Letting go

I have words in my hand
which I keep small
secretive, in case they fall

But sometimes when
the pace is slow
I’ll open up and let them go

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Painting a poem

Today I sat and watched the sea
and the colour of the sky
and the water and the sand
and the pebbles on the beach
gave me my words

So I painted a poem

Life is colour

In summer life is colour
yellows, blues and greens
Reflecting all around me
and the palettes I have seen

Struggle

My pen is shaking

I am agitated

My notepad is topsy-turvy

With the struggle

I revere the most

In this bloomy air.

 

The confusion relies

On my pen

Am I writing sense

Where are the words

What come before

And after.

Strong

strong they said, as ivory on feet
strong they said, in marble
strong was the way to be

Spectacular II

Sitting in my garden
blank pages in my book
waiting for my words to fill
from everywhere I look
There’s inspiration ’round me
don’t have to look too far
as life is quite exciting
if not spectacular

Painting with words

When painting with words
the writing room floor
is splattered with cast-offs
from poems and more

Spoken

My words disappeared under the moonlight,
The sounds of dissipation fading fast
to quiet in a cavernous depiction,
a blank homage to the universal past.

I wanted.

I wanted to be your rain
As you are my sunshine
So we could make rainbows

I wanted to be the rock for you to lean on
In your times of smiles and tears
But little did I know, it’s use to crush my vows

Word’s Worth

What these words are worth
To those without eyes to read
Or chips in heads binaring what pens bleed?
Take time before it melts
To look,
To see,
To listen,
To hear
All the tiny things the earth
Wants
Unveiled
Record them, Poet!

Guidance

Thinking that I have written the best,

rolling my eyes for the appreciation.

 

The mentor was quietly observing the chapter,

the red lines indicated the trouble coming near by.

 

Taking a deep breath to control my nerves,

the words were flying in my head to make a bridge of thoughts.

 

THE WHISPERS OF MY MUSE

By Charles Robert Lindholm

My Muse
Whispers
Softly To My Soul
Reassuring Me Of Her Love
And Commitment

I’m everything

I’m dancing. I’m rhythm
I’m words on a page
I’m pen and I’m words
from a poet and sage

Fever dreams colour

When sleep falters
in fever drams
I think of colour

Canvas

So here is a canvas
and here are my words
crafted with pen
I paint pictures of life

Happy World Poetry Day!: An Homage to Maya Angelou

I Will Try

So little do we value words
That lift and breathe and fly.
Some still use words that no one should.
Regardless, I will try.

Scratch of pen

At this early hour a soft caress
as morning greets the day
and gently, with a growing light
pushes night away

A silence reigns, a pinprick fall
with no one else around
so scratch of pen on paper there
barely makes a sound

A Writer’s fear

I’m trying to balance these words

on the tip of the lead

so precariously

where they tip and falters

and every single word, every syllable

every article

loses its balance

it’s epicenter

and starts falling off

falling off at the edges

in the deep abyss of the unknown

where I can’t seem to salvage them anymore

they are lost in the numb darkness

stumbling in every nook and corner

and can’t  seem to find their way

back

to me

where they can start to make

sense together again.

Polaris

“Ignorance has always been the weapon of tyrants; enlightenment the salvation of the free.”
—Bill Richardson

My crestfallen soul

roams around

with a dejected look

waiting to get entwined

in your white moon

with pure serendipity

Writer’s block

“Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
“Fool!” said my muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write.”
― Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella

When you hit a wall
a big wall;
which breaks your convictions
and shatters it all
that big wall of
angst, pain, and insecurity
which mocks your artist
and its withering creativity

Sometimes stories are to be searched for.

Sometimes stories are to be looked for

The words are to be weaved in

Some emotions are to be beaded

Jealousy

When I want you

I want you all

not in bits and pieces

Never want to share

traces of you

with anybody at all

The language of love

Speak with the language of love.
–Rumi

The language of love
needs no words, no script
it flows from my heart to yours 
with no gates or doors;
I can feel the vibe in the air
I can feel the love
in my veins
as it flows;

Heavenscent

It possesses a certain
something that soothes
and reminds me of summer
with its calming moods
Just a squeeze of the sachet
when winter is here
or a rub between fingers
when summer is near

Fake

I enrolled myself
to become part of your
fictitious life
to feel lonely and dejected
to feel unwanted
distorted
breathing  just to survive

Ice

the ice jam of words

long lodged in the back of my throat

has begun to melt

syllable by delicious syllable

that tickle going down

roil in my gut

Victor

“Fire tests gold, suffering tests brave men.”― Seneca

The darker the clouds get
The stronger the resolve becomes
The faster the breath gets
The stronger the heart pounds

Tattoo

Those beautiful lines etched on your skin
the art speaking for itself
emotions oozing out from each
drop of Ink