Waiting For Love- Poems for presents

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I didn’t mind

But Waiting for love

Was like waiting for a dream to come

To fly by and take me to a world afar

Where love was the waterfall and I was the reflection

I was shown the life from my dreams in the river

A life where the moon kissed the stars

And the colours and smells of dreams

Were like the palette of watercolours

I chose from the art shop

Open to all who buy into them

But fashioned only by the couriers of the soul and the holders of a curious heart.

This love I touched in the dreams of the artists

The love I longed to hold forever.

But this passionless love preferred by the inhabitants of our Earth

I could not fully comprehend

I am myself an ariitst forced to confront the elements of an acceptable love

I must then wait for a fashioned love

A love that words describe in song and not in thought

I am not suited to the earthly love type of the Earth’s wanderers

My love is of a different place

It has further to travel but I have my lifetime to seek

 

 

Poems for Presents 2- Simplicity

Simplicity

People talked about a simple life

Where the petal of a rose was enough

Or a bright Sunday morning of frost

All quiet, all watching and waiting

The simple life left people with only themselves

It revealed the love, it grew from the peace

But I, quite simply, had the world

Loved to be worshiped and count jewels of success

So simple hatred is what I found

Through my blind eye’s greedy glow

But simple love of people, I found

Was impossible to know.

The Flaw of Supremacy


If you only played the dream
And sang nothing but the love,

The spirit and the depths of the soul
If nothing mattered but the pleasure

And all you wrote rang in perfect harmony

What would you do in order to forget?
Plagued with the boundary of infinite joy

Would you live here with me as a human,

Or inhabit a parallel world as a distant star

What it feels like

  They told me 

Fly like a bird, they said all

Be like the sound you want to hear

Be like a sportsman, set the intention, precision

Then play like a dream and run like the wind

Sing you, sing like the moon, play as the risen lark

 

Dream like the artist who grew this art

Who painted their soul and drew the Gods

Of unknown lands far away

That are unlike, unloved, untouched

Until revealed

 

But a musician favours playing like anything but themselves

Because playing like is painting by numbers

Impressive, professional like but a replica of another soul

Easier

 

Let the simile fade with the blackened night

I played the moon, I played the birds

I sang the love and the death

Because I am also unlike any

None will play my moon again

But all shall feel like the thought of a silent unsung song yet to be played

A Curiosity

A curiosity comes

And then it goes as soon as I realize

All I’m curious about has less than an explanation

No one knows what I desire to know

It’s not for me to ask what or how or why

It’s for me to do great, live well

Then die.IMG_1457

Courier of the soul- A poem

Performing is delivering a gift

From writer to reader, composer to listener

You decide the path and perhaps the packaging

But you leave the gift at the front door

Ready to be discovered, unwrapped and cherished.

The package was in your care

Responsible for its preservation

You may enjoy the recipients reaction

But you are not the gift itself

You yourself aren’t the pleasure you provide

Music is the gift and you are

Giver, lover, traveler and believer

Hattie Butterworth

The Artists

Yet another poem to help the days flow by and keep myself motivated on arty things! 

  



The artists learnt to love before they could draw. 

The drawing came easy, loving was the chore

Judged, destroyed, rejected, criticised

It would seem the love had gone from inside
The artists learnt to listen before they could play

The playing came easy but the listening would say

‘That was horrific- play it again’ so again they would try

But trying didn’t work so the artists would cry
The artists learnt to live before they could act

The acting was easy but the living slapped back

When most people live they don’t have to ‘do’

But the doing was the acting, so their living was too
The artists learnt to feel before they could write

The writing came easy but the feeling was… Shite 

They wrote what they felt but when feelings all were gone

They’d write someone else’s to prove nothing was wrong 
The artists learnt to smile before they could dance

The dancing came easy but the smiling was pants

A smile always expected from each pretty face

Until the smiles weren’t natural, but in a darker place
Before the art, learnt to love, listen, live, feel and smile

These things came first, their art took a while

So if their art be absent, or taken once more

True artists have all learnt how to be sure

That the love for their art will never die 

However deep it goes, it will return to fly high

But should the loving, listening, living, feeling and smiling hide

The artists will find what they learnt  first, what made the art, on the inside

Why poetry is the music in words and my obsession with half rhyme

Am I embarrassing you? I’m in Paris with you.

I don’t know why the sounds of half rhyme excite me so much. My favourite poems appear to be those that follow no set pattern and adopt a more imperfect tone and rhyme scheme. Perhaps it’s the predictability of perfect rhyme that loses my attention- I like this abstract idea of manipulating words. It’s a similar idea to the expressionist and modern composers. The idea that no rules need be followed, but through the half rhyme the poetic quirkiness is not lost!