Two Years of Words Much Like Poetry
Amazingly, for me, the two year anniversary of Words Much Like Poetry is a few short weeks away. Laughably, at the time I began this blog, I knew nothing of blogging and were it not for my cousin, I would likely still be ignorant of it. So, with her guidance and encouragement Words Much Like Poetry came into being.
Self-evolution is a wholly necessary, unavoidable fact of life and as I evolved the blog evolved—where I'm concerned the evolution was a marked moving from hiding behind the pseudonym Gladys Moore to the use of my real name, moving from the simplistic introspection of a five year long relationship gone bad into far more riotous concepts and imagery, to conceiving the true course I wish to chart for Words Much Like Poetry. However, I'll be keeping mum about what my goal is for the blog. There are a great many things that need to be done to accomplish that goal and regrettably I'm the superstitious sort. I believe it entirely possible to jinx a thing by speaking of it before it is fully realized. :)
In the coming weeks, reader, expect to see some of my and Antony's favorite poems being re-posted within article-like entries (I know how hard it can be to read through an ever growing list of posts and there are some poems that I feel shouldn't be overlooked).
Also, as the year itself draws towards its close, I would like to say a resounding "Thank you and happy holidays!" to all of our readers and followers. As well, I'd like to say thank you to Antony for agreeing to co-author this blog with me. Words Much Like Poetry would not be what it is now without you. Last, but certainly not least, thank you to our guest authors. I am honored that you chose us as a forum for your work.
Blessings,
Mũhu
P.S. We have a new writer on our team. I give you the Merovingian.
brief glances, imparted under flirtatious design,
the sizing of possibility's true measure,
drift irrepressible speculations to the forefront
of a perplexedly sensual mind.
those musings—of scalding pressure,
applied in desperate finesse,
to the gracious curves of woman's bend—
set nervous lips to smiling in frank longing
as pins prick blushed and dimpled cheeks.
it is not that i do not thirst for knowledge
or pay mind to the concept of the day,
but at times it seems as if that territory,
that place where issues coalesce then spill forth,
is as foreign to me as the moon.
i cannot expound in writ upon the dark man,
about the drudgery that was enforced upon him,
and the poverty that then befell him.
nor can i construct rhetoric,
drawn of a century and more,
whereupon the grand tale of his struggle to find dignity
in a world which seemed designed to vilify him
would find me acclaim.
only in spoken exchange can i extol my thoughts
on how he has redefined his talents,
the dark man is no longer a universal object of disparagement,
now he is close friend and perfect complement
to that which was held pedestaled above
the reach of his competent palm.
and the ability that was always his due,
as it is woman's due,
has not stopped old glory
from snapping sharply in the breeze.
time streams forward,
a winding procession that no longer plays of suffering,
the myriad disappointments have rested eternal
and the discontentment of the last few ages
has faded out,
soft strings plucked in sharp concord.
oddly, though, no true claim of authorship
exists upon happiness,
too much of the legend of my sensibilities
remains unwritten.
they are no less consuming,
these immense volumes of shelved feeling,
no less a much sited source of tribulation
in this new interim.
my heart persists as a multi-faceted jewel,
chiming fervent prisms about the enclosure
of crimson and ivory which houses it.
my wishfully soaring soul
survives the cast of still shadows,
ribbons of dark matter that fetter it
to the waste of an unforgiving past.
