Lately, my passion lies in poetry’s embrace,
Quenching my soul’s thirst in this sacred space.
The newborn’s cries inspire the lines I weave,
Leaving them behind, in their form, I believe.
My heart is torn, in tatters and frayed,
I write my verses with a shaky hand laid.
One day, this paper, with my thoughts laid bare,
Will be cast aside, as if no one would care.
I spill my thoughts onto sheets of white,
Relentlessly, my pen takes flight.
If I fail to share what’s in my mind,
Is there any use for paper left behind?
To spill one’s guts ‘tis hard to do ~
though the pressure's like a tight corkscrew
Starve the mouth when its the soul thats hungry
Push the pen until the fingers bleed
Crack open the chest baring the inner world
Neverminding the possibility of being left empty
I will always spill myself for you
Note this poem was written some time ago but I was sick and deleted my site. I have been patiently reposting my poems since 9 October 2000.
On November 13, 2002. The Prestige, one of twelve tanks burst during a storm off Galicia, in northwestern Spain. No help was forthcoming and by November 19, the ship split in half. 20 million gallons were spilled into the sea.
Beneath the heavy dark clouds,
the storm broke.
An oil-filled tanker sank
spewing black lakes of murderous slime.
What a giant "Prestige"!
Despite the roar of untamed waves
there was a deadly hush over the ocean.
A low death knell sang a purgatory of pain,
as contaminated birds of gulls, orioles, kestrels
squawked their last dirge:
What a giant "Prestige"!
Too late men stretched their ingenuity,
a desire to save and spare
the livelihood of so many families
that sailed the oil-spilled seas,
where baby dead fish dotted the surface,
sands and rocks tainted with death.
Elsewhere engineers burned their chemical gases
and smoke escaped from the earth's fragile shell.
We all have our "Prestige"!
Written 2016
For the thrill of writing to be exciting a reading mind…
by taking the time to write a rhyme in rhythm…
shot from this poetry imprisoned prism like mind of mine….
I’m tussling words like a busker busking melodies from famous songs covering…
words on paper smothered in from my ink spill…
uttering unspoken words speaking my will cluttering thoughts leaking…
weakening thoughts..jittering…from the air chill as I recite this ink spill..I will with my might…
I might as well dwell within that imprisoned prism I’m locked in…right?
-Peter T. DeSpirito
Can napkins not esteem or honour
a history of being placed gently on laps
to catch, take hold of,
what is carelessly spilled or dropped,
used then to pat lips
before being rumpled tenderly, after eating,
and placed carefully at one's side?
At a table in a bar,
a paper napkin on my lap,
I look at friends:
they have their napkins
sitting at the sides of their plates,
on that table, folded, ignored, untouched.
Is there something wrong with me?
(11 Dec 2023)
Spill
your ink
on blank page.
Express your rage.
Suppression only leads to mental pain.
Without catharsis, art is trapped in cage.
Trauma will stain,
as you age.
Gain your
stage.
Sage
soul smiles.
It's worthwhile
to tame your flame.
Poetry is perfect for thoughts to drain.
Sane words flow to show feelings have no shame.
Mute charcoal clouds,
hail chord sounds.
Tear drop
rain.
Brain
feels free.
Peace now reigns.
Clear skies bring glee.
Release of burdens cleanse untouched debris.
At last,
Education stood to teach.
Acres of agonizing memory.
Hectares of Hecate,
Tripling in advance of nonsense.
Peering round and round in vertical cylinders.
Spun web-less in a lore of forgotten before.
And after, for the sake-less now.
Trudging on to prevent neither from creeping upon the self.
The worry.
The memory of anamnesis to approach.
Guided by prodding pasts and redundant fates.
Ghosts are pasts pretending themselves futures.
Watching the agony unravel from the serfdom of their such.
A medium simply sees the swirl,
And laughs at the penchant for unlit prospects.
Adorning torches to hide lights from contemporary photonics.
I've sieved the lumens.
Sheathed it for sequestered seconds in advance of past, present, and posterity.
Commas written in Oxford language, knowing that a next is sure to follow.
Pretentious: yes.
Shallow: may-haps.
Yet perchance the parchment rolls on, flicked by feathers of ephemera once deigned to be feared.
Feathers quacking on in timid and oily idleness.
There's no point anyways, to a quill, without the spill of ink.
There's not enough time for my gut to spill
Yet, o'er this thick towering dam it flows
Blazing blue eyes pierce my soul reaching still
For deeper feeling than she feels she knows
Keep it from her, I can't, but I won't rush
She's a fountain flowing all over me
Dark depths of despair that she needs to gush
Leaning into you as long as needs be
Until the universe busts wide open
Pouring out pounding, sweet, heavenly rain
(A gift from above you have always been)
All from within--my every last pain
Words flooding out of my mind into you
From this heart you've loved and know to be true
Words spill out of me
bleeding all over the page,
I can breathe again.
the taught red skin wrapped her wrist like a ribbon;
dim and so trimmed with disease.
all bruised from a blood-let cephalic incision;
she's thinned out and gnashing her teeth.
departed in sin, packing cyst into vision;
the brim is now flavored with grease.
knee waning ceases along with derision;
nodes flare and impair with a seize
the solemn defend what is friend to infliction-
a pick to their interlude fevered condition-
it's pierced with precision all cinched by collision;
efficient it crimps where she bleeds.
a lachrymose feed into feral rescission;
omniscient it pins down the seams
Empty your heart
Spill your ink
Let the whole world know
How you feel, what you think
A poem's 'way out there'
Yet in it you'll hide
Their emotions your fiddle ~
Your ink, their guide
I turn on the water spicken nothing comes out but rust and sludge such as life inside~
9/4/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
When the field's harvests abound,
Our gates, a sea of faces throng.
And when the tables spill,
Deserted our gates become.
The world's a room of merriment and squalor,
Its lot, we pick by destiny.
Or sweat and toil may make us become.
But when nature chooses its lot for us,
Who of all man can question it?
Those of golden cradle born,
O' they of bamboo bed mocked,
Time may overturn the thread.
The bamboo like phoenix turns gold,
And the golden cradle in the thatch found.
The wrinkled face shrinks to the world of a hermit,
But to the fairy damsel the world smiles.
Oh life's but time and chance!
Man is himself a god and demon!
The music blare of the castle we may envy,
Sooner a time the music dies.
Who can remember all men of fame?
Some in the dustbin of life end.
Illustrated delicately across the page,
Are imprints and collage of poetic verses
Which flicker with the air-brushed strokes of life—
That from my very essence they need to fly ,
Transporting me to mystical hemispheres
As dips of imagination bleed upon endless hours,
Soaked in the glimmer of fireflies, ponds, lanterns:
Within this vivid mind, I allow a crescent moon
This pleasure, this spill of art’s radiance,
To glimmer through a moistened quill
Just how these drawn hands first began, inspired…
O my thoughts drifting into night's allure
On a parchment cast through lattices of sky,
As images rustle unfearingly, upstream!
------------
8/19/2019
Joseph May's One In Four Contest
Line #4
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