Related quotes: I seem to spell different...

Abracadabra

I seem to spell different words in a way,
These signs are mine, too far away;
Financial worries belittle my blackened life,
Hosing the forest of black and brown so lowlife.
The charcoal in the upper eye contains my vengeance,
Continually it spurts danger at my absence.
Ghosts of coal do demonise the layers in my fabric
Animated by artists that aren’t academic.
My spell of magic and allurement amounts to weakness
Of the animal in me, it is my meekness.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Poets Are Holy Hypocrites

poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse.

they sit for as long as it takes
like terriers at a foxhole

or for second-best practice,
at a rabbit-hole,

totally still, alert, all their powers
poured into attention;

what a lesson dogs
are for humans

then – a movement in
their consciousness; it could be

anything creative – a film, a poem;
and with it comes the sense

of wonder; they are as children
living in an eternal present

of the universe as gift;
they take up their pen or keyboard

and, so carefully, as they
would handle a new-born baby,

write down this spell for that it is
for the benefit of others quite unknown

and then like a christening shawl,
white, soft, handmade with love,

offer it to the world.
then some who believe its magic

read the spell, are reborn
or cured, or restored

to good health and humour
or simply have a good day

while those who don’t believe the spell,
well of course the magic doesn’t work for them

so far so very good. But then
those who aren’t into wanting spells

and have opinions about
their opinions, say, that word is wrong,

so it’s not a magic spell. it’s a bad spell,
in fact it’s not a spell at all

and others who also have opinions
about their opinions, say, that word is right,

so it’s a good and magic spell; and there they are,
all crowded round peering through their

dirty glasses, pushing and shoving and shouting
to get nearer the spell and have their say

and oh dear, there's the poet in there too
saying oh do you really think that

I'd better look at it again
and see if you might be right

and sad to say, some poets
begin to worry, about whether

the words of their spell are quite right
not trusting the magic, as if

it came from them and not from itself...
and the magic shrugs its shoulders

and says oh well and goes some place else
where it might be more appreciated

poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse

[with more than a little acknowledgement to the vision of Michael Leunig, cartoonist and Living National Treasure]

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's Love! Magic!

Is It Magic?

I know not why I love.
Have you cast your spell of magic,
that makes this so?

I have taken to notice, the magic
that is life. Is that you? Is it
your magic that makes me so aware?

You are part of my entire being.
Is this also, your magic at work?

There's a song in my heart, and a
spring in my step. Is it magic?
Is it love? Magic? Love? Both?

When apart I feel a loss. Is
it your magic, that compels me
to miss you so?

The Magic of your kiss. The Magic of
your voice. The Magic of your touch.
If it is magic, I am completely
and willing, under your spell.

Can I live but a day, without the
love of your magic? No. Not
a day, or a minute, or one second
for all eternity.

I have never felt this way before.
Nor will I ever again, without
the cloak of your magic.

You are, and always will be,
My Magic Lady.

Yes...yes, most will say it is
love. Love perhaps.
Magic? Definitely.

poem by Joe Fazio
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Have Cast Your Spell...