Not a poem but a….

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Art

From Chimera Poetry 🙂

Chimera Poetry

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Artist: one who creates art

art·ist

Spelled [ahr-tist

a person who produces works in any of the arts that are primarily subject to aesthetic criteria.

2.

a person who practices one of the fine arts, especially a painter or sculptor.

3.

a person whose trade or profession requires a knowledge of design, drawing, painting, etc.: a commercial artist.

4.

a person who works in one of the performing arts, as an actor, musician, or singer; a public performer: a mime artist; an artist of the dance.

5.

a person whose work exhibits exceptional skill.

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I am an artist.

It has taken me a lifetime to say this without blushing.

Without looking around for someone sniggering.

To not say it in an affected voice or to make light of it. An artist is one who creates art.

Not only great art. Not only popular art.

Not…

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Nightmare 1

ailsacawley

You think you’re one of the beautiful people.

Dare to imagine you can be one of us!!

No didn’t, never once

hadn’t contemplated that until you said

and still the answer was no

Not like them. I read books, so it made me odd, stood out

imagination marked me different, the reject in the factory

they commonly called school.

Made to stand in the bin, where rubbish belongs

voice of a cackling medusa like creature

who was purported to be an oracle, of knowledge

how could any child learn kindness

from a teacher who showed only childish cruelty?

Like pulling the legs from an insect to see

how long till it dies

You’d watch your victims, waiting

I could have made you stop I know

but damned if you’d ever see me cry, no matter

what you did, mind or body

words, jeers, slaps, pinches, no tears.

Granted, I could…

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All We Need

DoubleU = W

you are the warmth on my face,

the breeze brushing my skin,

the cooling storm on a hot day,

the shade in the patch of woods,

the rain dripping from leaves,

you are all that brings life,

and you are all we need

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The End

Chimera Poetry

This is the end.
The paved road stops here.
I have searched out the paths and the passwords
 the highways and right ways
 and talked the talk,
all golden tickets sought out and coveted,
yet they all crumbled
leaving my purse empty and my fingers green with the falsehoods smearing off of them
and I am…
tired.
I have expanded myself to be heard 
to be seen 
to be taken seriously
not for a ride
or at face value
and still the on the job training fell too short
and I have been invited to wander once again.
 
Good bye
good luck
good riddance….
 
I will no longer reach out
no longer expand.
I will contract instead to feel my experience
my self
at its purest
its most powerful.
A stars last breath is its brightest
and instead of begging for a map to the neon lit crowd…

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Listen to the trees

ailsacawley

It sounds crazy I know
but listen, No really listen to the trees
As they accept the storms, all weathers.
Knowing that the storms pass
Aware they must sway with the breeze
not fight it and stand against it,
but gently bend and flow
Sometimes they are whipped about looking almost beyond survival,
yet still they stay and endure
Only deciding to fight back when it’s necessary
When they are beyond anything other.
After all the peace and bending is done they whip back,
in this process, sometimes snapping a little
Even fatally
Mostly they endure, till the wind finds a new source for it’s ire
Leaving them in peace, solid and proud again

Ailsa Cawley 2015

Ailsa

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