Tag: creativity

Blue Rose

vagabondprophet:

First date I brought you a blue rose

You said nobody had ever given you one before.

A blue rose?

No.

A flower.

I couldn’t believe it,

You, my pride and joy

My flower everblooming.

I’ll spend my days being your soil,

Pruning bits that

Hinder growth.

It’ll be different for our daughter.

I’ll see to it.

One day a boy will knock for her,

Baring a flower in his hands.

Our daughter will say,

“That’s it, just one?,

Thanks but no thanks

I’ll stick with my daddy,

He knows I’m worth much more.”

– Vagabond Prophet

@delightfulharmonypoetry

Hell’s Hallowed Howl

Created like clear running water

Either joining up to marry a greater body

Or going still and murky in marshy mires.

Designed to age like a spider,

Which is to say well

But with a web that tells a story.

My tongue intentionally sits

Uncomfortably in its fractured saddle

Amidst broken teeth and words

Not yet sharpened.

Destined to wrestle with myself

And the one strand of DNA

That must be made of razor wire.

The anthem of the damned

Cries out loudly

“Freedom!”

Freedom to wander

And freedom to ponder

Freedom of choice and care of consequence.

Is freedom the best desire to have?

Not better to serve a good master

Than serve only myself?

I answer this question

In the negative to find I am

A bird that would fly

But grounded by weighty bones,

Having not had the lead yet hollowed out

By painful but saving tools.

By design I am the battlefield

Between Hells Hallowed Howl

And Heavens Terrible Goodness.

Both at times whispering,

Both at times shouthing,

And both at all times

Vying for my soul.

By design I trust in Goodness

Though it does not shimmer

Though it dances less entrancingly,

For its promise to pull out razor wire

And extract lead from my bones.

Though the Howl dances beautifully

Shines brilliantly and sings convincingly,

How to trust something

That only promises my desires

As though there is nothing greater?

By design,

Is a question I can not answer.

– Vagabond Prophet

– Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “By Design.”

Thirty Two

vagabondprophet:

Thirty Two years old

And he’s really gone.

Body beautifully adorned

And underground.

What now life?

What will you do now?

Will you strike me down

Or make me endure this?

Future I can’t see

Evasive and ever changing,

The past never changes

But tortures every moment.

The present sharpens

And blunts me

In equal measure,

Useless for every task at hand.

How will I scrape

Out an existence,

If grief sands me down

To a featureless stone.

Blunt and sharp in equal measure,

Useless for every task at hand.

– Vagabond Prophet

Spitting off the cliffside
Watch it break its membrane
And widen its trajectory
From the green rock below
To everything, simply everything.

All I can think of now is how
Last time you did this
You spat whole planets into being.

Vagabond Prophet

Blue Rose

First date I brought you a blue rose

You said nobody had ever given you one before.

A blue rose?

No.

A flower.

I couldn’t believe it,

You, my pride and joy

My flower everblooming.

I’ll spend my days being your soil,

Pruning bits that

Hinder growth.

It’ll be different for our daughter.

I’ll see to it.

One day a boy will knock for her,

Baring a flower in his hands.

Our daughter will say,

“That’s it, just one?,

Thanks but no thanks

I’ll stick with my daddy,

He knows I’m worth much more.”

– Vagabond Prophet

@delightfulharmonypoetry

vagabondprophet:

Percolator Love

You’ve been percolating

Just for me,

While I imitate life.

When I’m weary and afflicted

From a fitful sleep, fears reoccurred,

You’re waiting for me.

Epitome of bittersweet,

Bitter enough I need you,

Sweet enough I want you.

Electrify my mind,

Like soul adrenaline

I’ll dance if you ask.

Could we be like before?

When I’d stay up all night,

Just to be with you?

Nowadays more like a crutch,

Keeping weariness at bay

And I hate that.

I want the excitement again

Of first love’s

First sip.

But coffee my dear,

How ever far you stray

You still make my day.

– Vagabond Prophet

Jigsaw

How can I be happy

With the world at large?

I know better,

I’ve seen the box

This puzzle came with,

Have you?

Pieces scattered everywhere,

People mistaking blue backing

For sky.

Newspapers for clouds,

Writing on the wall

For anything but

Writing on the wall.

– Vagabond Prophet

Definition


What is a writer?

A thoughtsmith

Shaping words

With heat and strength

Into something you can wield.

Sometimes a sword

Sometimes a candlestick.

A poet much the same

But more nonsensical,

Like a soldier

Who dances into battle.

No less effective

Just different.

If you do it well enough

It can be understood

In every language

Like “Coffee” or “Mama”,

And maybe just maybe

Make people wonder

If we’re made for something different.

– Vagabond Prophet