

(Minus the man in the brown shirt

who just rounded the corner

and invaded the area once again)

Manifesto

Poetry should be in written form. If the words should be made into objects or patterns with symbolic meaning, that is fine as long as the poem can be read aloud. If the object, pattern or underlying meaning is extremely absurd, I strongly believe the writer should provide a simple explanation at the end. This allows the reader to think whatever they want but provides insight as to where the writer’s mind was when they wrote the poem. Poetry with rhythm and rhyming schemes are enjoyable, but not always necessary. I think that poems should flow smoothly but should allow spaces or caesuras for emphasis wherever the poet desires. I believe that poetry is a group of words on a page that do not need to make sense to everyone, but only someone. A poem should hold some form of significance to the writer. Poetry is written to allow the poet to express stories held captive in their heads and the innermost passions, desires and worries they have stored in their hearts.  The audience of a poem should be people that want to feel emotion, discover where there heart is at that moment of time, or who want to find the words that they cannot find themselves. Reading poetry should not be a chore, but rather, an intellectual challenge. Poetry can also be for pleasure. A poem should spark the reader’s attention. It should have a title and should remain focused around a central topic or idea. The poem should shed some light on the topic so that the words on the page can travel beyond the paper’s edges and into the hearts of the writer and reader. It should involve imagery to paint a picture in the reader’s mind. A poem should aim to be memorable in any way possible. A poem should mentally take a person back to a specific memory or mentally take a person somewhere they have never been before.   -LL

Somewhere between the earth and the moon ( a sestina )

She told herself she didn’t want anyone to hold
but inside she really knew.
There was one who could take that thought away.
The only one who had that power was her God.
It would have to be in perfect time and
he’d be out of this world, perhaps from the moon.

That’s where their story began, beneath the moon.

Under that starry sky she was held

by his strong arms, their lips touched for the first time.

It was in that moment she knew

he was a treasure from her God.

They sat there and praised him for this summer away.

After a bonfire the two snuck away

for a goodnight kiss amongst the stars and moon.

She crawled into bed and talked to her God

thanking him for this hero that she closely held

inside her heart more than anyone else she knew.

She begged that they’d be forever, not just a moment in time.

Days and nights full of those perfect times.

Moments like those, in complete bliss away

from home. A paradise only a few knew,

where the memories and love reach to the moon.

Time there was ending, but they held

On, trusting the one who brought them together, their God.

Now apart, between them stood their God.

He watched them reflect on the easier times.

Longing for affection, she yearned to be held.

He was at short distance, but he stayed far away.

“Why has he changed?” she cried to the moon.

Silence was the reply. He’d tell her if He knew.

The boy finally left her, alone to start anew.

Countless nights she called out to her God,

a locked door, on her knees, with just the light of the moon.

Few knew it truly took a long, long time,

she found the strength, pushed him out and away.

Surprise- he crawled back, a puppy wishing to be held.

“God, why did you give and steal away times held dear?”
Up in the heavens, west of the moon,
He looked down and said, “If only you knew.”

Thursday...

I could watch these turtles swim all day

In hypnotic glow of a light so dim

As time simply slips away

Me and him, me and him

Conversation fills the air

No need for a futile t.v

His hand invades my hair

Him and me, him and me

Pulling me close, luring me in

Happy I’d be, if I were to die

Oh surrender- the sweetest sin

Him and I, him and I

I leave and I face the rain

Mind consumed by you- in vain, in vain

"I am"

I am a streak of fushia in a sunset

Burning with passion on a grayed palate.

I am a clanging cymbal

Loud when necessary, silent when forced.

I am a triangle on a string

Two points of distress with a constant God at the peak.

I am leafy green spinach

With brothers and sisters, none identical.

I am not a car, I am a bike.

Hair blowing in the wind of an isolated road.

I am a palm tree

Found in many places but never changing.

I am a chimpanzee

Hanging off the branch of freedom.

I am a paper cut

I can be deep, I can sting, I can leave a mark.

I am sunshine.

But don’t forget sunshine sees dark skies, too.

evol.

                                                      e.    E

                                                              ev.    V

                                                                        evo.    O

                                                                                  evol.    L

                          Love. Only in the world of poems, can it begin backwards.