#85 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm

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Poison Ivy

Beautiful is the pain

I go through everyday

Turning me into a beautiful butterfly

From the cocoon I’ve been.

Jemverse

And if I thought for a moment
that the words wouldn’t come
My pen laid to rest
and my writing days done
I would know then that life
had come to an end
and, bereft my abandon
like the loss of a friend

THEY CALL IT POETRY

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Mosaic

messages

tapestries of truth

woven

with rhythm

and rhyme

English

*Alliteration Poem – English*
3rd Oct’17  ~by Venkat

Eagle eyes, erudite English
Evolve edges, eerie echoes
Eagles editable, emblems
Eyes exorcised, edges engraved

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By Charles Robert Lindholm

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HAIKU: A GIFT

By Charles Robert Lindholm

A gift from my heart

A WAY WITH WORDS

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

They say
I have a way
with words 

I am honored
by the thought
but sincerely
doubt it,

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By Charles Robert Lindholm 

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A STREAM OF WORDS

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

I thought that when the hurting stopped
my heart would just stop sending
words to put on paper
and I’d have to stop pretending 

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By Charles Robert Lindholm 

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HAS THERE BEEN AN ECHO FROM MY LIFE?

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

I imagine standing
at the edge of eternity
at the edge of the abyss
and wondering
if there has been an echo
from the life I have lived on earth
anywhere in the world 

Strength of our words

 

Gladiolus – personal photo

Words bounce back,

u-spoken or spoken.

Word’s Enfold Warmth- word-form

Word’s

layer to mimic a rose.

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By Charles Robert Lindholm

 

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By Charles Robert Lindholm 

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Moment of Transformation

You ask me when I knew

that ink flowed through my veins like blood

the moment I understood that truth

simmered in the cauldron of my belly

conscious

alive

What is Poetry?

A collection of words with juxtaposition
Crafted into some lines
That speak of my life and the things that I see
To capture a few of those times

WORDS

All I had 
to say
has converged 
into such words..

Words as such
were they
but remained 
unheard..

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By Charles Robert Lindholm

 

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Me

Trespassers, delay and rhyme

Waiting for a railway train
to take me to my home
I’ll sit and write a poem
on the station on my own
It’s peaceful here, conducive
to find a little rhyme
and scribble down a verse or two
line by line by line

Bob Marley seagull

It was raining in Brighton
and, strolling back to the car
parked there in Ann Street
from the centre, not far
We paused to admire
on the wall, ‘cross the way
some graffiti scrawled quickly
but with something to say

The beauty of language

I’m happy when writing
It fills me with joy
and it’s done this for ages
(since I was a boy)
I’ve written most days
sometimes just a few lines
to capture the years
the moments and times

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By Charles Robert Lindholm 

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