Isolation Visual

Concrete Poem

 

   Blood

running

down

my knuckles.

    My feet embedded with glass.

The

sun bathed

my face

I

n

t

h

e

running

r

a

i

n

moments like this proves to me that not only that

hell is real

But that you don’t have to die to go there.

I bathe in the

sins of m y enemies

Consum ing their eyes

I n b l i n d n e s s

I walk away

Through a g

ray brick wall

Leaving my f

lesh and bon

es

behind.

Staring

at my reflection

   In the

dark skies

A thunderbolt

Silhouettes my soul

Over a small

crowded town

Of bitter witnesses.

Found Poem

Soul Out Of The Box

I buried myself away from you,

Deep

Deep

Deep

Deep

Until feeling your feet

Faded away.

Tossing and turning

Inside a wooden coffin,

Memories

Awaken my need

To return.

I climb the roots

The dirt embraces me

The soul got out of the box

Domesday became my friend.

Sweet dreams

Become beautiful nightmares

When you

wake up

to me.

A hearse carriage

Carries us

To a happily ever after  

Grave.

Week 10

I wear disappointment in my eyes

Like sunglasses

I stretch the scars on my back

Like angel wings

My fears cover me

Like the night starry sky

That shines through my window

As I dream of yesterday and tomorrow.

I grieve those alive and dead

Grey tombstones hairs on my head

A rose casket

On my bed

An open book unread

Crumbled letters in my throat

Unsaid.

The full moon rises

The energy of mercury

Pulls me towards the sun

The astros calls my name.

As I am the dark sky

I swallow the universe whole

And I control

the galaxy
that rotates within me.   

Sound Poem

Roaring water running down
sizzling against melting snow.

footprints racing
through the dancing winds
crushing earth
beneath the icy cracking surface.

Growling hungry howling wolves corner
the squeaking bouncy baby bunny
over a singing mountain

the child jumps,
the mountain splits
into two,
water splashes
rotating rivers around
the screaming wolves.

Cubist

To Dream

To dream
in time and space
where space could go back in time.

To walk on a cloud
where at any step
the cloud becomes a crowd.

To sleep next to a farmer
and wake up to a horse.

Counting sheep
turns to counting beats
to counting sleep
then counting streets.

We live on dreams.

Dreams take us,
here,
there,
everywhere.

But are dreams, dreams
If they're really dreams?

List Poem

What if I told you I don’t give a fuck?

What if I said I felt like I ran out of luck?

What if I ask why am I here?

Not my appearance, but existence.

I don’t care no more.

I don’t sleep no more.

I don’t eat no more.

I just drink some more.

Are dreams dreams,

If they are still dreams?

If I don’t give a fuck about this problem,

Is that a problem?

Im melting,

But does that make me a witch?

Or does that make me a bitch?

I can’t decide which?

I don’t care if he hates me,

I don’t care if she hates me,

I don’t care if they hate me,

Fuck them all just hate me.

If the shoe was on the other foot,

Not not yours,

But his,

You’d take the spit off my face,

And clean that little bitches shoes.

This is why I don’t fuck with y’all no more.

This is why I don’t talk to y’all no more.

This is why,

When your fake asses walk by,

I look at God through my sunglasses,

And don’t open my mouth to speak no more.

I walk through doors,

I look through ceilings,

I levitate on water,

I fuck your feelings.

Imagry

I determine to break lines in a poem when I feel like the beat is too long. Poetry has to have
rhythm to flow for the tone and the reader. Without the beats, there is no style or soul to the poem.
It could also run too long if the poet does not break the poem into beats, which is problematic.

Ezra Pound describes imagery in poetry as a different illusion, or concept of art. When he says image is the poets pigment, it shows how a writer cannot write without a vision.  Pound’s alos states that the image is not an idea, which means that no one just picks an object then says they’re going to write about it. The image will come from the mind of the poet. Pound's theory on how poetry is radiant code or cluster vertex of in which or through which or by which the ideas are constantly Rushing shows how peory is another form of contemporary art. Poetry, especially imagery in poetry, is a form of artwork that not only connects the reader visually, but also spiritually. Poets are talking to the souls of the reader by giving them a vision of a concept illusion.

Seed

Roaring rain,

Pours down from the clouds,

Intertwines with soil,

Conceives the faith of the earth.

The growing green leaf glows out,

Of the brown slik dirt,

Dies,

Rebirths to orange,

Then yanked away,

From mothers arms.

Rabbit

Racing running rabbit,

Yanks the orange sharp sperd child,

from it’s mother’s walls,

To feed her hungry children.  

As she hops through,

The stormy wet desert,

The bloody red beast chases her,

Under the hollow stars.

The sun rises,

Past the moon,

The children waited for dinner,

Til noon.

Fox

Skinny little fire fox,

You stand there with flames,

in your eyes,

And under your feet.

You hide under rocks,

Away from the pride,

That tells you to run south,

Or to other side.  

Breif Case

Dimmed secrets,

are held between,

A golden rusted lock,

inside a brown suede leather skinned briefcase.

Realism

Drown

Drowning underwater,

A rope lynched around my ankles,

Tied to bricks,

Pulling me down,

As I watch feet,

Walking above me.

Looking through  my reflection,

In the shining sharks,

As they raced around my body.

I wondered,

What could have been?

What should have been?

What is here?

What is now?

Where will the stones take me?

How can you say I  jumped in a running river,

When you pushed me here?

How can I swim to the top,

Knowing that I’ll die,

Before I get there?

And just like karma,

You wear the veins in your eyes,

Like Louis vuitton glasses,

And around your neck,

Like a golden Varcache chain.

I drown underwater,

Even when i’m walking through air.

But I still,

Watch the sharks eat,

you.

What makes a good poem?

   

   A good poem is for making a connection with the audience through the context within the meaning
behind the poem. Whatever is writing in the poem has to do with the writer and their connection to
the piece. The most effective thing with poetry is that there are many theories behind what the writer
is saying and what the poem itself says to the audience. There is no right or wrong way for poetry, but
if the poem brings the audience to a critical thinking point, then the poem had a deep context that
made it mean something.

    Even Though many of my poems have elements of symbolism, the difficult error I have when writing
is how am I going to connect what I am going through in my head with something else. I need the
audience to not only know what I am talking about, but to also see it. I have to find the things that
connect to me and right about them through a situation that plays through my mind.

    Overall, I don’t critique myself that easy, but with my poem this week I think I did fine. I’m glad
that people liked it. I usually don’t read them out loud to others, but I found it to be a good exercise
and practice.

Week 2: Symbolism

Poetry always means something. A poem could not be written without meaning. Poetry is a form of
literary contemporary art meaning that it is a form of work that the reader would have to bring something
to the piece. Behind poetry is an element that is to be unfold. Poetry is not a mystery, but sometimes
the reader has to unfold the context within the poem.

In the visual arts, especially in contemporary work, the viewer always looks for a meaning behind
the element of the artwork. Visual arts is a totally different concept the poetry, which is more of a
literary artwork. There is no right or wrong what to any of the two. Both Visual Arts and poetry
carry concept and meaning, but in a way that we process differently.

I disagree with the phrase “Too Hard”. I believe that if the poet made poetry ”too simple”, by just
writing sentences in stanzas that are simple, then the meaning and context behind the elements
dies. The poetry has to have flavor, and the audience needs to taste what poet is saying.  
An artist cannot create art without purpose.

           

         Passion Fruit 

Fruit of knowledge,

Let your blood run down my breast.

Soak into me,

Deep,

as I bite into you.

Serpent's semen,

Race through my veins.

Impregnate me with Abel,

Let my death be victorious.

Soiled hands,

Take me under the tree of shame.

Reject me in the light,

As I walk into flames,

With you.