Expressions Creativity through spoken words.
'When a writing community is needed.
A Blocked Out Poetry'
By Veleta Hayles
Her historical novel two months ago- Vouge.
Wrote thinking,
I managed six weeks instead of including at four o’clock.
Free family aggressively surf the net.
Noticed how happy we were.
For the time being
What, twitter and Instagram perfect essential self-control?
I lose out of school day – Even better.
Its far easier up two people furiously.
Typing the cat sat on the mat.
My first draft. Its difficult. A plot line at around the third of the way.
New writers – self-sabotage.
Script and shiny ideas.
This countless manuscript– why?
Working with writers is unspoken.
Won’t allow other editing.
Clunking one end.
Oh my God!
This pair of utter pants bound to cry.
Its only story imagined.
Beginning starts, it’s tough keeping up.
Faith idea support when we hit a brick wall.
Storming themes, names titles before we rented
The beautiful estate.
Run walk, backdrop buy coffee from little restaurant.
Navigate tab More: blog and online bookings.
Awakening Truths
Like wisdom.
Everyday growing strength.
News with phrase predicted decades.
Thank God.
Simple exonerated.
Conduct, love ending Okay.
Making those hardest edges practically perfect.
Oh, Pretence What Next?
I am here for a reason.
I am here for a purpose.
I am here because I believe— that is ideal.
That to be me is safe.
That to be me is not wishful thinking.
Who
It absorbs at my heels.
It dispatches at my heels.
It falls at my heels.
I bent and picked this up from heels.
Pretence is not like believing.
Pretence is not the same as reality.
Pretence shapes the outside because it wants to prove itself.
A Plot, A Happy
Hopping is a child's play.
But it is not always a child's play.
It could be happening because I'm sad.
Hopping is a strange word.
It has many meanings.
it rhymes with clapping.
Happy, hopping, clapping.
I'm potting the plants. I'm happy.
Stop. Look at me potting the plants.
I'm happy when I'm clapping.
The Dungeon
Scaled heights — Below.
It is hell Below.
Beneath the derbies — is Below.
Under the shed — is Below.
Down — there Below.
It is dark. It is sad. It is bad Below.
Tried to make it glad Below.
It is sad Below.
'Unfed'
Tic, Tac.
Like light, it went pop.
It stopped before it dropped.
Then it laid still.
It ran and still,
Spurting and lurking awkwardly.
And stopped; pop.
A light flashed.
Flop into a cowshed.
Heavy like led.
It laid with the unfed.
When it spilled, it yelled, then fell.
The clock stopped the light,
Flip, flop.
Lurking, jerking,
Light in flashing cowshed.
'Still, I Rise'
By
MAYA ANGELOU
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still, I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past, that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
'
Night Angels
It is evening going into the night.
Biting and aspiring.
Shaping looking into the night.
Free from obstructions.
Might be a thought I treasured.
Not out of spite.
But necessity.
Seventy days and one extra year.
Standing at the place I know so well.
Should it be that it is happening to me?
Maybe not.
In stillness the sounds of angels.
If so what else was there to see.
Resigned that today might not change.
Another day will come..
Another night will shine.
Where will it find me?
Sighing or shining?
Whatever it might be.
No one except those that leave their shells.
Another moment left bare.
Indecisiveness surely will not bother me.
Reaching is my desire.
Hoping, it will come.
Clearer once the mist is gone.
Evening comes and gone like the hares floating in the wind.
Fluttering merriment.
So will the night be a little later?
World Poetry Series: Shivanee Ramlochan and Enrique Winter
https://www.poetry-festival.co.uk/podcast/57-world-poetry-series-shivanee-ramlochan-and-enrique-winter/
'Experience a basic book launch online or face to face'