Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul.
~Henry Van Dyke, The Prison and the Angel~
~~CARVED AND KNIFED BY ART~~
MARIONETTE
Secret soul in limb of wood, carved by human hands
Adorned symbolic garment, moved by stringed commands
Dancing for the piper, bowing for the crowds
From the hands, that hold the strings...freedom is allowed
Smile set and timeless, painted gaze endures
Swaying to the music...both wild and demure
Coolest skin of deadwood, carved and knifed by art
Tranquil in the shadows....sap of bleeding heart
After final curtain, boxed and out of sight
Locked away in darkness, days roll into nights
Can anybody see her tear as she is left alone?
With splintered hand....I touch my eye....because it is my own
Ahhhh Lady A!
From when I first started writing I was told that the best poetry is made up of words from the heart, and I have since believed this to be true. From your words it is plain to see what a beautiful heart you have my friend!! This goes in my library! Fantastic!
Secret soul in limb of wood, carved by human hands
Adorned symbolic garment, moved by stringed commands
Dancing for the piper, bowing for the crowds
From the hands, that hold the strings...freedom is allowed
Smile set and timeless, painted gaze endures
Swaying to the music...both wild and demure
Coolest skin of deadwood, carved and knifed by art
Tranquil in the shadows....sap of bleeding heart
After final curtain, boxed and out of sight
Locked away in darkness, days roll into nights
Can anybody see her tear as she is left alone?
With splintered hand....I touch my eye....because it is my own
I tried to find one line to highlight but I couldn't this is exceptional.. The deep saddness is felt.. from the first word to the last.. Bravo!!
Margaret Kohel Evans invites her mother's grandchildren to a delightful visit with their grandmother, sharing charming memories of her across eighteen life themes.
This book has been eight years in the making. It is mostly a jumble of thoughts written down in old spiral notebooks and hidden in the bottom drawer underneath various manuals for software packages and hardware long since turned obsolete.
My memories as an immigrant professional woman in Ottawa, Canada 47 years ago. A new life after having survived the liberal war of a new country Bangladesh on December 16, 1971.
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From when I first started writing I was told that the best poetry is made up of words from the heart, and I have since believed this to be true. From your words it is plain to see what a beautiful heart you have my friend!! This goes in my library! Fantastic!
Jack
enjoyed much
William
Love Tinka
One of your best I think.
~Chrissie
Secret soul in limb of wood, carved by human hands
Adorned symbolic garment, moved by stringed commands
Dancing for the piper, bowing for the crowds
From the hands, that hold the strings...freedom is allowed
Smile set and timeless, painted gaze endures
Swaying to the music...both wild and demure
Coolest skin of deadwood, carved and knifed by art
Tranquil in the shadows....sap of bleeding heart
After final curtain, boxed and out of sight
Locked away in darkness, days roll into nights
Can anybody see her tear as she is left alone?
With splintered hand....I touch my eye....because it is my own
I tried to find one line to highlight but I couldn't this is exceptional.. The deep saddness is felt.. from the first word to the last.. Bravo!!
Extremely thought-provoking piece, Anita. And most creative!