Poetry
Melting the Mic
Soft, warm winds circle past tongue and lips,
Temperate tones swirl and emerge,
Gaining momentum as a howling storm,
Her tropical surging song melts the mic.
Tear and years fly uprooted through amplified blasts,
Humid, sultry breaths ride and slide free chords,
Crying out, knocking on boarded windows of defeat,
Her tropical surging song melts the mic.
Hard feelings, no longer buried,
Scatter, pelting new grounds,
No longer still, no longer dry, no longer cold,
Her tropical surging song melts the mic.Mary Talbot Fee, 3-21-09
Angels or Angles
Angels or Angles, two routes to receive.
You can dream and toil alone for 50 years,
But the formula to succeed
Takes an angle, supplemental or obtuse,
A new slant, a new acuteness.
A slice into a closed circle, a new area to hear.
The angle will never fly without a wingspan
Of graceful feathers, someone to draw a line
Between A and B, between here and opportunity.
An angel to link your V through the inner circle,
A criss-crossing mosaic, colored by press and media.
A stained glass of spirit-lifting help. “Hear this! Here this!”
A pressure point of hope locked against an infinite line.
Cupid’s arrow transversing space
Looking for someone to receive the love,
Pierce her depth, know her view.
A sideways glance, a tilted ear.
Lean in with buttress support, “Hear this! Here this!”
My muse needs a lift, sounds and ideas echo
In revelation inside my thoughts.
My muse needs a catapult to take my voice
And bisect Fate’s ceiling, “Hear this. Here this.” Mary Talbot Fee, 3-21-09
Soft, warm winds circle past tongue and lips,
Temperate tones swirl and emerge,
Gaining momentum as a howling storm,
Her tropical surging song melts the mic.
Tear and years fly uprooted through amplified blasts,
Humid, sultry breaths ride and slide free chords,
Crying out, knocking on boarded windows of defeat,
Her tropical surging song melts the mic.
Hard feelings, no longer buried,
Scatter, pelting new grounds,
No longer still, no longer dry, no longer cold,
Her tropical surging song melts the mic.Mary Talbot Fee, 3-21-09
Angels or Angles
Angels or Angles, two routes to receive.
You can dream and toil alone for 50 years,
But the formula to succeed
Takes an angle, supplemental or obtuse,
A new slant, a new acuteness.
A slice into a closed circle, a new area to hear.
The angle will never fly without a wingspan
Of graceful feathers, someone to draw a line
Between A and B, between here and opportunity.
An angel to link your V through the inner circle,
A criss-crossing mosaic, colored by press and media.
A stained glass of spirit-lifting help. “Hear this! Here this!”
A pressure point of hope locked against an infinite line.
Cupid’s arrow transversing space
Looking for someone to receive the love,
Pierce her depth, know her view.
A sideways glance, a tilted ear.
Lean in with buttress support, “Hear this! Here this!”
My muse needs a lift, sounds and ideas echo
In revelation inside my thoughts.
My muse needs a catapult to take my voice
And bisect Fate’s ceiling, “Hear this. Here this.” Mary Talbot Fee, 3-21-09
Comment
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Comment by Mary Talbot Fee on June 21, 2010 at 9:49pm -
Joni Mitchell’s Gift
Joni Mitchell sat down in your way
Distracting you from wispy bones
And brittle, cropped hair
Keeping you anchored to the path
The one you scatter unknowingly
With petals of colorful love
Sowing seeds of hope and promise
Which grow strong with the loyally devoted
For they are light and buoyant
Because of you they move
In rhythms and soaring tones
Recalling tunes so vividly expressed
Their own sad stories were released
Yet you starve yourself of comfort
No psychic nourishment
And deny that you are truly
The perfect and precious blossom
You were supposed to be
No less thans or should’ve beens
Let us hold you closely, warmly
And perpetually remind you
That you sail among the stars
Sparkling, effervescent and free
With double dragonfly wings and
Spirit released as you live and breathe and sing
Joni Mitchell held you tenderly in her midst
And released a stronger you.
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Comment by shanna on June 17, 2009 at 3:16pm -
The Venice Beats
the rhythm
of their words
sound of huarache's
on a misty morning's
wet cobble stone streets
black ink pen
in hand
and a blank page
touching the face of God
their words
echo down
those breezeways...
protesting
for the "Lady"
mans mad anger
looking for another road
slowly ..migrating
to a" mile high mountain"
in Denver
their faces
now etched in stone
in Hawaii
on a six mile high
mountain
a tree
touches
the face of God
a Koa tree planted
for the poets
words falling
blowing in the breeze
filling the page
THE POET-TREE
shanna
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Comment by PaintingLive on May 17, 2009 at 2:44pm
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Your poetry is wonderful... I love the arrangement in your lyrics....
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