melt and mold me into a summer soul …
I return to this site, being drawn to comment and read the prolific work from some amazingly talented poets. Regardless of comments received, I feel it important to express myself among my fellow writers and poets. My inspiration has returned and I hope that I can in some small way add to the existing work published here by fellow poets. The Creative Exiles can expand it’s growth by continuing to reach out, by promoting each others work, via media. Facebook, Twitter, Google+ the Facebook group needs to be resuscitated so all members can express themselves and reach out to others to join the site. There is such excellent talent here, it should not go unnoticed. This is my first new offering to the site.
The day has arrived where the sun beckons
its radiance by inviting my soul to empty
into vibrant warmth. I contemplate penning
my thoughts, whilst languishing deep in a
haze of thought. Memories begin to surface
from long ago, they abide in me, without
release, a tangled web of silken doubts
and placid depths of sorrow.
Inside I cry out with lost for love to touch,
embrace me like this furnace of heat streaking
through the stillness of the day. Silence draws
me within to uncoil and release this tension
built up waiting to explode from the abyssal
depth of hell.
Tempting me, this outdoor beauty, musical
in nature echo’s back to me from my quiet
silence, I faintly feel the pulse and hum of
busy people hurrying through their day’s
events, wondering, worrying if they to will
make it through this blistering heat of day.
Sun now at its lowest, setting West of my tears.
The heat no longer bleeding through me,
watching this day sink beyond what was
just another day in a silent moment, I
squint into the vast blue sky of billowing,
wispy white, vaporless clouds.
Watching their cotton balls soak up the
remaining sun, whilst scores of birds in
flight, dive and dip through the blanketed
streaks of white.
If this be the tempest of illusion, then let
it bury within me, suck out the winter’s
frosted bite, melt and mold me into a
summer soul and blossom the rose
without it’s thorny edge around my
heart, let it not bleed or break in sorrow,
find it whole, beating strong for life,
not it’s end.
Vincent Moore 2018
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.