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Poetry by Sonya
(salute to paparazzi…)
Bits and Pieces…
Bits and pieces
Taken away from me
Some I've given
Some stolen
Nothing left of me
They shake me like a globe
You know, the ones with snow inside
Feel like those pretty particles
Divided, disconnected
Broken all inside
I'm looking at you
Starin' back at me
As if I am some kinda' "freak"
Or animal
Wanting to be free
Bits and pieces
Nothing left of me
Try to pull myself together
For the sake of those I love
But they refuse to let me be
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Lily-Rose
Lily of the valley
Arises in the morn
Firmly planted
To weather any storm
Determined
inquisitive
face to the sun
Dignity
Grace
The day has come
She blooms
The
petals
of her
imagination
fold open
Right before your eyes
her ideas vivid and bright
the fragrance of her laughter
is sweet
it fills the air
it draws you to her
but
she
must be
handled
carefully
her mind
so sharp
prickly
grow, tender one
grow, young one
grow, strong one
into
the
Rose we so enjoy
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(For JD-
From a "Fan of the man…")
I caught a glimpse of your spirit today…
Was it in the laughter of your little girl
Or in the cry of your newborn son
Or in the eyes of the woman
Whose love you've won
It seemed to laugh and cry at the same time
It seemed lonely, and yet, not alone
Afraid and scared and secure and loved
With one foot resting and one foot down
I heard it in a song
Played on the radio
I saw it in the eyes of a homeless man
with nowhere to go
I caught a glimpse of your spirit today…
In the laughter of friends
And in their play on words
Creativity, joviality
Words twisted and bent
Your spirit is aloft
Unattainable and free
Moving in and out
Soaring on the breeze
Going where it may
Not too far from home
A spirit that is restless
Bound and determined to roam
I caught a glimpse of your spirit today…
It was in the joy, the laughter, and the pain
It was bound and determined; it was soaring and free
And I, like you, understand these things
For you see, you are Everyman to me
Obsession
By Cloutier
Not idol
Never say idol
That is not a description highly loved.
But rather, use descriptions of your own
For mine are tainted with other thoughts
Dreams
Obsession
Fantasies
I'd like to think I'm better than the other millions out there
That if I came face to face with my obsession
I would keep a cool head.
Discuss art, theater and poetry over a cup of coffee.
But I don't even drink coffee.
My visions of the moonlit lobby of an abandoned hotel in Paris
Of the ferns in the corner, The pale green sofas on the red wine rug.
The phonebooths in the west wall, screened in by glass doors
The counter, with coffee and cappuchino makers behind it.
Brass bar stools, with black vinyl cushions.
And us, sitting on the stools, at the counter.
Sipping coffee from our rounded mugs.
Discussing art, theater, and poetry.
All stolen from pictures I've seen,
Interview's I've heard
Biographies I've read.
He was wearing a brown jacket
Thrown on quickly over a wrinkled white shirt,
Most likely worn the day before.
I was wearing grey
Concealing my thoughts in a knee-length duster.
But now those dreams run like sidewalk chalk in a rainstorm,
And drift down through the sewers that brought them there.
He is a person, not this idea we hold him up to be.
He would not be touched by a chance meeting in a hotel lobby
He would not remember me if I wrote him a birthday card.
In all our minds, we cannot separate the job from the man.
His characters carry the essence of torment,
The silent mystery that drew us in.
Who knows what breaks the silence, who has been inside the walls?
None of us, that is why I am ashamed.
For in all but the name, I hold him as idol.
Never say idol.
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