You bridged over troubled waters Allowing the broken wood under my naked feet to move and sway  but never break. I wonder what holds us up. Even in splintered feet and clanking of pressure, it holds the sweet smell of bloated wood after a fresh rain.  I was told to open my eyes  exposed to Heavenly skie s in the eye of the storm within the bare soul that is mine and I walked. With trepidation Hesitation  and pure Elation all wrapped in the pouring rainsthe lightning overhead the hailing winds. I wonder what's in this shield. Past a pure arc of  umbrella'd love, repelling drip drops of  moving rain, skidding off of man made fibers.  Comfort rest assured. Comfort.  the pure blanket of which I shiver for to crave that heartbeat against my skin encased within the strong linen that is your arms. I wonder how your fibers made fabric. Strong enough to hold me. Encase me. Enrapture me into limbs that spread east and west, a...

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...

How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. I can't figure it out. I looked at those fuzzy balls of fur slowly making their way up in those cotton balls and trees blowing up probably by an invisible man. How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. It must be a magic trick Some sort of balloon in helium magic wisp of puffing up like a cartoon and have the sun hit your face like an orange fire ball in the afternoon. So she bends down softly and says, Do you wish to know how to fly? Well, surely my toddler brain knows I want to go up that high. Then she arches her back and swoops me up a bundle of chocolate with flapping arms lifts me to the ceiling and says there is no limit when you got a little push and falling will never be your harm. See how I get up there, Mommy? Look at me, fly. I finally got these thing...

I am more than what meets the eye. Soul deep and waters instilled form a ripple of a wave,  thrashing into the abyss like brain stems enter cerebellum exit clever calculable characteristics and into Chuck Taylor's jeans and a tee more than denim and sneakers more than poetic meanderings. I am more than what meets the eye Spiritual newness and cultural edifice pounding life after death and life into death like not holier than though loveliness I am more than meets the eye. Dare to see? Dare to capture and captive me? Dare to look beyond skin color and ethnicity? Dare to become less stereotypes and more of my type where lines shift into invisibility? I am more than meets the eye. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 24 of 30