A little bit of sunshine {poeTry}

by: a.paige

a little bit of sunshine–

is it all we need

to coax a flower down a muddy field?

does it make a difference

that a gem is hidden in a rotting heap,

or that a bowl of rice appear

in tiny hands that multiply, then drop, like flies–

has our world really become a better place for it? 

still, we try...

the kind words tossed 'tween me and you

like icing, are they enticing?–

that we'd treat each other nice this way around...

the genuine smiles and joys devoid of sound,

do they really resound

much louder than all the rounds

of applause and rubbing faces, or kissing asses?

or are we just beguiled and disoriented, as we switch our ups and downs...

but we rebound...

when we're soaked in piss, knee-deep in shit

does a bit of sunshine really lift

all the gook off our slimy pits?

a warm hello, a hug goodbye...

do these make up for what makes us cry?

a gentle kiss for all our griefs

to lighten up our load–

does it convince our leaden souls again to bleed,

despite our sins? and, yet, we breathe...

Forgive they say, at least, to dispel despair

i raise a toast, instead, and say, "inhale

the air and swish a wand... invisible...

magic is invincible... a quip, a cup

of wits... words intrigue, you know.

amuse a funny bone, create a song

cajole the mind, bewitch with poems

to right the wrongs... to tame the beast, 

this terrible and beautiful thing we live...

so what if a rose has thorns?

or if sticks and stones

should break our bones,

as we stagger without the swagger, all broken and bewildered–

must the spirit succumb?

lest it lingers and ingest the seas and drown...

but to span the time and survive its scorn! –no need to be reborn...

the tides, the full moon brings–

might wash ashore the filth, the lies, we'll see...

should we shine a bit of light then

to disarm our fears?

we can only try, we can only try

to convince our souls...

alight.

Nothing More To Say... (poeTry)

by: a.paige

What to write today,
there's nothing much to say.
"Eyes on the prize," violet's mum berates...
as her daughter masticates.

What to do today,

there's nothing much at bay...

Don't ask me if he prays,

but to Neverland he escapes.

Wonka finds his first gray...

his life's work has no heir...

until he spots a Bucket,

who kept out of his hair.

An old lady without a mane

who has fully paid her way...

now waits there, not to pray;

she has nothing more to say.

A newborn without a name,

his future lies ahead...

Will he face it (take it)—will he pray?

or to Neverland, would he stay?

What to write today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure if you'll just pray... (sit there...)

but best be on my way...

Much to write today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure which way to take,

but best be on my way.

Much to do today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure which way you'll take,

you'll know as you go your way.

Rose Garden.

by: a.paige

Go on. It's okay. You are well now, though you are the sixth child. You have been healed. For whatever reason, life didn't deliver the child before you.

Your mother is reborn; you meant every word you said. The weeding was tough, as though you gutted yourself..., yanking at your heart, which you held even tighter. Oh, the thorns! Still you trusted your mind and did not let it close..., letting it be guided by which you tried so hard to protect..., strengthening their bond, even as you began to release them... The mind and the heart in perfect union now, yet still allowed full independence. To think..., to act..., to feel..., to shed tears... To live again. You watered the barren ground and created a garden. And in offering your heart, your mother has revived hers. You gave her a garden, and a rose has grown there since.

Go on. It is all right now. Grow a rose garden. Write. Paint. Create. There is no one way. But act on it, as with anything else. Go ahead. Plant your seeds. Dig... Water... Prune... Then watch your garden grow.

***For her name is Rose, dedicated to my mother.

Rolling...stoned, la Chanteuse. [poeTry]

by: a.paige

She's so damn bored, she's toned...
She rolls right in so toned...
Yes, she's toned, alright, so stoned.

She screams, “I grew up, I grew up, I'm free!
Independence, ice cream, and mee!
Smile, stretched wide..., it’s mee!

Her followers fuss, “Don’t hate!”

So the legs are spread once more...

She's an artist after all, she’s bored.

So damn bored, she’s toned...

She rolls right in, so blind...

We overthink it, she just does it, so stoned.

The rest of the world, meanwhile,

can’t afford a blind eye this time...

The maidens and the children cry out...

violated by the pervs' cold hands.

They cry out in pain...in vain...

While she s...creams, “It’s mee, It’s mee!

I grew up, I grew up, I’m free!

Molly and Teddy, and mee!”

So spread those legs... High Five!

Don’t think about your goal in life

To make a stand AINT the role to play

Just smile, be yourself..., be mee!

The rest of the world, meanwhile,

can’t afford a blind eye this time...

The maidens and the children cry out...

So spread your wings..., reach out.

Maybe she's really just steeped in pain...

If only she would stretch her hands for help,

not hide behind her painted smile...

Her naked veil reveals the irony.

A real artist, she, her father spews.

Molly and Teddy, stewed...

Maybe he’s right, take a gum to chew.

But the rest of us can see right through.

Emily, Emiy, where aRT thou? [POETry]

by: amica paige


Emily, Emily, where aRT thou now?
Can you hear us? Can they see us,
those with you—
are Poe and Bukowski?

We wring our guts from the foods we ate
We swallowed a rock we can't digest
The sharpest parts stabs our chests
We choke our tears to gasp for breath

Lost at sea, what have we chased?—
The seeds we'd tossed—have the beanstalks raised
the beast that slays the golden sun?
The rotten egg has spoiled the fun.

Our faces drawn—a bitter frown
Our heads, weighed down—a painted crown
Is it just us? We must have made
a wrong turn somewhere there...

We've meant to change this course we're on
If we turn here, will we stay long?
“I'll be your guide,” I hope you say—
Please don't mind me say.

Emily, Emily, where aRT thou now?
Can you see us? Can they hear us,
those with you—
are Poe and Bukowski?

The Muse At The Seams. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Perpetual disarray.
Discombobulated
and knotted hair.
A feet of floss
for an inch of green...
Broccoli...parsley,
all else in between.
You peered in the mirror,
so as not to be seen.
A fleet of Albatross!—
your flitting mind screamed.
You knelt down right
before you jumped in.
The morning shower
you now lingered in...
thoughts discomfiting
and late lunch sans cream.

A peek at thy thoughts show
the muse at the seams...

Still Life... Or Calm Before The Storm. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Ominous sky outside.
Dark clouds surrounding us.
Yet the preachers preach their thing,
and the audience, and the leaves, hang still.
A storm must be brewing near.

Unlike the APPles...red and green,
the brushes—all frayed, unseen...
Yet the hands like to draw neat things,
though the air 'round here stays still.
A storm must be brewing near.

Today is done. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Today is done.
Nothing else to be sung.
We shall close our eyes
one two many times to-night
We begin the descent this eve
and fall into another deep sleep
We shall rest like this,
we’re designed like it.
Then we rise again,
and on and on again.

Home [poeTry]

by: amica paige


you're a bird,
guided by moonlight,
calling the wind

you're a bird,
perched on the crowns
of elms and evergreens

you're a bird,
riding with time,
spanning the seas

you're a bird,
soaring the heavens,
spreading your wings

you're a bird,
roaming the world,
but the air is your home.

This Is Our Song

 by: amica paige

Just because you’re caught

Doesn’t make things right

The people are hurt,

the children are dead

When you pulled that trigger

and lit that cooker.

Just because you’re dead
Doesn’t make things fine

Those who remained—a part of them died

When you pulled that trigger
and lit that cooker.

But because you‘re caught

There’s one less dirt

No one gets hurt,

no child will die...

until one of your kind

looses his mind...

And because you’re dead

There’s one less scum

Nobody gets hurt,

no child will die

Until one of your kind

looses his mind...

And because we’re here

All of US hear

The havoc you man,

the destruction we see

Yet for life,

we stand.

For Boston, we stand. For Newtown, we stand. For New York we stand.

For the children, we stand. For the women, we stand.

For the voiceless, the helpless, and the blood of the innocent, we stand.

Because despite all our differences, we stand. For life.

This is our song. Though our bodies may fail, our spirits prevail.

Life overcomes evil.

To IG or not to IG - that is the question...

..and the dilemma. We should have seen it coming. Of course, the usual course of things once they’ve grown from their humble beginnings is to protect their interests and keep a firm hold of their properties, even others’, in some cases, unfortunately, or not.

To illustrate, let’s say a toaster suddenly decides to merely warm a slice of bread without the bread owner’s permission. (For simplicity’s sake, let’s not ask if the owner is actually the baker, or we’d complicate the picture and mess up any allusion herein.) Or let’s say the same toaster suddenly starts burning all the bread that enters its slots without the owner’s permission, and the owner happens to be the same person who put the toaster to good use in the first place, which is really a sort of employment; and if that toaster could speak, I would highly suggest that it thank its person. Now the person finds himself/herself in a jam that should have never occurred in the first place, since it could actually have been helped, if only the toaster hadn’t entertained any wild ideas. Plus the person doesn’t even like jam in his/her sandwich.

So should the owner stick with its toaster and their shaky relationship due to the latter’s questionable reliability, and perhaps suffer even more severe burns in the future? Remember, anything is possible. Or should the person dump the toaster, which has become too big for its own good, and sever the bond they once shared. Now the toaster claims to have ownership of the owner’s bread, and God forbid it goes for the person’s head next. If it were your bread, what would your person do? Keep your head in mind as you figure this out.

One way to deal with this knotty situation is to take a different slant. Let’s take a look at creativity, for example. While thieves, impostors, and copycats continue their acts of thievery, forgery, and all manners of trickery, all the real creatives—the true owners of original artistic expressions, executed through various mediums and under the guidance of their creative visions—will have only been consumed by their own new projects. They’re always onto their next novel thing, innovating while trying to keep up with and stay true to their visions. True creatives are carried ever forward by this creative flow. There is no stopping this natural creative process. It is an endless overflow that only goes towards the direction of its own unadulterated, creative spirit; and that, my friends, can never be manufactured nor fabricated. ‘It is what it is’; creativity is, though you have to forgive me for the tired, old cliché.

Then again, reality hits and gravity holds our feet to keep us from our lofty ideas and ideals. Maybe I should sleep on this one after I create a few more images over milk and cookies, and a pot of Joe. Then I can decide if I should stay, or I should go. What do you plan to do with your Instagram account, knowing that it is now Facebook's property?