Clarity

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Clarity

Bits of clarity are like the ‘aha’ moment
Of a haiku, or a birthday wish come true.

A chance glance at the face of someone
You are convinced you knew, in some

Other life perhaps, or breaking through
A math problem, you’d been working on

For so long, and then out of the blue.
Walking down an unfamiliar path,

When an instant of deja vu hits
Like a wave that you’ve been here before,

You feel it in your core, but how cliche
They say, nothing worth clinging to.

You stop and smell some Honeysuckle
And for an instant the world seems so new,

Like you’re seeing it for the first time,
And everything in the scope of your view,

The trees, the flowers, the birds, the bees
The fallen leaves on the breeze, and even you,

Are connected in an unexplained way, and
Though you can’t say how you know, you just do.

 

 

Stained Glass and Adonis (Carpe Diem Haiku-butterfly prompt)

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Stained Glass 

Flame-colored stained glass
wings fluttering in the wind-
Majestic Monarchs

 

Adonis

Stained glass wings
alight butterfly bushes-
Adonis in flames

 

Carpe Diem Haiku

 

Poppy Dreams (haiku)

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Poppy Dreams

A scarlet blanket
spreads magic from earth to sky-
Poppy field of dreams

 

Dark Night of the Soul

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Dark Night of the Soul

My footfall unsure
Walking through shadow
I see the light no more
Words written in stone
Erode, no longer known
Deep within I moan, in the
Dark night of the soul

Desperation looms large
Swallowing me whole
Death is left to my charge
“Today is a good day to die!”
Resounds my battle cry
And I abide, by and by, in the
Dark night of the soul

Illumination from beyond
Reflecting an awareness
From shadow I abscond
No longer in death, torn
But in innocence reborn
Rising to a blissful morn, from the
Dark night of the soul

The Hunger (Adult Content)

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The Hunger

Torrid thoughts of the night before
kept heated impulses smoldering under my flushed skin.
Spread downward like tiny, tickling fingers
into regions set to blaze by his tongue of fire.
Breasts peak in sensitivity, as embers still burn hot.
I am lost in the revelry of my wanton mind.

Our clothes flew, until both raw and naked, skin to skin,
we had jumped into the flames of lust without hesitancy, no longer human.
Passions matched in fierceness against hard vertical surfaces,
resembling two wild animals, the friction of our rhythm
scorching every place our bodies touched

Our coupling had created something undeniable.
When lust was satisfied, we laid entwined, limbs
melting into each other, holding tight till morning’s dawn.
The hunger was irrefutable, I’d engorged on what he offered
and he took a part of me and kept it for himself.
I knew without a doubt that I would want him again.

 

 

Pearls of Poetic Wisdom (Mary Oliver)

“It has always seemed to me curious that the instruction of poetry has followed  a path different from the courses of study intended to develop talent in the field of music or the visual arts, where a step-by-step learning process is usual, and accepted as necessary. In an art class, for example, every student may be told to make a drawing of a live model, or a vase of flowers, or three potatoes for that matter. Afterward, the instructor may examine and talk about the various efforts. Everyone in the class recognizes that the intention is not to accomplish a bona fide act of creation, but is an example of what must necessarily come first–exercise.

Is anyone worried that creativity may be stifled as a result of such exercise? Not at all. There is, rather a certainty that dialogue between instructor and student will shed light on any number of questions about technique, and give knowledge (power) that will open the doors to process. It is craft, after all, that carries an individual’s ideas to the far edge of familiar territory.

The student who wishes to write a poem, however, is nicely encouraged to go ahead and do so, and, having written it, is furthermore likely to be encouraged to do another along the same lines. Quickly, then, the student falls into a manner of writing, which is not a style but only a chance thing, vaguely felt and not understood, or even, probably, intended. Continuing in this way, the writer never explores or tries out other options. After four or five poems, he or she is already in a rut, having developed a way of writing without ever having the organized opportunity to investigate and try other styles and techniques. Soon enough, when the writer’s material requires a change of tone, or some complex and precise maneuver, the writer has no idea how to proceed, the poem fails, and the writer is frustrated.

Perhaps sometime you will have an idea for a piece of music, you may actually “hear” it in the privacy of your mind–and you will realize how impossible it would be to write it down, lacking, as most of us do, the particular and specialized knowledge of musical notation. Why should our expectations about a poem be any different? It too is specialized and particular.

Poems must, of course, be written in emotional freedom. Moreover, poems are not language but the content of the language. And yet, how can the content be separated from the poem’s fluid and breathing body? A poem that is composed without the sweet and correct formalities of language, which are what sets it apart from the dailiness of ordinary writing, is doomed. It will not fly. It will be raucous and sloppy–the work of an amateur.”

Mary Oliver A Poetry Handbook