RoseAnn V. Shawiak Poems

Soulfully searching inner dimensions of being, calculating the distance between imagination and creativeness.
Aligning facets of subconscious ideals with those of conscious thought.
Silhouetted against a blackened forest, filled with notions of mind-dimensional expansion.
Forgotten appraisals, lying by the wayside, forlorn in their ageless misery.
...

Softly spoken notes being sent musically to everyone's hearing, as they sit and contemplate motives of conversation on back porches of living.
Sanctimoniously behaving like spoiled children in grown-ups mind sets, taking everyone off course, confusing issues of daily strife with intents of malfeasance.
Socially deriving instincts from within solitary beings, trying to become individualistic in temporary thinking environments.
...

Surrealism at it's best, in a biker's den, having a bar-b-que and listening to a band named, 'We're not L.A.'.
Satisfying inner cravings for musical renditions on a Saturday morning.
Featuring sounds of exhilarating beauty set in visions of intuitive memories.
...

Listening attentively to other voices from past and future talents, sending rhythm my way, through Italian arbors of grapevines.
Talking silently through the years of precious family memories.
Holding them as priceless treasures through the years, gathering dust from disuse.
Formulating every sensuous idea as it careens into my pathway, rolling downhill, stampeding my ego with beautiful mementoes of yesterday and the wonderful family I was born into.
...

Politicians surround us with their lies and fraudulent schemes, always ready to take advantage of the public.
Smiling and looking into your eyes, while lying to your face, without so much as a blink of an eye.
Facing everyone, yet hiding in depths of themselves, never letting anyone know the truth, lest they don't get voted in at the next election.
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Pioneering souls of yesterday's untold strife, waysiding pools of heretofore uncollected data.
Reverberating totally throughout ages of long lost history, parading quietly in pages of recent books.
Details not fully given, because no one knows for sure what happened long ago.
Trudging slowly, forming circles at times, folding in upon centuries of untold eons.
...

Looking into future realms while poems of the past
continue to speak out, rendering tears of memories
into activity.
...