490. Untitled - June 26, 2002
The ink spills
onto white linen -
soaking into the fabric,
held tightly forever.
The words struggle
across the page,
jostling for position
and prominence.
The emptiness is glaring,
splayed apart
for all to see,
and none to notice.
A-mused
We write because we must.
Images swirl endlessly
through minds
occupied by other things.
When finally we sit down,
expecting the words to come,
sometimes there is only
blankness.
So we wait to be inspired.
Or not.
When the words do come
they come in a wave
tumbling over one another
to fall onto the page -
dead -
until read.
© Ellie Maziekien
062702
491. Untitled - June 28, 2002
There is no true death
in the words given away.
Remembered and savoured
like the finest of wines
on the tip of my tongue,
they remain engraved
with the meanings
everchanging and transformed.
Like the inevitable
ebbing of the tide,
the words and vowels
rise and fall
with the passing of time,
crashing vividly
against the sea
of imagination.
Untitled
the words come, unbidden
rattling around my brain,
disturbing me enough
to send me to the keyboard
still shaking the sleep out of my eyes.
Then the words fly off my fingers
and the poem writes itself.
quite different from the barren stretches
when no words come at all
and no amount of wishing
will bring them to the page.
My written words remain static
unless shared,
the reading of them
brings them to life,
enables them to touch hearts
and move souls.
© Ellie Maziekien
062802
492. Untitled - June 28, 2002
When the words fall downwards
into an unending spiral,
where all the thoughts
are focussed
on the same
point in time,
then everything rushes
to the forefront.
Every word is like a window,
peering into a hidden world,
seeing the myriad of images
evoked by a single moment.
The changes around every corner
are bound by the reality
within.
Until the nuances read by another
changes life
once again.
Untitled
There are hidden meanings in any work;
each reader finds a different one.
Reading between the lines,
one can see what the writer intended to say
or find a different meaning
that fills a need in them.
Each poem written
is an opening
into the writer’s psyche,
a sharing of their soul
for all who choose to read.
© Ellie Maziekien
062802
493. Untitled - June 28, 2002
Peeking behind the veil,
and seeing through the shadows;
every moment
becomes meaningful
for that hidden sign.
Every slick slide,
every careless nibble,
was it just ice cream,
or something more?
Every opening becomes a cavern,
every mound becomes a mountain,
every ride becomes an adventure.
Untitled
The writing can be literal -
a wordscape
describing something real
that the writer has seen
or an experience
waiting to be shared.
The mound of soft white
covered with
a slick, sizzling coating
of wetness.
Simply a hot fudge sundae.
Or is it?
© Ellie Maziekien
062802
494. Untitled - June 28, 2002
Where every moment
of anticipation
carries an underlying layer of anxiety,
any performance becomes magnified
by the knowledge
that countless eyes
are watching
and reading
the end results.
The salty remnants of tears -
whether from joy
or exhaustion,
slide slowly
downwards,
kissed away
by a moments hesitation,
and carried off
in a slight flick of the tongue.
As fingertips hover
against pearl white,
expectations are on the verge
of exploding outwards,
pouring into a rapidfire
cascade of touches,
until all that is left,
are the black and white images
imbedded on simple white,
leaving the reciever breathless,
and the giver exhilerated.
(
geocities.com/pdt_bear)