Poetry In Motion

 

Appreciation of it, what is it?

a mutation, new doorways and

recollections, being sick to your

stomach before you bring your

art and intensity to the people.

 

Stretch your words and let the

gods command from you, and

listen to your gifts.

 

When I was young freshness

came to me yet it lingered for

years before the meanings

came forth.

 

Humanity is a dance, we must

perform to keep our minds

and stretch our art, so people

understand the meanings

behind it.

 

We are criers in the night

showing love, sadness with our

eyes teared, and transformations

working within our souls, late

into the night, some of us drinking

ourselves into a stupor, smoking

our fags and pressing the butts

into the ash, left there in the stinking

trays while rings of smoke, circle

our halo sordid minds, lost poets

we are and naked as empty grave.

 

Look what thoughts will do, when

we chase the colors of each word of

red to space, and blues of the

skies that envelope around our heads,

the cat eyes that sharpen our fits

of wondering.

 

Oh how rich I am in my mind, my empty

space with typing fingers that bleed with

each key pressed into nothing but empty

space, and white smudged by impressions

of ugly ink of worn keys that mock this poet.

 

Let me hang my words of troubled sleep,

for this will never be who I am, or mentioned

again, for I am nothing but a poet who

searches for a moment that will allow my

sins to be the inferno from my soul.

 

I am born again nightly but dead by

the morning, as I try to cultivate the

seed of passion and inspiration of

writing, while my heart is sad and my

fellow blaming me for who I am,

a simple poet lost in the past, dying

in the present and longing for

a future somewhere else.

 

Melpomene my Muse of tragedy,

let me sing and let me do my

poetry, or forever shut my mouth

and bind my lips, and still my

tongue into the silent night.

 

Oh how I fear the angel of mercy

who soothes the tongue that my

Muse cuts through the foggy night,

sailing away from where I stand.

 

 

I am bare and shapeless, no form,

just a wilted black rose cut and left

to die on top my coffin shiny black

as I’m lowered to the receiving

darkness below.

 

© Copyright 2013 by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved

 

 


Comments

Poetry In Motion — 6 Comments

  1. Thank you for you kind words coming from one as excellent as yourself. Believe me sir, this poet is no greater than his next scribe. You are one of only a few at the Hubs who I consider a true poet Wayne and I am so pleased to have you here to leave me a comment to my humble work. BTW nice to hear from Alexandra that she is in the process of building your own site, I know it will be spectacular and I look forward to reading the work you eventually will be posting there.

  2. Your words are outstanding. They form such rich and deep pictures in my mind. You truly are a brilliant writer. I am excited that my order for yor books is on its way today. Yes l do have In Melancolia in digital form but l am old fashioned. There is nothing quite like ghe feel and smell of a book in my hands. God bless you Vincent.

    • Thank you Dim for your compliments on my work, as well as your support with purchasing my books. I am excited to finally have them available in print, I’ve had many requests for printed versions, so here they are. Hugs

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