Trouble the Water  250 Year of African-American Poetry  by various poets is a great shelfie. I have read and re-read the poetry in this book a few times. Softcover and mass market sized, the book is now a beat up copy which I own. I have no problem with this. I have a few annotations inside, the pages are still quite crisp even from all the reading. The selections are from over 100 poets, beginning with oral poetry and slave creations, followed by voices before freedom. Reconstruction and the early 20th century continues ending with the new age. Contributor notes add short autobiographies of the poets. Book Specs: Trouble the Water 250 Years of African American Poetry Edited and with an Introductin by Jerry W. Ward Jr., et al., 1997 Publisher: Penguin Group Pages: 566

Day 26 in  #BookSpine365 . Visit a title a day from my bookshelf. Tears for Water is an assortment of journal collections, poems, thoughts, and observations written by classically trained musician Alicia Keys. Most notably to address is that while she commands such a strong stage presence, this book was written without the intention of ever sharing with others, not even her confidants. Some thoughts are too personal, some too sacred. It is without hesitation that we keep these memories and emotions a part from everything and everyone we know, journaling just within reach in ink and pen but not published. I am quite surprised with the finished product of the book for some go beyond basic lyric of end rhyme and catchy phrase and enter true poetry, such as Beckoning Green . Credits include Songs in A minor, and The Diary of Alicia Keys.  My copy is in excellent condition. Acid free paper, slight to none bookish smell. Red cardboard book once dust jacket is removed...

Praised by Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hyperion is the unfinished work of John Keats that begun in 1818  pictured as the original manuscript of Keats handwriting below. This poem then began to evolve as a the preface to Endymion but was abandoned in the year of 1820. Its contents are full of allegory between Olympians and Titans, and the fall with the sorrow that accompanies it thereafter when the Olympians were defeated. The epic is a tale of the gods; Hyperion of the sun, Apollo of both the sun and the gift of poetry. The mythological nature gives its verse mysticism and even gods are knocked off their throne and given lesser or human qualities "...gray haired Saturn quiet as a stone" so one can relate to them, and invoke the feeling of powerlessness.  Keats never wanted Hyperion to be published at all; in his 1820 volume of collected works, Keats inserted the following statement:   '[I]t was printed at [the publisher's] request, and contrary to the wish of the ...

Types of Poetry: Palindrome. This specific type of poetry is not for mere amateurs. I say this with the most respect, because the palindrome is perhaps one of the many types of poetry that is challenging to write and to make complete sense while still respecting the subject matter at hand. The palindrome derives from the Greek word palindromos: "palin"meaning again, and "dromos"meaning a running. Combining "palin" and "dromos" we have the collective term of running back again. This gives us a mirrored image which the palindrome is: a poem that is read forward is read the exact same way backwards. With in the palindrome, there is a short break in its center that denotes a specific "turning" as a reversal point which the mirrored image reflects. It's also important to note that the palindrome poem can be achieved by word (letter by letter) or by sentences in the poem. Whatever is read forwards is the exact mirrored image of what...

Exploration of Poetry: Diamante. The diamante poem is Italian for the word "diamond" and is an un-rhymed seven lined poem that has a specific diamond shape upon completion. The seven lines create one stanza, which completes the poem. Each line has a specific rule for the form throughout. Line One: Noun or subject. Line Two: Two Adjectives describing that noun or subject matter. Line Three: Three words, all ending in "ing" describing the subject matter. Line Four: Four words in total. The first two words describing the subject, then two contrasting words about the antonym/synonym Line Five: Three words, all ending in "ing" describing the antonym/synonym Line Six: Two adjectives describing the antonym/synonym Line Seven: The Antonym/synonym for the subject. As you can see, there is a shift in the middle of the poem which begins the antonym phase. The last word-line seven-will be the antonym of line one. Think of it like this: Lines 1 - 3: Wo...

The epigram poem is a specific type of poem found in hundreds of years ago, but flourished in the 16th and 17th century with popular English poets such as Donne and Jonson, although found in philosophy as well. The epigram is a short verse written with the quick with of satire, focusing on a specific person, thing, or event. This poem is extremely brief, written in about 2-5 lines and contain only one stanza. Derived from the Greek ἐπίγραμμα this "inscription" can be found with any writer, not just poets. Example: Candy is dandy, But liquor is quicker ~Ogden Nash Tagged: #30in30 #PoetsWorkshop #Poetry Poetry Prompt: Write an epigram based on the not so obvious humorous subjects. Where there's tragedy, there's also comedy. Find the satire and wit, and connect then with an epigram of end rhyme, 2-4 lines. .

I remember. Time has passed though. Wrinkles are beginning to form, and grey Hairs rooted. Doesn't take away the simplicities or Mere intricacies from the amazement of you. Although its fragmented. A laugh becomes hallow. Bounces off walls Acoustic not in tune with realities dimensions. Smiles become visible only on a photograph, the unpleasant Aftermath of the only thing which now to hold. Dreams. Dreams are divine. They curve into the cerebellum, leaking false images of you Drawing naked paths on skin and arching my spine- but awakening is the sad goodbye. Your scent. I can still smell it. Soaks Into my pores and wafts my nose Tickling the this and that of spice and musky Heartbeats Through the breeze of the wind, there It blows. and I remember. Sweet God of Lord above, I remember. Do you gather sweet musings about me? Thirst the same emotion, beg to be touched by me yet again? Reverse time and become the beautiful reality? I dare not ask for the real an...

Writer Seeker of Words Lifts her pen in anguish At this little thing called writer's block Poet. -b.r.rivera Poem 29 of 30, April 2012 #30in30 A Cinquain.

I know the feeling to be loved. to be wanted. adored. showered in sprinkles and anger droplets formed near the crevice of the eye but we dare not speak of. No. It's too hard to speak of loving to be wanted. adored. showered in fiery liquid spurts formed between linen sheets and thunderous thighs. but we do not dare speak of it. Yes. It's too wonderful to remember the wanting to be loved. adored. showered in subliminal thought clouds following me in rude awakenings and sweet reveries. I know the feeling to be loved. I do know the loving adornment the showering of gifts and small trinkets of remembrance. But we dare to recollect the time. Date. Exact moment. No. It's too painful to even remember the flowers that wrinkled in time desiring to be loved. adored. secretly being your umbrella in rain. A shelter of fortitude when pellets titter- patter on vinyl and plastic creating mildew stains. How I wish it were a parasol, shielding me from the ...

It begins with a light stab. A constant reminder of who's in control and who isn't.  Let's me be awakened with boss like qualities of urgency with no employment, deadlines but no place to go. Then it begins to sizzle. Sizzle like fire acid rain down the curvatures of what holds me together.  But I'm not together. Here, I am a jumbled mess of confusion, a chaotic place of nerve endings and muscle fibers begging for rest. Do I dare to stop? Do I dare to state that I am not done with this life (nor the next) so I must simply just enjoy what has been given to me. This is my place. Not a resting place. Not a place begging for a wired hangar to be anchored on a glossy doorknob, shining of beautiful welcomes and scents of candles within. No. This is something new, entirely. This is my place. A place where lightning shoots through the neck and electrifies my insides. This is a place where I drag my feet and droop when I wince in subtle positio...

I. Sweet temptation is nothing more than desiring gifts of cake and eating it too. II. Wasted years , Wasted Tears a  constant reminder that  love chooses you stupid Cupid. III. A grave is nothing  but a box filled of bones begging to enter again into history.  IV. A fool twice believes the first tale and secretly hopes for another ending. V. They sure do talk don't they?  when all  is jibber jabber from the same source. VI. God is  simply because He exists, and all others fail in comparison. VII. I always pity the flowery language that Poets use which never bloom on paper. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 26 of 30. (although this is many poems, I'm just counting it as one for the challenge.) A series of 7 Naani.  Each naani is an individual poem. This fixed form of Indian Poetry has 20-25 syllables of 4 lines with no rhyme scheme, and is an "expression" for one...

Reach out and tell me  how many stars are in the sky. Count 1-2-3-4 and realize you cannot count that high. Reach out and tell me do solar flares gravitate brilliance Squint to see its hues of variation and realize its beyond your resilience. Reach out and tell me can a thousand moons tug a war at beauty Follow its map through orbits and realize it's only God's duty. Reach out and tell me can a blanket of darkness sparkle in such shine? Silently whisper a breathless affirmation and realize you too, can be divine. -b.r.rivera Poem 23 of 30, April 2012 #30in30 

I wish I were an artist. Trace your curvature of lines in vivid detail and remark on the thickness smooth lips as they intense with hues of graphite and stencil. Wish I could paint vividly. an encased reverie of just you and I to become we. oh, how I wish to be the stroke on your body and retrace its endings and firm beginnings, retold in pastels, water soluble paints and revamped historical perspectives. I only wish to capture the image of you. Recapture the soul and eyes of orbs encased in the human skull so hard to shift elements in globs of watercolor. tell tales of high cheekbones and broad shoulders free following of a pencil in raised eyebrows and sympathetic frowns. A white eraser clings nearby, swiftly chasing hopes and dreams, lines drawn dark holed black and now vanishing  in dematerialized crumpled portraits. -b.r.rivera Poem 22 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

He loves me. We call this our secret place. our holy divine shining from the sky awkward and amusing feeling in the nook of your shoulder sacredness. here, I am hidden from all those that want to destroy me. you, my glorious prince and beautifully sun-kissed with no white horse but still defend me. and I want to live here. In this space. Forget about all time and dimension, hold unto a little sanctified beauty and lose my religion at the mere thought of you. He loves me not. We call it not seeing eye to eye. A fragment of losing control and too much stimuli. How raised voices become the ever present norm Cold shoulders and turned backs become the norm. here, I am the bitch you kick in the corner forgetting I snarl and bite back so who's to warn her of sleepless nights and insomnia filled moons Forget about everything and nothing and lose myself in doom at the mere thought of you. He loves me. We call this our beautiful beginning. Another day mark...

I don't remember his scent. I only remember fresh musk and dew sweat hidden in his sudden fragrance. How skin meets beyond pheromones and mutual attraction fire and desire and the chain to cause his reaction. A smile. gleaming white teeth filled with shiny pearl possibilities of tickling my spine in the nape of my neck brings the thrill to me. i begin to remember. remember his smooth walk of gliding asphalt and what I call swag. Smoke bellowing from his lips cigarettes of menthol in a wisp of his drag. and his talk. the way he would command his voice in clear octaves, bounce several degrees and be a lyrical gift go deeper, deeper still into jazzy voices and sweet hellos hidden goodbyes and empty cries. he was mine. I was his and I don't remember his scent. Don't remember his birthday which to pop out a cake suit-less anniversary marking a date full of love excess his favorite food he often devoured his special spot that gave me ...

Somewhere, somehow, someone doesn't make it. Suffer the world. Suffer the children. Suffer the little intricate moments that form inter connection and hopeless dances with the nasal passages that breathe in air. We can't help it. We fight religion and form philosophical debates formed on chance recognition of miracles seen in the naked eye. we hope. we don't hope. we pray. we beg. Somewhere, somehow, some way someone won't make it another day. Then we ponder. Pull out biblical texts switch out to the Qur'an and shadow the beauty of Buddhism. We wonder. We think of theism and anti-theism, we entertain the thought of being without it and squeal in delight. No one knows. Each face a marbled reincarnation of their tombstone to be. We claim to gain higher ground with those stricken with cancer vow to find a vaccine that can cure heart disease campaign against drunk driving and work on an imaginary war on drugs where soldiers themsel...

Write she says Soy Poet but she's a front all flowery language and tricks of words. she cannot fully understand this art reserved realness phony girl Poet? No. Words she will attempt to disrespect the real artistry of lyrical genius add a sprinkle of cutesy photographs place them in ink pretend words titled fraud. -b.r.rivera 13 of 30 #30in30 A Tetractys ; this fixed form has strict syllable/line count.

they miss the spirituality of the trees. the faint whisper of breath in oxygenated richness, the firm application of smoothness eloquently divine on the skin's surface. they miss the impartial breeze hitting blades of chloro-filled to the brim excitement of buds and the promise of another day. there's a reminder. a dancing metamorphosis barely young enough to hold unto the quaint swivel of the bark inching towards its cocoon, fluttering on the thin line of greatness. in the blink of an eye dismissed by smog ridden darkness electric buzz of cars and the flight of Starbucks cups filled to the brim of nothing, caffeinated the rush go go go, swiftly toes graze over grass enticingly as elusive engine drones to forget the brilliance of the sky. -b.r.rivera 12 if 30, April 2012 #30in30

eyes call you soul. flames dance  melting candle wax figures silhouette in night stunning electric in hummed delight shadows meld the complexities of cells bursting through windowpanes and slick blinds again moonlight shines subliminally crescent divine we own the dark soul you call eyes. -b.r.rivera 11 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

All hail the Easter Bunny. There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift to the weather. A small token of spring. Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers. It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits pressed for the deadline on velvety pews, gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions. Who needs a Bible? We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate pressed against our lips honoring the risen from a sealed tomb after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns. Let me celebrate once. Once in my life, go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes and paper ...