Welcome to my world
I have been writing poetry for the better part of 40 years and decided to begin sharing my words through the encouragement of others.
My inspiration comes from a wide assortment of other poets, (Allan Ginsburg, Gary Snyder, e.e. cummings) novelist and writers, (Jack Kerouac, Harlan Ellison, Issac Asimov) songwriters, (Tom Petty, John Mellancamp, Rickie Lee Jones, Neil Young) and philosophers, (Immanual Kant, Simone de Beauviour, Jean Sartre, Plato). It certainly doesn't place me in any known category, but i would say this mixture, whatever it may taste like, sits well with me.
For me poetry is a process of self-awareness and is intrinsically human in nature and culture. Poetry, as an art form, takes it's meaning first from the writer and then from the reader.
Allen Ginsberg said it best, "Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private."...for me that means the poets voice is ones truth, free from censorship, free from politics, religion and my own judgement, poetry is liberating, and should never be silenced...it is raw, naked, pure and simple.
How one interprets the art of poetry is an immensely personal endeavor. Your interpretation may not be mine, but that is the great thing about poetry and the written word. You will take from it what you want, or simply just leave it.
My view on poetry is simple...I liken it to the experience of a window being broken, I write not to hear the window shatter, but to examine the shards of glass and occasionally draw the shards across my arm to feel the pain, to watch the blood flow, to live in love, anguish, or pain.
Take from them what you wish, cherish them, hate them, love them...feel free to express your deepest emotions with them, and if they move you in the slightest, well...they have done what was intended.
As Rivers Go now available on Amazon.com and Kindle
Very pleased to announce my third book of poetry, As Rivers Go, is now available though Amazon, B&N.com and Kindle
As Rivers Go contains 48 new poems and follows my two previous books of poetry, Agnostic Sins and The Silence Still Screams. Click Here to Purchase
March 23, 2023
Crimson Gold flows into the gutters of humanity
Lost souls and heroes of the past 70 years
They were spat on and hated for what America did
No choices but to do as the world needed.
Left dying in in a pool or neglect and sorrow.
Where do we go, one wonders, what next?
Is it our own destiny to pull apart society,
As we are dictated to bow to the lesser voice
Media bows to it daily, no leaders here
They have gone home, they see no end, other than the obvious.
Somethings never start, they just become
Existence transcends time, and we float on
Maybe an ocean, mighty and everlasting
Or the backyard pool, bounded
But not here, not in this time
As is the ocean, so is the sky
Boundless to thoughts that elevate
I am certainly a madman, naked and free.
Ripples of skipping rocks, tides of the seas
Calmingly destructive, first kiss, a last goodbye
The bittersweet ending of long-agos,
hopes of tomorrows, the rage of all that is between
its now, its never, worn to the bone,
the newness of which is known only once
its water below, air above, wind in your hair, my fingers
dirt under your nails from gardens you grew
fire that stokes the anguish of this beast within
under the moonless night crystalized in darkness
in memories of lingering thoughts,
lasting like ghosts that haunt wicked desire
temptation’s fury, gone to rest upon your granite marker…
…my grave that I stand before … whisper your name
Buried forever you won’t cry out, you won’t be silent
tormenting the memories, no one notices the emptiness
filling this enduring madness.
He pushes his shopping cart down the rutted makeshift sidewalk
Half humming a tune no one else would care to hear
Nothing makes sense in this world of his, but then again, what does
And you, in your hybrid self-indulgence feel sorry for his fate as you trudge off to work
In daily dreams of lethargic trance, not realizing you are any richer
Than some bum with flop soled shoes and one sock, encased in matted human waste
The sun beat leather, one could call it a face, is an inkling of our own mirrored image
If we ever looked closer beneath the makeup we call happiness
Oh, I imagine everyone else must feel blessed, if such a word ever made sense,
But your gods never gave a crap about the pittance of crimpled dollars
Which buy the guilt of your own lost life, as you follow like lemmings
To the coffee pots, that churn away, making the miserable mud even more so.
But keep your eyes on the road, and avert yourselves to the things you call horror
Because those are the very things that are humanity and you have created the borders
And you have become judge jury and executioner to the invisible masses
Who could care not one iota of your ‘freedom’, you will never, if you ever gave life a moment,
You will never… be free, caught in the hysteria of every moment that doesn’t matter
Your own genocide will be the history of your emoji filled dereliction.
We sit against walls, mind and body lost
In suspended animation
Torn shoes dangle from our rotting feet
Cloth hangs lifeless against the shell of our souls
Nowhere to go but this place
Clinging to this brittle mortar
That divides the centuries
No wars have altered these lines
They are etched into our humanity
the walls keep us safe, the walls keep us trapped
we will never see through to the other side
we will never tolerate this coin
it is the same mint, but always two sides
our souls are the tortured, and we are the torturers
tear down the walls we cried years ago
yet the lost are still lost
build up the walls we screamed
and the screams echoed back
we are the visions of years to come
and we have gotten nowhere since;
this dual is our death.
© 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017 by steve a manolis
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