art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
In a Cold Lazerium
It was a soft cool city morning, and all of it was roses, with sweet Devine. It came upon the hour to check the time, a cold lazerium. To call her mine, as it looks well, as the music traces of colorful rain in Hollyrocks. A sound would fall during this sleeping time across the floor, as Tarzan looked and stood. Clear sounds from the room shine until she would. I answered and then she had opened her door. Weary, while she was jumping to see him smile. To my appreciation this was to be wild, and the sense of it all was free to surprise, cold and thirsty in my eyes. Devine had been from her heart as pretty as the lights of the city, through the eyes of Tarzan. Scared little Candy smiling from across the shore, a telephone keeps on screaming across the floor. The colors fall from the ceiling boom makes it revealing to see the love across the room. Now, it’s all clear to the splashing hum, and the sound of the tune. Not to stay home and it soon showed out in Hollywood what is otherwise good to see that Devine be a beauty by this glow in the dark show. And I understood my Hollywood mistress from the San Francisco, in the cold lazerium from head to toe.
By Paul Noel Cimino6 years ago in Poets
Two Sides of the S[h]ame Coin
I am now emerging from my first years on the frontlines of adulthood. My face is dirt streaked, my lips are bruised by words I’ve since learned the art of uttering, yet I am still breathing, heart still galloping. Often still, my thoughts caress the dog eared pages of my memories of what came before. The days of my childhood were steeped in the nectar of farm life—chickens scampering underfoot while I belted Broadway show tunes to the trees, competing with the soprano voices of the birds who made nests inside the scarecrow’s placid head. The afternoons of summer were long and thinking of them conjures up the sensation of crushing sun-warmed tomatoes with my teeth, the pop of acidic juices exploding against the inside of my cheeks. I would gather the nights up in bunched handfuls and curl them around my shoulders in the comfort of my childhood bedroom. Once my parents’ footsteps had fallen far enough downstairs, the few moments of strained listening, the careful inhalations and exhalations of suspense’s orchestration, and then:
By breton lalama6 years ago in Poets
