Continuing the challenge to keep writing poems of 144 words or less. Here are two more #micropoems.
1. sun breaks through red mist parts your breath across my cheek river runs through life rubicon, styx which ferry to take
2. the comfort of new skin we gaze at discarded masques the face in the mirror is more loved by the ego & the beloved
© 2016 Michael D Emmerich
Taking up the challenge to write poems of 144 words or less, more to follow, having fun, hope you enjoy reading these 3 🙂 Poetry for twitter 🙂
intimate, hushed solace in the silence conversing by delicious touch seduced by a smile & flirtatious wink
the beauty of the silent bond that ties two stars into orbit requiring no response other than a soft touch or knowing look
the day fades to grey shifting from grey to dark before we long for the promise of a new day we cling to the dark
© 2015 Michael D Emmerich
Writing is an art form and all art is a means of self expression. I weave words not yarn; mix metaphors not paint; rhythm words not chords. Words are my brushes and paper is my canvas. Poetry is the screen shot, screen grab of the writing world, fitting as much as possible in a succinct concise form. It is the literary equivalent of a selfie, a tweet – the Instagram of writing. Poems are this poets answers to the “Why”, attempting to satisfy my urge for closure, even if it is not forthcoming (which often it is not). Everyone is has to figure out there own “Why”, even this poet.
Writing poetry is able to put us in touch with people who are different from ourselves in a non-violent fashion, it becomes a means of pacifist activism. Writing has become who I am, it is both cathartic, healing, confrontational and a means of seeking (partial) closure or venting my darker emotions. My poems are a mix of thoughts, questions and ideas; from journey’s travelled, literal and imaginative; creating a picture of the world from my perspective. Even if, in the writing, there is no closure, that is the closure I require, at that moment.
“Poets have an audience because we need to know how to go about reaching the next day of our lives.”
It has been said, to use a bad metaphor: Poets are kind of like canaries in a coal mine. The conscience/voice of the voiceless. Often my poems, emerge from the pain of personal experience, leading to angry outbursts against the coal mine, in which I from time to time, find myself.
The Banality of Corporate Deceit
Speaking for myself, but I’m reasonably sure other poets would at times agree. We can’t explain ‘why we write’, but they would certainly understand and agree, that we write for the love of writing poetry. Poems are literary mountains that need to be climbed, in a page or a few lines; the poem has to be condensed, without straying from the main theme, and it also usually has a beginning, middle and (sometimes) an end. It is this journey which is the challenge, in most cases a deeply personal journey; so walk with me as we step back from your reality and gaze into the abyss of my mind, and let’s see what stares back.
In closing, ponder the words of John Keating from the film: Dead Poets Society.
We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman: "O me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play (goes on) and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be? John Keating, Dead Poets Society.
A poet writes poetry because they love poetry
© 2016 Michael D Emmerich
a new day dawns the same as yesterday but it is oh so different dew glistens across the valley casting fast disappearing rainbows chased by bleeding colours across the sky a new palette of shades awaits grasp that brush visualise your perfect picture experience new found colours and shadows beauty whilst transient is eternal serendipitous blessings in each new moment reach out and grasp the day this ephemeral beauty must not escape
© 2016 Michael D Emmerich
To all of my followers and gentle readers, I am busy preparing my anthology of poetry to (hopefully) be published by year end. Introduction has been drafted, cover has been designed, back stories for some of the poems penned and a few interesting photos of my working notes have been taken to (hopefully) insert into the anthology. To try and give you the reader, a feel for my writing and creative process, and what it looks like in rough draft/scribble – (hopefully its not to scary).
This is where you dear gentle reader come into the picture, by helping me to select 30 to 35 poems, some of which are listed on my site:
Tag one of your favourite poems to be included (by commenting on this post), who knows, you might get to read the back story (as to what inspired me to pen that particular poem), or get to see some of the original draft scribbles and scrawls, photographed from my notebook (which is always in my bag or on my person) – as you never know when inspiration is going to walk through the door.
Thanks again for all the likes and follows … see you in the web world 🙂
a white feather fell from heaven doves fly by a bullet whistles past blood drips from the bough of a tree peace in our time is the mantra can it be believed cowardice, faith, protection, bravery peace so many messages, to which do we cleave hope from beyond; past, present or future don’t shoot the messenger crying white doves circle hoping they do not die bringing their message doves cry where children die hope dies when doves cannot fly may they be lifted on the wings of peace upwards to a burning sky to a place with no name the sun sets on a world in disarray how many more white feathers need to fall from a burning sky the spirits are watching are they at peace? I pray that they will be
© 2016 Michael D Emmerich
we open the door but no one comes in but we must always be wiling to leave the door open for those with wanderlust to enter or those with questions to exit the door to the dark enter from the dark to the light or exit out into the dark either way we can always while waiting sip from the chalice at the portal knowledge brings light to the darkness making the unknown known the artist ventures out into the dark through the open door to measure the unseen to tell the story of the unknown the open door leads out to all that is not yet known we can get lost out there in the vastness and strangeness of the dark although we can also find harmony those with wanderlust can become anyone or no one the door is always open if we can find our way back as the solitary aspect of getting lost is enticing mystery becomes our compass we become like Dante traversing jumping to hell and back to find ourselves back in paradise at the open door always be willing to leave a door open peace could enter unannounced future redemption could even enter or we could exit on another enticing journey getting lost on a quest for questions questions that might not have answers what then comes first? the question, the answer or the intention?
© 2016 Michael D Emmerich
why this? why that? tell me more always asking questioning, searching relentless and restless answers never bring closure but only lead to more questions oh this perpetual curse of the why it’s a never-ending journey the next why leads to the next will it ever end? the see-saw of life back and forth relentless like the wind and the waves always battering at my minds doorway it is never still neither my mind nor the wind and waves I think not even at death when my ashes are to to be cast into the wind and waves they will for all eternity be battering at someone’s doorway
© 2016 Michael D Emmerich
hope arises from a distant past barrenness becomes imperfect storm drought becomes flood passions spring forth engaging in a lust-filled union the expectation of hope is laid bringing with it change pain, discomfort, hope change forcefully thrust onto the unwitting the chaos of evolution darkness waits with expectation the challenge of darkness as hopes journey begins moving from the confines of darkness down the path to the light the waiting hand of light beckons dragging hope to into its arms moving from the known to the unknown hope emerges with a scream it rents the veil of darkness darkness gives birth to a frail hope light enfolds hope in its warm embrace hope like victory is helpless at birth it has emerged into a world fraught with despair pushed out into the world to face life’s challenges history replaces amnesia history is hopes foundation futures are built on memories foundation life is sustained by history’s past the future is moulded by past scribes seasons come and go barren winters pass always followed by springs new life hope always springs eternal from the darkness of winter hope is risky hope is trust onto an uncertain future the belief in the impossible making the improbable possible prepared to face loss, disappointment, betrayal chaos order evolution all merge into the revolution of an emerging fading hope what are we left with but this inscrutable darkness which is our future past this inescapable darkness of new life from a future past the last gasp of hope has not been born yet hope is victory wrenched from darkness’s grasp claim your moment of paradise and then ONWARD
© 2016 Michael D Emmerich
My creative genie has been stuck in the bottle for awhile, but lately I have been doing some rubbing and its starting to emerge and unravel. Reading has been my refuge during this period, Have been diving back into doing some reading to whip up my creative juices, and have discovered a few exciting poets (Wislawa Szymborska) … and also been rereading some of my classics. TS Elliots “Wastleland” and the writings of Rebecca Solnit have been the nudge I needed to get me going again.
Been working on (IMO) a epic poem which for now; is called: The Birth of Hope … it so far runs to 8 stanzas and there is still more to write, plus I have a few more ideas/drafts/one-liners that have bubbled to the surface. My ideas journal is a spiders crawl of ink …
I leave you with this thought that has emerged from my mind today whilst flying to work ..
the last gasp of hope is still to be born push on for the rebirth
mikesnexus 