Poetry by the Underground Poets

WORDS  by Aesthete

 

Words as an art form

the lure of the Underground

mystery within

Page 1

Look deep inside
with nothing to hide.
What do you find
in the crevices of the mind?
Deep sultry hues
inspired by a muse;
hopes and dreams
lined up in teams,
ready for action,
or controlled by a faction;
uncontrolled imagination
waiting to spread satisfaction;
creativity waiting to charge,
to live life large?
Look deep inside
and no longer hide
the treasures you store.
Let the light shine through the open door.
Let the world find you soul baring
ready for your turn--sharing.

What brings your fingers to the keys,
bares your soul so the world sees?


What burns in your mind
until the words you find
to set the thoughts free
like the wind in a tree?


Is it a love still burning,
that leaves your mind churning?


Is it gross injustice in the world political
showing "leaders" to be hypocritical?


Is it a memory of time past
charted poetically to make it last?


Is it pent-up indignation
for a cause given no consideration?


Is it the desire to re-live and to share
heated romantic intimacies, to dare?


Is it a longing for sharing,
to know someone is reading and caring?


Is it the empowerment of text,
the written word, wondering what's next?


Is it the release and relief
from hidden thoughts, a belief?


Is it the desire to tell a tale,
a tiny moment, or one as big as a whale?


What about you?


Do you care to reply
and to share what pushes your buttons,
the motivation on which you rely?


What about you?

Poetry,
thoughts compressed,
words arranged;
questioning,
searching,
debating,
reaching.

When does it become
more than a word collection
on the page, the sum
of love and emotion,
a lyric to hum,
a true connection?

When the words are read,
the thoughts explored,
everything said
not ignored,
the soul fed,
balance restored.

Poetry,
structured rhythm,
perfect rhyme,
or free expression,
any time,
a true meeting of the minds,
yours and mine, sublime.

All in a day--
a difficult task,
don't even ask,
but then the ring of the phone,
just the right voice, the right tone;
then warm email messages, looking for answers
till the transient mood blurs
from blah to blue to ecstatic;
does that make me erratic?

Sometimes
we need a reminder
that we alone
are our "joy-finder."

Sometimes
we need a kick
in the pants
to re-start the "tick."

Other times,
thank God for the pat
on the back,
the "tit-for-tat."

Best times,
not alone,
searched out, found
by a determined one.

Did you write
on scraps of paper,
cocktail napkin at the bar,
an opened envelope,
even the back of the checkbook,
the lined pages of a spiral notebook,
or lovely blank pages of a bound book?


Like the dark ages,
or cave painting on the wall,
that old familiar scrawl
transitioned to the computer keyboard
in miraculous readable form,
magical communication
of the day's thoughts.


Now I'd be stymied,
creative flow stalled,
if I couldn't tap lightly
on those marvelous black keys.

...from reality,
words said,
better unsaid,
stress of the day,
no time for play.


The keyboard listens;
light glistens
on each surface;
typed words confess
what lies in our soul,
how we play our role.


Escape, for a moment,
comfort, the intent.

Sharing
a thought
releases
the doubt,
confirming
that the idea
existed

Yesterday

what was so momentous,
explosively troubling,
putting the brain in a tizzy,
causing one to be
upset and distraught,

today

is just a tiny speck
to whisk away,
obliterated by time
and light of
a brand new day.

...clutches
at the psyche,
threatening
the pleasant
plan of life
the mind's eye sees.


Certain destiny
eludes
syllogistic logic.


Only imagination,
creative interpretation
frees the spirit,
lets it soar,
turning dream
to reality,
banishing
uncertainty.

Being all things
to all people
sometimes
requires
more than one
phone line,
plus a cell phone,
plus call waiting,
caller ID,
plus patience
and wisdom,
multi-tasking
and juggling skills
to keep all the balls
in motion
simultaneously.
Being all things
is demanding,
but ultimately
rewarding.

...captured,
forever
ours.
No need
for
flowers,
existential
powers.
A tender
hug,
the heart
soars.

...silken shades of gray,
deep contrasting shadows,
light interplay.
cocked fedora,
long-haired fur
over a sequined gown;
a night on the town
for him and for her.
A passionate kiss
in a dark doorway,
her face lit by the moon,
no words to say.
Gun shots ring out,
danger reigns;
the PI protects her,
unholsters his weapon, feigns
no fear, as the AMC
film from the forties
shifts gears to murder
rather than nightclub parties.

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