#44 None Other Than...

courtesy: Victoria Herrera

 

We want to claim

lands

that we never

tilled

or explored

but we want it

prepared

so we can reap

its harvest

and begin to

build up our stores

and we want it all

at the drop

of the hand

that passes

a second after

we rob our clocks

of time, it's

most precious

contraband.

We want everything

and we want it

to be perfect

we want

our dreams to be

accomplished

before we even

dream them

we want successes

but deny

the responsibility

it takes

to get from

where we are

to where

we hope to be...

Who are these culprits?

We want to win

the war

without having

first passed

through

a battle

needing more than

we're receiving

and getting less

than what

we're needing

preferring to

skip stages

in life

that render us nothing

but incompletions.

We want our cake

on a platinum

platter

but we have no idea

what makes it edible

we're unconcerned

about the contents

of its batter

we don't want to

make the creation

we just want

the recognition

that comes from

having it displayed

with our picture taken...

Who are these persons?

We want the parts

that bring us to

a leading role of a

play we never

understood.

We never learnt

the lines or

understood

the characters' lives

but it only

takes

a certain number

of figures

or a family's

pride

to

influence a director

to consider someone

as good.

We want the bravos

and the tossed

flowers

yet reject

the art of

the long spent

hours

reciting

a text that

held in each

letter

the exhausting

life of

someone's wearied breath...

Who are these protagonists?

Who are they?

None other than...

  My Inspiration: An Unfinished Poem

 

© KohylahPiper 2015

#20 The Choice

I wish I could pull you out of that rut…

the one you’ve been living in

we all have our own special kind

but its seems that you’ve become

accustomed to staying in

this

dreary atmosphere

you didn’t create

but evolved out of situations in life

and now

you’ve owned it

sitting there

looking into its darkness so long

vacant, alone

you’ve consciously abandoned

then forgot about

that other place

you cherished

called home…

This 
home isn’t the kind

that common walls enclose

it’s not the place associated with

your family’s highs and lows

It’s who you are beneath all of this

confusion and loss

this anger, depression

and cynicism of trust...

It’s the you that existed

in an innocent plot.

It’s the you that

still cradles an essence of love.

It’s the you that is strong enough to

look

.Up...

and

take control of the power

you’ve been given

to get out of that rut

and move on with your life

not looking down again ever

to that hole that you made a haven

of smothered joy

magnified guilt

and aborted prayers

you never believed in enough to utter…

I wish I could pull you out of your rut;

it would be…

my greatest pleasure

but it’s your choice and not my arms,

though outstretched still

that determines if you stay in that gutter.

My Inspiration: Morning conversations

 

© KohylahPiper 2015

#13 Islands, Rise.

The same arms that stretched out of a restful night,

sought to give liberty to aged, wooden shutters,

battered by gale force winds more than twice in their lifetime.

Sensitive, round nostrils still twitched at the residual smell of turpentine,

while fingers,

slower and arthritic, felt for the familiar chill of metal braces.

The rusting steel bolts resisted, but eventually cowered under ginger pressure,

and stiff hinges gave way with each worn creak

to misty rays of light, borne from the east,

that mingled with old friends as they slowly progressed,

poignantly aware of their inevitable demise in the west.

Salty sprays from a rowdy ocean become re-acquainted

with the soft breeze, that lulled sea foam into clandestine coves,

and both, forgetting they had met every single day before,

fell into each other’s beauty once again;

quite gently

and came to finally rest over mahogany cheeks…

lingering,

but for a moment.

The scurry of anxious paws, and scratching feet

both known and unknown began their day

under foliage of green and flaxen tones.

Branches that have danced for generations before,

sway in time to the rhythm of life fluttering above,

below and beside them,

anxious to teach their tribal rhythms to generations to come;

but for the moment, their eclectic beats, ever changing in the easy gusts,

enlighten ears protected by a cotton scarf

tied over thick black plaits, greying ever so lightly.

Bright mauve, burnt orange, sky blue.

Colours have risen out of clay and loam,

dew has bathed them, reaching far and wide over limestone.

Fevergrass and sage have begun to cast their spells,

addictively combined with the scent of freshly baked bread;

and as the globe of fire climbs higher, signalling the hour

for once outstretched arms

to till, to plant, to feed

to carry, to guide, to teach;

a flurry of wings will rest,

and from its perch,

a turtle dove will begin

its haunting morning call.

 My Inspiration: A turtle dove singing outside my window (2014) 

© KohylahPiper 2015