Another Old Poem...

My computer assures me this one was written back in 2006, which I can assure you, seems considerably more distant than usual when attempting to recall exactly what your own words meant to you. I therefore offer this one up with little explanation, hoping you can appreciate these words in your own way.

Cry Of The Empty Vessel

Cursed be this unsightly clarity.

Rising, formless, from what it is.

One with the void at my core.

A sickening abyss.

Such despicable, emptiness.

It clings to the insides,

rubbing them raw.

Has me longing for the tide.

To flood in, cure the futility.

Relieve this ever, lacking, purpose.

Heal the vast and aching sore,

Remove this horrid nothingness.

Oh see how I deplore.

Look upon this acquiescence.

Behold this: My thirst for more.

Pour in now. Take up residence.

Come forth. Please! Fill me up.

Lest my being, claim no worth.

From within, you do restore.

Filling from within my girth

Far more epic, to me, you are:

Than the greatest waterfall.

My slicked edges will be your shore

Rush in. Fill me! Give your all.

Out with my emptiness.

Bring forth your rapids.

Once more hear, how I implore.

Without you my existence is vapid.

And so I ask you. So I beg!

Look down on me, see my need

Fill me from your loving store

Let this empty vessel feed.

Consume this emptiness within.

Make it finished. Wash it out.

Only then is my purpose secure,

So fill me up and end this drought.

***

Thanks for reading...:)

Time To Share Another Old Poem Of Mine.

Took awhile to dig this one out on my computer but as it is a personal favourite I'm hoping you'll agree it was worth it.
I'll not bother with an explanation as I think this piece pretty much speaks for itself both in title & content. Enjoy...

Sin

Sin is wicked. Sin is wrong.

Sin sees, when we, don’t feel strong.

Sin lives in us, Sin lives long.

Expert, of how to string along.

Sin corrupts us. Sin tells lies.

Deceives the foolish and the wise.

Sin abandons. Sins disgrace.

Some will sin to save good face.

Sin’s not picky. Sins not proud.

It hops about and yells out loud.

Sins so pretty, Sins well styled.

As awaited, has reviled.

Sin is selfish. Sin is spite.

So swiftly we forget what’s right

Sin has power. Sin has might.

Sin robs the seeing of their sight.

Sin is weakness, Sin is pain.

The best do sin without refrain.

Sin’s delicious. Sin tastes great.

Fattened sorrows on a plate.

Sin says nibble. Sin says taste.

Knowing you’ll lap up with haste.

Sins delight, for Sin is luscious.

To many, Sin is something precious.

Sin for seconds, Sin for hours.

While you’re chewing, it devours.

Sin is tempting, Sin is nice.

Brings to life, that ‘added spice’.

Sin is loyal, Sin is yours.

Those sins that helped; you be adored.

Sins prepared. Sins good to go.

Sit back and watch Sin steal the show.

Sin’s protection, Sin’s defence.

Sweetest distraction, when you’re tense.

Sin’s minute and Sin’s immense.

Many sins make lots of sense.

Sin: Our captor. Sin: Our friend.

With us till the bitter end.

Sins to thrill us. Sins to tease.

Sin proves, that we, succumb with ease.

Sin lying down. Sin on your knees.

Once in those woods, behind the trees.

Sin over here. Sin over there.

To say you don’t, you wouldn’t dare.

Sin’s for all. Sin’s to share.

Give to others… Bah… Who cares!

Sin is action. Sin is not.

Compassion that you haven’t got.

Sin is stupid. Sin is Daft.

Steps off, the straight and narrow path.

Sin’s within us. Or Sin’s without.

Truth is there can be no doubt.

Sin knows your name. Sin stays in touch.

Sin says it loves you very much.

Sin’s in me and Sins in you.

Sin’s a thing you know you do.

One From The Vaults... The Civil Suit

Like most writers I have an abundance of old poetry hidden away in the depths of my computer files. Admittedly plenty of it is awful, we're talking teen angst with the barest semblance of rhyme & meter, but not all my poetry was written in my teen days, (Though a fair bit of it is still angsty... well really when do most of us turn to writing poems?) and occasionally I actually stumble across a rare gem in amongst the rubble of my emotional outpourings.  I promised to post some written art in addition to all the visual stuff, so this oldie is my first entry in the written word category.

The Civil Suit

Uncover, unclothe, disrobe me,

For I am not what I appear to be.

Dressed well inside this tailored suit

I know you cannot see me.

Head held high, I strut around.

Through the shrieks, I stand my ground,

And all the while inside this garb,

I’m shrinking, fading, dying.

This suit mask all the under-scuffs,

So you’ll never hear the screaming.

Yes you’ll see the collar and the cuffs,

And never what they’re covering.

Who wears this suit? You’ll wonder.

Its cut so fine and neatly clinging,

Must be someone of high-standing.

Someone with manners as impeccable

As they’re status is demanding.

Such good fortune have I the wearer,

Knowing you’ll never see me bare,

For inside this handsome garment

A wretched child is living there.

She’s all the things you think I’m not

Those parts you’ll never know.

She’s scathing, fierce, and wild

And runs, through places you fear to go.

Stamping her bare feet she curses,

Mouth so foul, she’d tint you green

And she longs to cause destruction

The likes of which you’ve never seen.

But I’ve known her and I see her,

And I tame her in this suit,

Whilst seeing me you admire, and say

“Oh that suit… It’s such a beaut!”

So I shake your hand and smile

Thanking you, despite my knowing

The suit is so much more than this,

All the things it keeps from showing,

That beneath the cut of my civility,

Glaring out, is that angry child.

And if I don’t keep you talking

There’s a chance you’ll hear her hissing. 

The Author to Her Book - A Poem about Writing

Any authors among my readers should sympathize with Bradstreet's poem.  Its sentiments apply to anyone who works in a creative field, whether visual art, music, or writing.  It tells of the fondness an author has for her work, and how reluctant she is to stop editing and release it to the public, but how a good author has to let go eventually.

THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK

THOU ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true
Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i'th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam,
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.

Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)