My poetry is the poetry of the life that I know

That I know like the wise one who knows that he knows

                            dnt

My poetry doesnt ^ care for organisation

My poetry doesnt care for punctuation

It doesnt care for comma full stop question sign

Nor is it limited to consistent excessive rhyme

This is the poetry of life as it flows

Let it flow like the stream let it flow, let it flow

My poetry is grammatically incorrect without apology

My poetry has defied all aspects of chronology

It doesnt care for what happened first or last

Nor is its reference limited to future or past

This is the poetry of life as it grows

Let it grow like the trees let it grow,let it grow

My poetry doesnt ignore literary pedagogy

My poetry doesnt care for your typo graphy

It doesnt care about spilling over on countless pages

Nor is it limited to stanzas meters iambic stages

This is the poetry of life as it blows

Let it blow like the wind let it blow, let it blow

My poetry isnt irony metaphor alliteration

My poetry cannot be reduced to formal explanation

It doesnt care for misguided biographical criticism

Nor should it appease the reader’s skepticism

This is the poetry of life as it glows

Let it glow like the moon let it glow, let it glow

My poetry has no begining

My poetry has no end

But it creates life and destroys at the stroke of this pen.

 © Karlane McFarlane July 18, 2017

Soaking in the stillness of the sagar, suspiring the saccharine summer scents, she sees six swans – silver shapes shimmery among the sage shrubs – serenely slip away, their soft splashes sprinkling the sibylline silence; she sees sangria steadily seep into saffron skies, shepherding the shrinking shafts of sunlight; she sees shadows shift then sluggishly subside into the soil; she sees the splendour of sunset shrivel and sparkling specks, scattering starlight, swathe smooth Stygian satin; she sighs, striving to shove back sepia snapshots of seasons stolen away, to surrender to smothering sensation, to succumb to stifling solitude… But alas, stubbornness submits to sorrow, spilling over in salty streams sharply swiped away. As soulful strains sound from the sagar, she stands shyly and shakily, then self-doubt settles and she straightens, saucily and strongly – seize such a sublime stage she should. Spiritedly she sings her solo, smiling as the shrubs shed their shadowy skins and slide into scarlet seats shielded with squabs, as the spruces stop their susurrating, as the swans stretch their slender sinuous scrags, as even the stars succour and shine down as one spotlight.

Savouring the stubs of her song she surveys stoically as the shrubs shuffle back into shadow, as the scarlet seats sag and splinter, as the spruces swish and sway, as the swans swim serenely, as the stars shift back to their serpentine sequence – such stark sincerity.

One last solo, she supplicated and secured; now she is satisfied.

Silver streaks, scarlet spatters, a single silhouette staggers.

On the morrow the sun still strides up sanguinely, sending splendid scintillas of hope; the svelte snowy-white swans still swim swiftly, sharp-eyed for signals of savagery; and the summer is sweet and still.

Belief in aliens was common. There were stories of those who had been abducted never to return. I didn't believe it, out there in the darkness was nothingness. Yes, we had enemies who attacked us, eating our young, but we dealt with them, we were powerful.

As I gorged on the delicious flesh. That sweet, enveloping scent. There was no room for any thoughts but satiation and procreation. Then a shadow fell upon the landscape. The blackened banana tilted and seemed to lift. Was that a space ship up ahead. The metal door opened and I fell, fell into darkness.

but you cannot see how burdened Mister

PORTER is by valor weight

  battling the multitudinous

of baggage distractions while

  with MECHANICAL performance.

shameful how you exploit him-

  LIKE a commodity!

you're predispose view - (without a

PRELIMINARY inspection!) truly

  quite FRIGHTENING.

  and your overdressed greed

            -a contribution to society?

it burns a FIRE in my body.

and with EASE, you promenade

  round this fanciful BASH,

  thrumming and RAVING

(of your good deeds?)

yet indistinguishable among your TROOP,

  unlike Mister,

a dignified PORTER.

20 lines.  82 words.

10 Words Contest:

EASE

FRIGHTENING

RAVING

PORTER

PRELIMINARY

BASH (i used it as a lively party)

FIRE

LIKE

TROOP (i used it as a group of people, not military related)

MECHANICAL.

© July 15, 2017. Meg .

Poetry is a kind of breathing. Necessary, but at times difficult. It is the choked gasp that comes at the edge of a cry. It is the long contented sigh of a child on a hot summer night lying beneath the stars, bare feet stroking the grass. It is the sharp pain of ice-cold air in the winter that thrills the lungs and makes one feel alive. Poets do not write because they want to; poets write because they have to. Could the poet not purge his words upon the page, I truly believe he would drown in them, suffocate beneath the weight of his thoughts. So it is, that when the world turns upon its axis and the lives of men go walking about, that the poet will exhale and wash the earth with new wind.

Definition of poetry? My heart and soul spilled across a page. A stirring from within which niggles, often driven by emotion - willing fingertips to keypad for the tap, tap, tapping which enlivens full release.

A turn of phrase composed within a shortened, metered passage, spent and spending noise and notions bumping back and forth between each brain-bled line.

Perhaps from fact - yet far more often fancifully expressed.

A lyrical, lured and loved into existence; bound to form by choice - or not. Endings and beginnings optional as fare - perhaps a poem down drops itself without regard to plot.

In short, it's all that prose is not.