I tiptoe around
this, my
d r e a m
garden
as you undress
my thoughts
with d e f t
hands
a bright
blue M o o n
just won’t stop
shining
even as
the t i m e
comes to
w a k e u p
tiptoe
Tag: poetry
lazy sounds
A yellow rose
a bright red Moon
these wrinkled thoughts—
they need
some ironing
I outstretch my arms,
I yawn, I smile—
safe in the knowledge
that I am not
immortal
/Loathing
this endless
loop of
lazy sounds/
*
A yellow rose
a bright red Moon
those wrinkled thoughts—
they crave
some irony
A spider web
some deep, brown eyes—
a saturnine reflection
in my morning
coffee
/Loathing
this endless
loop of
lazy sounds/
*
A yellow rose
a bright red Moon
those wrinkled thoughts—
they need
some ironing
Where did She go?
I sensed her, near—
yet now she's
nowhere around
to be seen
/O Muse, come back,
bearing harmonious gifts—
effacing this senseless
loop of lazy
s o u n d s/
liminal spaces
/ forgetful
regretful
a mindful path of
multi-storied
v e r s e s /
searching
for liminal
s p a c e s
observing
those pondering
f a c e s
*
. . . o p p o n e n t s
aware
contenders—
beware
of those doubtful
intentions
unspoken
d i s s e n t i o n s . . .
sketched
on damp paper—
and never
aired
*
/ forgetful
regretful
a mindful path of
multi-storied
v e r s e s /
searching
for liminal
s p a c e s
fierce like
assonant
traces
you can
now
view—
though
I n e v e r
b a r e d
Lights On
Feeling homesick
all stranded
left the building
keys inside it—
no way back
He’s now so lost
Lights are on
the lamp
still shining
those shelves—
empty
Books all gone
Who’s the liar
who’s the beggar
who’s
the
thief—
This empty soul
Feeling homesick
all stranded
left the building
keys inside it—
no way back
He’s now so lost
He’s got
talent
he’s a genius
such smoked mirage—
portrait,
Pawn
writerly
I read
overread,
skim-read,
d
a
n
c
e
&
r a
e d
.
and,
while
r e a d i n g
b e t w e e n
t h e
l i n e s
I keep losing
my
t r a i n
o f
t o g t
h u h
. .
I don’t wanna
read
overread—
or
misread !
d
r
i
n
k
&
r a
e d
. . .
S o ,
I
w r i t e
***********
It’s been a while since my last post
(Or my last writing activity,
for that matter)
Now,
slooowly,
getting back to
writing mood
Please bear with me -
While I invoke my
Free verse muse
Happy to be back,
beautiful,
naughty,
dark &
clever
WordPress souls !
ink rain weather
Walking barefoot
on fresh grass
rain keeps
smearing
this old
draft
/ Faint
reflections
o f
o u r
d a m p
r e a l i t y /
Dizzy letters
all get
blurred
eerie story—
last line
slurred
/ D r i z z l i n g lines
in ink rain
weather /
Books all
tattered,
O, too frail!
this ink
watered down—
too pale
All these stories
drowning, bold;
fading lines
on torn page
drawn
/ Faint
reflections
o f
o u r
d a m p
r e a l i t y /
(Were they
really any
good, though?
I wonder
now—
too late)
/ D r i z z l i n g lines
in ink rain
weather /
the colour of your dreams
I often
get lost
in your
canvas
p a l a c e
My hands
all dirty
with
old
p a i n t
What’s the colour
of your
dreams?
I d a r e
a s k
Yet you
never
utter
a single
w o r d
So I strive to
find my
answer
in ink
s k e t c h e s
*
I often
get lost
in your
canvas
p a l a c e
My hands
all dirty
with
old
p a i n t
What’s the colour
of your
dreams?
I d a r e
a s k
Those
undecipherable
ink
s
t
r
o
k
e
s
Paint
pirouettes
that won't
tell any
t a l e s
*
My dreams
are
sometimes
coloured
y e l l o w
— with
a
dash
of
b l u e —
Your eyes closed,
while I get lost
in the true opacity
of those abstract
i m a g e s
So I let
all shades sink in—
colouring your reverie
back to
r e a l i t y
the raconteur
Raining feathers misty light the sound of a waterfall nursing me into sleep Vigilant feelings bleeding into free-wheeling thoughts, a window about to swing open— one I didn’t want to see through The widowed tales of nighttime dreams, the ones I tried to tell by heart— with the worldly decorum of the raconteur Raining feathers misty light the sound of a waterfall nursing me into sleep
spy
She yearned to become a spy yet she failed so miserably She walked the long walk and dressed in hued tones She hushed the sharp tongues and asked for bad karma For those that would play her— the good ones obeyed her Lila yearned to become a spy yet she failed so miserably She wore her dark shades, unravelled dark plots / with feline intention and birdlike precision / Yet her wings she did not want to get w e t So she’d run under cover on rainy days It was always warmer by that fireplace She yearned to become a spy— Yet she failed so miserably
failed reader
I wish I’d never let you read any of the stories in my draft book Since I always knew you’d just skim through those pages ( Lousy reader that you were— now, your time, pronto! to get back to school ) This is a book that will never get published Too bad you trashed the draft upon first reading Too good you’ll never ever get to read the end, One so tenderly written in my doctor’s handwriting - undecipherable, for my Failed R e a d er E x t r a o r d i n a i r e
LannaZee 