Egg skin trapeze over filo trampoline swaying breathless participants.
Sandside I slump, on shelled shore, sun screened and sipping soda, unaware of rising tide.
The waves lap my feet, childish, childlike.
I settle into my shallow rock pool.
It’s pretty. Controlled. Tepid. You could say lukewarm.
Occasionally, mercifully, the tide refreshes it
And that unforgetting love spills in, flooding my dry sand living.
I have been playing adult-like, fun-less,
Responsibly boring the world,
Offering religion, not new life living,
Forgetting I was made to be as simple as the waves.
Missing, simply, the fathomless sea.
Words ring in my ears, in my mouth: “Try harder,” “Read, pray, do…MORE.”
Words so unrefreshing, untouched by tidal tonic,
Stale on tired, heat-stroked ears.
But your one word stroke broke yoke-rules, found parched hearts,
Mine among them.
We study the sea,
Read books, endure lectures, schedule workshops,
Then, with dry feet, speak of how nice it would be
The tide is turning, the sea calls me in.
There are some strokes to acquire—
But surely the splash and splatter of learning is better than stagnant pools or stifling sand,
Sheltered from revitalizing thrill.
Time brings tide’s pull, I splash in, all I feel is new.
I dive, delve into your effervescence, afloat in you.
Stillness and movement mingle, a sweetness of life.
A soul-craved life.
That which clothed me, masked me, left onshore—
Religious duplicity, scanty love living, safety settling.
The tide is turning now. Will you take me to the deep?
The swirls along the rocks tell me that it is
Time to go to sea.
This challenge is to write a Rispetto poem.
A Rispetto an Italian form which is a complete poem of two rhyming quatrains, abab ccdd.
Good luck with the challenge and i hope everyone takes part.
To take part visit here
Today it rained and then it fogged,
I couldn’t see and so I blogged.
I told a story of a time where men,
spoke of their problems and were gentlemen.
This time is gone and now I see,
that all that’s left can’t surely be.
What happened to the days in which,
doors were held open and no lies were stitched.
I have a dream and let it be said
when I rest my head and go to bed.
Life is simple and can be cruel
don’t let it drag you like a mule.
Smile and laugh and make good decisions,
and soon you will see you dreams come to fruition.
© Christina Laureano 2014
Hiccups and laughs,
Joy to be heard,
A crack of a smile,
a glance at a bird.
The baby is yawning,
mommy is aware
and all through the nap
noise is handled with care.
Now you’re up
and you smiling
no more fuss
no more crying.
The joy of new life
is a blessing.
Originally posted on dribblingpensioner:
A poetry challenge with a difference, which i thought up myself.
A poem made up completely from song titles only.
No additional words to be added.
It doe’s not need to rhyme and can be any length.
The poem should have a theme: love, travel, places, etc.
Get those fingers and minds working.
Where are orange-red trees?
They linger still in green gowns
I seek autumn gold
The past is not fallen leafs;
it is dirt blanketing newly planted seeds.
It is a crack in the window
causing the afternoon sun
to rainbow across my wall,
allowing November’s cold to seep in.
The past is the eye lash fallen on cheek,
a turned up carpet and door with broken deadbolt,
a watch stopped five minutes till 3.
Sometimes the past comes back.
It scratches at door,
curls around fires,
lays in my bed.
In the clarity of reminiscence
I see what I have been looking away from.
It is stark and it is clear.
The past does not haunt me,
I haunt it.
A lingering scent,
a familiar hand brushed upon the small of my back,
I am always leaving pieces of myself behind
waiting for others to catch up.
I wonder what it is about me
that is so easy to let go.
I must let the past solidify,
mold it into perpetual bricks,
and mend broken windows
until my house can stand.
for some of us,
dreams are the sustenance
during struggles of a lifetime,
“Someday,” he said,
“I hope you see yourself
the way I see you.”
“It’s more likely,”
she replied, “you’ll
see me the way I
She pieces together
a puzzle at a time.
A shard, a tricep,
a stretch of femur,
attempting to construct
of something fierce.
She collects broken dolls
with missing parts,
recreating what was
left to decay.
Eyes may fit better
in different sockets,
the porcelain doesn’t
always shine until
it’s cracked. She
takes her time.
Once the bones align,
the flesh can grow,
covering the white
a strength, a purpose.
With the patience
of glass, she draws
fine lips and outlines
the lashes of eyes.
Collector of dead things,
you hold the foresight
to see what could be,
once we are put
I watch the rain
outside large glass windows
and think of things
best left buried.
I recall childish water fights and losing at tag,
slipping through puddles and staining jeans with red mud.
A droplet balanced perfectly on eyelashes.
I imagine dancing in the drizzle,
books spotted by water,
and how the windows of my car steamed
when that boy with red hair kiss me
over and over and over.
I think of the last time I saw you
and how I didn’t cry when you left.
I watch as water drops
turn to streams and run fast
as snakes against window to bury
themselves in cracks.
I watch the rain
and remember once believing
birds couldn’t fly when wet.
I know better now.
I never found
but there was a time
you would stare at me
without saying a word,
a lost expression on lips
fumbling a frown,
and when asked
what are you looking at,
you reply simply,
“The girl that’s going
to break my heart.”
I pulled myself together
with mud and straw,
carved something human
from the marble,
but all I ended up with
was chipped paint.