"Poetry is what gets lost in translation."R Frost

Welcome! For me the act of writing poetry is so many things. It's confessional, diary-keeping, hopeless speculation, problem solving, story-telling, therapy, anger management and relaxation all rolled into one convenient (and free) package. Almost everything I write is from personal experience. And because of the anonymous nature of a blog, I feel comfortable sharing things I wouldn't dream telling anyone in my everyday life. I suppose it's my outlet, my own little secret endeavour that keeps me sane and is entirely mine. I make no promises of producing 'quality' pieces of worthwhile literature. My main objective is to be honest, and hopefully you'll be able to find something you can to relate to in this jumble of words. Thanks for visiting. Ask me questions.

[takingstockofwhatmattersmost]

Indifference

default the difference or indifference that hides behind her eyes

     answers become regurgitated and verbated with lack of passion she views as “returning the favor”                                                       savor

  she looks for her savior  in castles of neon and wreckage ……………..and death

                           mornings after each morning after  ~~~~   she calls them   mournings after nowadays

she is indifferent, by default her fault         she believes 

         she sometimes remembers when she was incandescent   like neon

[mobbleberry]

wow....wow....kevin! 

[mobbleberry]

Black Canvas

The world was asleep; and way above us all  on this revolving dome the stars shone out  like broken glass -  A vase that slipped  off a mighty table  and landed on a black canvas.  

[mobbleberry]

Ideas dribble into the  puddle that has been forming behind my eyes:  I’ve got the words, that once laid dormant wile you lay there fading. 

[mobbleberry]

Bones

The old bones of my  young mind settle  into this place.  I write stories in  steamed up mirrors  that tell the truth -  only to disappear. 

[mobbleberry]

Ghost

The ghost of you is buffeted by wind that rolls silently in the distance and then rushes to greet me  all at once.  The air is dragged away,  hair whipping the collar of my  coat -  The Ghost,  Soundlessly blends into the background  of my brain,  bending to the will of all that matters -  The roar of life in my ear drums. 

[mobbleberry]

Everyday Treasures

My four year old fingers, splayed on the rug carpet, tumbling conkers between my rounded knuckles onto my lap. Before me, behind me: A mountain of foraged wooden nuggets - everywhere.  “Here’s a plate of conker pie for you Grandpa, eat up - yum, yum,yum.” Now I see the truest treasure of this scene.  A thousand moments of patience, bending backs to woodland floors,  buckets, vinegar to harden, old rag clothes made of Grandma’s old shirts to polish.  A thousand moments to make this mountain of nature your grand-daughter sits up upon.  All the everyday treasures that tell that grown up girl that she was loved. 

[mobbleberry]

Snow Globe

The stillness settles in the hollow of my  palm.  I am a held breath in a snow globe - frozen by all that promises to be.  

[mobbleberry]

Stranded

The lighthouse blinks  between your eyelids - Flashing warnings to all  around you -  Please -  - I need a moment -  The waves beat on, rocking up against the shores of your world within -  - knocking -  One of these days you will need to answer. 

[mobbleberry]

Stir

Good gusts of gulping  lungs that touch an unknown place.  The animals keep their heads to the ground for  fear of being blown off  course.  Within me the wind whispers like the fluttering of a birds wings against metal... I stir, I stir, I stir. 

[mobbleberry]

Get Out

The glass plate door shakes With the force of your entering  -  Heads snap at the other in the room -  They haven’t figured out yet that its me.  You walk in and crouch like the ghost Christmas forgot.  No one knows what to do with you -  As the air hangs with vibrations of the past.  What jagged memory will you evoke like the genii with a lamp.  Smoke dancing in front of my eyes right before I open the window to push -  To let the good air in and the spirit of you  Plummet to a sticky end  On the concrete cracked  pavement below.     

[mobbleberry]

The Bridge

Tip-toe across wooden slats,  the end in sight-  creaking and humming with a strain that won’t sustain me for long.  I must move One foot in front,  Shifting on my back all I have that is valuable. Your shouting is falling on deaf ears this is only The Bridge. Its ancient boards groaning  from all those before me, and all those to come.  This change will propel me Only forward You can’t stop me -  No one can.  

[mobbleberry]

Umbrellas clash and tangle themselves-  Twisting their craned owners necks. All of us hunching towards the pure white sky.  Dampening with each footstep -  A snail crunches beneath you  and your soul sighs -                                    silently.  

[fakesurprise]

I tried to hold onto my cynicism (I have few talents beyond that) But you offered the shyest words And a hesitant smile as a question Sometimes it’s not that we break That amazes me but that we’d risk It again and again daring the future To repeat the past one more time

[mobbleberry]

Yeah, this captures something for me.

[cr8tive-catastrophe-deactivated]

cracked shell

he’s a shell

exterior painted brightly

but cracks are forming

chipping away like the stone

from an ancient statue

beautiful yet weathered

eroding from the surface

slow + agonizing

the process timeless

in its destruction. 


he’s fraying

strand by delicate strand,

the knot

in his stomach

painfully untied.

.B.Hopkins.

@cr8tive-catastrophe

[mobbleberry]

This is stunning.

[mobbleberry]

Time has fallen heavy  somewhere in the middle  of all this sun.  You have gone before  I could hold the shifting moons in my cupped hands... Or before I came to  understand how we too have changed.  I am like amber for you.  Although time has altered us, You’re still precious and  frozen in my chest.  

[mobbleberry]

Bronze Wood #2

I am wood for him I will swell  and crack into submission  to make this work.  I will bend to his vibrations, each day  carved into                   something new.  

[takingstockofwhatmattersmost]

Michael Flores

rest easy your pen poet shuck aside these burdens  bared write the rest of your story in the stars with the stars all writers look to the skies for a reason a purpose we all know only a writer can craft beauty such as a night sky

we all will look up tonight  to the skies with wonderment in our eyes

and we will read your story

for. 

all. 

time.