art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Fly Like a Bird
Bound by the barbed wire fences I sit here in my small pen not knowing what freedom is. As I watch the birds flying high in the sky. They are bound to nothing they are free. What am I to do but wish to feel the wind in my hair and smell the freedom that comes with the wind. Feeling the warm sunlight on my skin I close my eyes and pretend that I am flying away over the fences that once kept me in and tasting freedom. But when I open my eyes I am still trapped. The world that I so badly want to explore is still so far out of my reach.
By lydia live8 years ago in Poets
Elegy for My Grandmother . Top Story - February 2018.
And love is bread baskets left in the sun. The bread turned hard. As stone. And men who walk past windows. The same men whom I see at night. Back when wall reliefs sprouted on flat chests. All the girls would stare out windows sit on porches with short skirts and legs spread. Wide. Licking fuzzy navel shaved ice off fingers. That later motioned at men to come near. On the porch you were safe from gazes filled high like towers. There was nowhere to prepare for men. But then again, there are no back porches in Georgia. What of men? She says. Of men who march of men who live in sheets. What of rooms where babies are made, are they holy? Do they shine like rain in silver pails rain that makes your hair grow? Standing next to the genip tree I see a dress that picks at the wind. It is yellow and muddled with dishwasher spots.
By Samantha Williams8 years ago in Poets
