creative writing, Poems, Poetry

Sono contenta a Venezia

Le mélange parfait;
l’histoire, l’art, l’eau, la beauté.
If I impulsively bit fruit,
I could surely daydream there.

Boat rides had I for endless miles,
Denied the existence of sighs
Because t’was perfect, so divine;
I had to say goodbye to time.

I was indeed elated there,
Contenta was I among canal.
I have to say I had no fear
Although I was alone in crowd,
The Doge’s palace was my home.

Delighted I in les beaux arts,
Churches were carved by artisans,
Dramatic were religious scenes
And golden, gilded beams were seen.
La grande piazza,
La bella piazza.

Wander down spirited streets;
Alive and sparkling every way.
To the gallery tucked away.
Experience, live, enjoy the art;
pure portraits of beautiful nudes.

I bit the awful, tempting fruit,
I may have even broken tooth.
But now I live in palace divine
Inside my truly confused mind
And life is so much more than fine.

Boat rides have I for endless miles,
Denying existence of sighs
Because tis perfect, so divine;
I have to say goodbye to time.

I am always elated here,
Content am I among canal.
I have to say I have no fear
Although I am alone in crowd,
The Doge’s palace is my home.

Copyright © C.M.H July 2014

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creative writing, Poems, Poetry

Darling Dyspraxia

Spidery, illegible handwriting,

Dreadful drawings of stick people,

Difficulty learning to drive,

She struggled to play piano,

Maths equations made her cry.

 

Hand eye-coordination of a dead fish

But even if she misses,

Even if it takes her longer to wash her hair

Don’t call her disabled

Because she is able.

She speaks four languages,

She has the ability

To write poems, stories.

She can ride a horse just fine,

She can ski down black runs just fine.

So calling her disabled would be a crime

Because she is able.

If you heard her sweet soprano voice

I’m sure you would agree with the boy

That she is able.

 

She is content with darling, beloved dyspraxia;

She laughs each time she trips,

She laughs each time she falls,

She laughs each time she knocks.

Her individual, funny quirk;

Another beautiful flaw.

Don’t call her disabled

Because it denies the fact she’s able.

Copyright © C.M.H July 2014

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creative writing, Poetry

Girl Ghost

A girl ghost hidden away for eternity,
Held captive by the night.
Hopeless half glances at Tiffany jewellery.
Arrives no light
From dull silver.

She longs for the mystical beauty of the moon,
Denies the existence of the sun.
And her bed is a cold coffin,
The cemetery is home.
Dims the spark of a grin,
Hair once blonde turns a mousy brun.

Her eyes look down, devoid of sentiment.
Numb is a permanent, animate state.
Once she wanted to be elegant, eloquent.
If only she were another grey squirrel;
All the red squirrel feels is loathing, self-hatred.
A pigeon among swans,
If only she could belong.

No smile can turn a skeleton to life,
No smile can make a ghost alive,
No smile can stop her daily cries.
Wishing the clock’s hand would turn,
Wanting the clock’s hand to turn,
Waiting for the clock’s hand to turn.
Quicker. Faster. Now.
QUICKER. FASTER. NOW.
QUICKER,
FASTER,
NOW.
PLEASE.

It’s all too much, she can’t bear this any longer.
Because she may be strong
But it’s so difficult to survive
When you feel the opposite of alive.
She couldn’t even tell you why
But she knows she doesn’t desire this life
Because she is not really alive;
A skeleton enclosed in a cold coffin,
A girl ghost hidden away for eternity.

This is a poem about how I felt about myself and my life when I was 13/14 when I was at my lowest and was incredibly depressed.

Copyright © C.M.H July 2014

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Music

Dancing to Jimi Hendrix in my kitchen

Of course I adore Corinne Bailey Rae. I think she is very talented, has a great voice and I love her laid back, chilled songs. However, I just realised how much better the original Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix is and have consequently been dancing in my kitchen to various Jimi Hendrix songs as well as spinning around in my chair. If you have not checked out any of Jimi Hendrix’s stuff you really must!  

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creative writing, Poems, Poetry

Painting A Perfect Picture From Memory

A crying river is unleashed
When song reminds her of the truth;
No more eternal, earthly life.
Even now she hasn’t grieved.
Tears tear forever at the page-
If only she recalled her face.

Forever lost
The one who mattered most,
The world.
Like the silver heart charm on the girl’s
bracelet she always wears;
Everlasting tie.

One day she called herself alive
Before her fragile soul had cried
Each memory that had murdered her.
Possible meetings not allowed,
she never thought it was deserved.

A sparkling spring dried up too soon,
A blossom cut down in full bloom-
The end.

No words of very tearful truth;
All she had was awful lies.
And so defies resentfully.
But if she could blissfully soothe,
To heal the heart forever cut;
Goodbye is never.

The blissful botanist once bounced.
Although still remains on the floor
her soul lies inside a pure poem.
The painter paints her perfect picture from memory,
displays it on the mantelpiece of her heart.

All that remains is a pure poem,
a perfect picture painted from memory,
Her eternal, everlasting love.
No resurrection, just history.

She treasures the pure poem she created.
Puts the perfect picture in a platinum frame
Before displaying it on the mantelpiece of her heart.

Copyright © C.M.H July 2014

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creative writing, Poems, Poetry

The Erratic Volcano

A volcanic eruption inside
As lava laces her veins;
Away pain fades.
Depression and shyness defied
And laughter lulls her into sighs.

One day she’s the incarnation of creativity,
Her soul an epic poem.
Next, imagination becomes impulsivity.

Heavenly Helen of Troy
Becomes monstrous Medusa.
The delightful damsel Andromeda
Morphs into defiant Diana.

Venom of lightning burns her blood,
She is struck;
No more life
And floods are the chime;
What has vanished, now crooked.
Sudden impulse- kiss the knife,
Although exists no reason why.

Painful elation recklessly embraced
And wishes that wonderful sadness would fade.

If there were mountain peak inside.
Exists volcano so she sobs
erractically, ectastically, dramatically,
hopelessly, futilely, endlessly.
However intense girl inspired,
Emotion helps enlighten grove.

In spite of moments when she moans,
She recalls it is inspiring
Even if being true is tiring.
At least she is feeling;
She would never delight in living
If she felt nothing.

Copyright © C.M.H July 2014

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