Archive for August, 2011

Politician’s Sonnet

A northern breeze ignites a raging storm;
exposing cloaked deceptions in my head –
dark ebullition of emotions churn.
Malaise surrounds my vessel to conform;
those fervent pleas -the trunk of your words said.
The residue: your shallow truth will stain
and sweep away my heart – ablaze to burn.
Black clouds of spoken dust rehearsed to swarm;
enrage my thoughts –integrity is dead.
Words matter – sober truth is what I yearn;
regardless if lies bring unyielding pain.
Protect me not; your tales pulsate my skin.
Evading truth – your spin will never gain
my fervid heart – not credulous within.
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
Google Image – The Faceless Politian

ebullition – a seething or overflowing, as a passion or feeling
credulous – gullible
fervid – intensely passionate; ardent

submitted – dVerse and Sunday Whirl #19

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California Ink In Motion by TheMsLvh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Paranoia – Sestina


Reflections show a shattered withered life,
while peering through suspicious sleepless tears.
Dark hopes of white lines chase false fears –
relieving pains the mornings always give.
Nonchalant lies brings forth abandoned trust –
confusing love, so run fast as you can.
Hands trembling, unable to pop a beer can;
aware this has become part of that life.
Internal voices shouting words to trust –
imagined visions haunt spent salty tears.
Neglecting life for thrills the sharp points give,
forgetting all those secret doubts and fears.
Another day presents recurring fears;
play trickery on you because they can.
Insanely living – nothing seems to give. 
Surreal surprise to your short precious life;
not hearing pleas from loved one’s painful tears,
’cause there is no one you would ever trust.
Saliva aliens hold you in trust –
to scare away unwanted mental fears;
which breaks you down and brings forth screaming tears.
Are you aware the only one who can
save you from paranoid unnerving life:
do you know any one whose love would give?
There comes a time that something has to give,
perhaps your inability to trust.
You see small men in trees critique your life,
awake the darkest nightmares of your fears.
Go ahead, do all the white lines you can –
burn mucus raw – enough to bring on tears.
Disjointed twisted thoughts allow dry tears  
to flow,  deflect the sympathy I give.-
Detox the brain – but ponder if you can;
which voice in your head do you truly trust?
Sweat dripping off your brow – all due to fears,
encroaching your space, a disrupted life.
Your paranoia tears can darken life.
Give time a chance to heal invented fears;
if you can, change your life, believe in trust.
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
 submitted to d’Verse – Poets United
painting by MariaBurd
 For A. & M.

Sestinas are a poetic tour-de-force which takes skill to create and a subtle ear for the sound of language to keep from seeming contrived or stilted.The sestina repeats the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five six-line stanzas, and then ends in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though traditionally a sestina is set in iambic pentameter.

7. (envoi) ECA or ACE

The envoi, sometimes known as the tornada, must also include the remaining three end-words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six recurring words appear in the final three lines. In place of a rhyme scheme, the sestina relies on end-word repetition to effect a sort of rhyme.

This information was found at

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A New Dawn – Tanka

Tanka consists of five units (often treated as separate lines when Romanized or translated) usually with the following pattern of onji: 5-7-5-7-7.
   As the new day dawns
Yesterday’s wreckage is gone
   Today brings new start
Deliver hope with sunshine
Chasing the shadows away
TheMsLvh  © 2011

submitted to The Purple Tree House

Photo by papalars 

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Interview: Life of a Poet ~ California Ink In Motion

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Poets United Interview:

Life of a Poet ~ California Ink In Motion


“When creating  poetry, it can look one way and then let a day pass and it will have a different look and feel because the words from the heart can be seen by the mind.” -TheMsLvh

   This is part of the text of a very fun interview with Sherry Blue Sky   over at Poets United as part of their series of interviews with different poets.  Click Here for the entire interview. I hope you enjoy reading this interview as I had giving it.  Sherry is a wonderful lady and host!

 by Sherry Blue Sky

   Kids, a while back a new blogger joined Poets United, blazed across our radar and made us sit up and take notice. We’re about to sit down with The Ms. LVH (as she wishes to be known) of California Ink in Motion. As she lives very close to the beach, I’m thinking either a glass of chilled white wine, or an after-dinner cup of tea, as we watch the sunset and chat about life along the California Coast.

 Ms. LVH:   First, I want to thank you for your interest in my poetry and life. I was born and raised in a very affluent area in West Los Angeles.  After completing my formal education, I moved. I realized my bond with nature was imperative to my sanity.  Los Angeles is a wild place, as you can imagine.  I have lived in several places in California, soaking up the different mind-sets that thrive here. 

   After zig-zagging around the state from the deserts to the mountains to the sea,  I moved to the Sierra’s and had a job to ski around to make sure everyone was having a good time, mostly a Public Relations job.  During the summers, I would bartend and water ski.  Life was fun.  I used my little cabin as a launching pad to travel throughout the world.  As the winters became more of a burden than a fantasy land (shoveling snow), I moved to the Coast of California in a small town, started a career and have lived here for two decades.  I can hear the waves and smell the salt-laden air everyday.

Poets United: Your jobs sound like so much fun. Have you ever lived a great adventure? I suspect it may have been your move to the small coastal town?? C’mon, spill it.

 Ms. LVH:  Yes, winding up on the coast was a journey of itself, but many years ago I bought a one way ticket to Europe and hitched-hiked and rode the trains for months. England, France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Amsterdam, Belgium, practically every place west of the Iron Curtain in 1976, (yes, I was very young). The Berlin Wall was still standing…(cont.).
Poets United: As are we all. What are your personal criteria for good poetry? Your own and others?
Ms. LVH:A poem that evokes a feeling, I would consider a good poem.  I like poems that are fluid and smooth and thought-provoking.  If a poem has me hooked by the first stanza, it probably is a fabulous poem, yet I have found some incredible surprises at the end of a poem as well…(cont.). 


*Continue reading with photos: An Interview with Poets United

Thunder Buffalo -Sonnet

John Keats (1795-1821) used elaborate choice of words and very sensational imagery. It is no wonder he is one of the main pioneers of England ‘s Romantic Movement. This sonnet follows Keats’s sonnet format with abcabdcabcdede rhyming scheme   Keats was particular in his iambic pentameter rhyming scheme and structure of the entire sonnet . 
A feathered ritual danced long ago;
she faintly heard the elders ancient call,
envisioned – living nature’s way of life.
The primal drone of thunder buffalo;.
abruptly crossing earthly hallow sprawl –
Lakota warriors on horseback dare.
Life’s rhymic cycle dawns, awakes the ear –
resounding earth’s cold tremble ‘neath white snow;
alerting wolves in winter’s bondage thrall.
She questioned, self-induced bewildered fear –
and clutches tight her sacred totem bear;
accepts her blood; the blood of native lore.
Today’s the day she’ll run with white-tail deer –
within the Shaman’s love, forever more.
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
“Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity—it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.”-John Keats
artist – Pam McCabe –
Summited to dVerse Poetry Pub

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Cloud Shapes in Blue Skies – Itialian Sonnet

Italian Sonnet
Night’s shelter brings relief to end the day,
exhaling whispers grieve from parched dry lips.
As if cold wind abandoned sailing ships;
marooned –  in deep lost waters, here I lay.
Conflicting thoughts merge, lacking words to say, 
my willing heart drawn into your eclipse –
has left me drained. A warm tear gently slips
down a familiar path, wet lines portray.
I long for truth behind your phantom eyes;
release your secret world, allow me in.
I hunger laughter shared on sunny days –
remember finding cloud shapes in blue skies?
I miss your music dancing on my skin,
provoking trust – Oh friend, won’t you please stay?
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
sumitted to dVerse poets
Image borrowed from Google

California Style Morning


Grey stillness clutches morning sky,
not willing to release the sun.
Between the slate horizon line,
low flying seagulls slice the fog.

A piquant smell of saline mist,
released by crashing ocean waves;
drifts hauntly over barren beach.
True nature’s breath of living sea.

White fragments of sand dollars spilled,
along the water’s broken edge.
Low tide’s exposing gift, tossed free –
from tumbling ’round the ocean floor.

Salt air surmounts steep rocky cliffs,
dull silhouettes of coastal trees.
Commanding roar, the siren’s song –
brings high tide, California style.

☮TheMsLvh © 2011

 Submitted to We Write Poems #67
*My theme song in the early 70’s, yet I am California native.

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Think Only This of Me

Prompt #17 for Carry On Tuesday,, was to use all or part of “If I should die, think only this of me” (the first line of Rupert Brooks poem, The Soldier). *Thanks Mike Patrick for inspiring me to write this after reading his poem*. I used iambic pentameter in Quatrain.
Remembering past days of childhood dreams,
explored the world through starry wild eyes,
Adventure was attractive;  I must say,
unbridled freedom was my crowning prize!
With money saved, I flew across the pond,
experiencing new lands with scenic views.
Impoverished days or wealthy party ways,
I traveled miles, wearing holes in shoes.
The love for people I hold dear to heart,
along with animals who roamed the land.
True nature’s gifts of rainbow pots of gold;
and warmth of sunlight with cool ocean sand.
I lived my life embracing truth of love,
to give much more of me than to receive.
Delightfully filled heart with love to give,
unselfish quest for those who are in need.
If I should die, think only this of me,
my soul belongs to Mother Nature’s thread.
Don’t shed a tear because my life’s been full,
just put that party hat upon my head!
TheMsLvh  © 2011

Image source: Go Green

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Setting Sun

   This was inspired by watching the damage caused by hard drugs. The rise of drug use in my area has stolen many young lives recently. Perhaps you also  have witnessed this on your local news. Without insurance of their own or parents, kids are being lost.  There are little to no recourses for these kids when they do cry for help. Everyone cannot afford Betty Ford or Malibu in U.S.A.  Prison might be their only survival, but then, prisons are over-filled,  full of nasty drugs as well.


Each morning’s painful breath you took,
your body screamed –
addiction gleamed.
Sharp points and rusty spoons; you cook.
To rid the touch of crawling skin,
hot needle prick –
perhaps get sick.
Warm rush cements the deadly sin.
A long exhale – all worries drain;
erase torment,
without lament.
Your precious scars walk deep in vein.
As pain subsides from tender soul,
the prophets cry –
to watch you fly.
The needle swept you in a hole.
First glimpse of sun ignites the crave,
as pain returns –
the stomach churns.
Ignoring death’s note etched on grave.
Collapsing veins of rivers gone,
in search for new –
within eye’s view.
Dead lines depict a lifestyle drawn.
Sad eyes with black holes blindly stray,
to be so lost –
at such a cost.
Their struggle sickens by the day.
The needle and the damage done,
Neil Young once wrote –
a famous quote:
“A junkie’s like a setting sun.”
_TheMsLvh   © 2011
Image source: The Grantham Journal

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The Poet Artist

Opining souls; a heart-felt plea,
from deep within, the writer chimes.
Selecting prime words is the key,
which draws the reader into rhymes.
All poets strive to paint their worlds,
with spilled black ink and feathered tip.
A writer feels the words unfurled,
creating pictures with each script.
At times, cold print will strike a chord,
a shock-filled verse brings forth dismay.
Requesting poems – sweetly poured,
inhibit words the poets say.
To cavil lines in verses read,
with captious thoughts of words repulse.
Sad broken lives or souls which bled,
disrupt the reader’s warm steel pulse.
Addiction plagues the writers quill,
the need to write fulfills the heart.
Imploding spirits scribe to fill
the void, and thus creating art.
-TheMsLvh  © 2011
Image source: Google

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California Ink In Motion by TheMsLvh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

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