I Touch Beauty Daily

I Touch Beauty Daily

Friday, March 23, 2012

Winter’s Blows


Dressed in green attires they came, fresh from spring
Outstretched arms embraced me without discrimination
Cooling my forehead, restoring my calmness with songs
A newcomer in their compassionately fertile midst
Such hospitality would have made any mother proud
Tenderness glowed like fire’s love in me, affection radiated
Allowing life to be lived leisurely against the sun’s
Searing death, protected from neighborly telescopes
Eyes’ zooming intrusive lenses of inquisitiveness
Nature robs them boldly, exposed to cruel freezer limbs
Come naked, stripped, a victim of nature’s calendar
No fault of theirs, this inhospitability, frigid gasps from winter’s
Blows through paper-thin ribs and chest
They look helplessly at me, a willing recipient of tenderly
Love, a reluctant giver of tenderly love
How can I help them, victims of nature’s unransomed hostage?
My arms too short for a maternal protective shield
They have received such cruelty
Such subjection bleeds my heart


©2010FrancesOhanenye


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

A Car That Owns a House


She sat uncertain in front of the house she owns
Undeserving of the class, inherent heritage
A monstrosity of brick-by-brick finesse
Whipped cream carefully sandwiched
Tastefully assembled and stacked
A toothsome gluing of generations’ legacy
She sat undeserving of forced ascension
Cheap, loud, and banged
She sat uncertain
Diminutive, low quality’s showpiece
Metallic scrap though fairly new
She sat undeserving in front of the house she owns
I guess she was an afterthought
Don’t you hate when that happens?


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Friday, March 9, 2012

THE QUILT LOVER


Type of Poem:  HEPTASTITCH


First quilt, a pre-baby purchase
Awaiting the arrival of perfect hope
Second hands' made, a secret pal’s bequeath
Blazoning a message about education
Future aspirations shouted in confined space
Third symbol, Tweety’s loving message
Trumpeting daughter’s love to him

Fourth sewing, catalog-ordered
Offering prayers for all ills and woes
Fifth stitching beckoned to soul’s thirst
Heralding the prophetic birth of Christ
Next one filled with colored eggs and blooms
Memorializing the month Mama left me
A hindrance to Easter’s blooming essence

Another quilt, very toned, masculine
Celebrating Father’s Day’s significance
Enshrining Papa’s departure to God
Next cover, goodness’ cornucopia
Showcasing all fills of thankfulness
Ninth puff stitched love to lovers
Filled with hearts; Cupid shooting arrow

Tenth comforter honored St. Patrick
A man of Ireland, unknown to me
Linked with Nigerian surname of O
Last patchwork, a stake to future claims
Anticipating a continuation
Connecting daughter’s unborn offspring
Granting me assurance into future hopes


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Creativity Is Surprised


Never a man or woman set out on a mission
Determined to be declared creative
Uttering the demand will not command
Creativity to appear as a butler ready
The land of the unfamiliar welcomes all
Like the land of the survival of the fittest
Crafted, planned, itemized, willing thoughts
Lie on the mattress of boredom and lethargy
Energy, fanfare, trumpet lie listless, silent
The planned shows itself, a bad photocopy
Creativity arrives unanticipated
Creativity arrives when the planned errs
There are those bending brains to conform
Twisting gray cells to convince humanity
Creativity surprises all, especially itself
After frustration has slapped itself silly
Materializing at inopportune time
Uncertain what it will do next
Like Jim Carey, Eddie Murphy
Unscripted, unplanned, improv
Just leave the door wide open
Accept creativity unconditionally
When it arrives, don’t hoot and holler
Drink its unquenchable juices greedily
It arrives at its own good-and-ready time


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.