against the wall, the firing squad ready.
then he got a reprieve.
suppose they had shot Dostoevsky?
before he wrote all that?
I suppose it wouldn't have
there are billions of people who have
never read him and never
but as a young man I know that he
got me through the factories,
past the whores,
lifted me high through the night
and put me down
in a better
even while in the bar
drinking with the other
I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a
it gave me one,
allowed me to look directly at those
in my world,
death pointing its finger,
I held fast,
an immaculate drunk
sharing the stinking dark with
Going inside and out
Compression to stretching
Something like breathing
Who's playing this squeezebox?
Can I make a request?
Play something lively, loud, and fast
My heart's tied in knots
My brain's hanging on
By the skin of my teeth
For the length of one song
Dance like you're dying
And dance like you're dead
Life is little more
Than a song in your head
Break down the walls and let it all in
Dance as if this moment will never end
Move to the rhythm and jump towards your soul
Suspended stringless puppet under no one's control
Fall down to yourself right on top of the beat
Spinning in the center of where all the lines meet
Slow it down for the break and take a deep breath
Potential energy buildup for what's coming next
Those chills in the moment right before it all hits
Soul body and mind caught up in the mix
Hear it; explode
Supernovate the senses
The death of a star amid a galaxy of faces
To be born again
In a jet stream of limbs
I find enlightenment
At 150 bpm
(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)
I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.
I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.
I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.
I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.
Her poetry was like a living organism
that changes form every minute
by the chemical change it undergoes
within me, the reader's mind,
each avatar did a dance different
so much the symbols and cryptograms spoke
right from time capsules of subconscious,
I had to choose from this or that.
I looked deep in to her eyes and read silently
words, one feels are severely limited, at times
much goes unexpressed for want of words
"exquisite" in such occasion is an expression
that has lost its sharp edges, due to overuse
so i smiled, I hope in a way most expressive
of the spirit the poem reflected
but more was in the poem, I sure felt,
beyond my view, some hidden pathways exist
my ears craved for hidden voices, and I told her this
evening set the stage for her recitation
we walked the country road and she began
very solemn at first, then the words took
a life of their own and became palpable
I felt I was in presence of an oracle
who receives divine command from universe
a spirit that sprung from subconscious
was heard speaking in her throbbing words
the folk walking the path stood and listened,
the look on those faces were unmistakable
a knowing beyond the meaning it was.
the ticket’s too big to fit in my palm
the bag’s too heavy to trail behind
giants carried briefcases glued to their hands
and mourners took flight to the end of the world
my father’s gait was too fast
to keep up to for the short length of my legs
nina the yellow sheep bobbed happily along
as did the pig tails attached to my head with bows
despite the noise, the crowds, the lines
excitement fueled the erratic behavior of
the butterflies currently residing in my stomach
behind the 101 dalmatians t-shirt that dressed me
i never thought the airport would become a second home
the planes that flew over head while i looked at the sky
from my backyard would become not
just a mode of transportation
even if the thought appeared in my head
the young naive girl that i once was would be pleased
with the statement and rather excited as always
she would board 1000 planes and still wouldn’t have minded
the ticket is just an other piece of paper
and the bags were tattered with experience
the men with gray faces traveled with their gravestones
and the loved ones were still at the end of the world
my stranger’s gait was still too fast
but this time his urgency didn’t appeal
there was no stuffed animal to take away the dreams
just the headphones that contained the remedy
noisy crowds were just an other member of the family
they didn’t mind that the butterflies were now
dormant or dead or maybe they left when i had to
throw away my 101 dalmatians t-shirt
the 7 houses i previously occupied had all burned down
the airport was the only one still standing
it changed its face many times but held the same feeling
an airplane is a calm palace in the sky
sometimes i miss the girl that thought these houses were exciting
sometimes i miss the sweet naivety of her father’s ways
sometimes i miss the blank passport of the unknown
but then again 1000 planes later i don’t mind
She walked on a rocky shore under a grey sky.
He walked on a street trying to stay fly.
Her hair, it dangled to her knees.
His valued his newfangled steez.
She looked to the water and she saw an ominous ship.
Out of it hopped some Spaniards.
He looked behind him and a beat is what his heart did skip.
They said “Got any last words?”
These adversaries didn’t seem to care about much else.
The whole world was watching and people had something to prove.
As if their white knuckles and red faces were under spells,
They took from others as if others had nothing to lose.
She didn’t cry and never kneeled and yelled up to the gods.
It was only her misty eyes that told of her lament.
The heartless mustached people shared coordinated nods
and also shared the notion that this prize was heaven-sent.
He had no time to think before he saw his dripping blood
streaming along the sidewalk where no one but passers saw.
A shriveling life was where there was once a promising bud,
the silver Oldsmobile sped away leaving something raw.
I feel lost in the shadows.
The darkness in my room is comforting.
But the silence is unbearable.
I just sit and stair at the walls all day.
Pretending that I'm looking at the faces of friends who aren't there.
And maybe they will listen to me.
When you have no one, what do you have?
Nothing but a feeling of uncertainty.
And a room full of unanswered questions.
The children of dreams write their stories
with angelic smiles and tears on their faces
they carry their burdens bravely
making words of wonderful light
They don't care to talk much
they so prefer to write
I hear them scribe away
nearly every single night
I look over their shoulders sometimes
to see what they have written
and the beauty of their words
makes me purr like a kitten
So sweet they are
I love them all
my dream children
to me are very cool
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
in the dim candle lit room
stood the faces of many
but these faces were not ordinary
for they were indeed empty
no emotion did these faces show
they were gone and dead inside
very scary looking indeed
sincere and dreary eyed
a slash of hurt across the face
of one particular man
showed this man was cunning
and he had a cunning plan
he let out a yell from deep within
making the others around him
possess crawling skin
he proceeded to yell
within the room
the other faces
they sensed their doom
their faces fell, drooped a lot
into an uspide down smile
and only until the yelling stopped
did they show emotion for a while
the man with hurt slashed across his face
carried this on for weeks
with a content curve about his lips
that brought colour to his cheeks
the cunning man had achieved his plan
of bringing emotion to the others
he was proud of himself, he loved to help
his sisters and his brothers
was a sailor lost at sea/ ship had struck the phantom reef/
water stole it like a thief/ spared me life for the time being
Clung to timber for my life/ fins cut surface like black knives/
couldn't wait for me to die/ their eyes glinted, black as night
one vast ocean, I, a fleck/ Death's fingers tight around my neck/
thought I’d had my final breath/ another prisoner for The Depths
two arms grasp from blackened sky/ hauled me o’er the ships port-side/
wiped the water from sunken eyes/ stolen from Death, her precious prize
my rescuer, a man of old/ silent gaze of past untold/
‘round his neck no chains of gold/ aura distant as wind was cold
old ship sprinted through dark storm/ silent men vs. devil’s swarm/
our faces set, violent, worn/ against thick ropes, muscles tore
"I am the Master of my Fate, I am the Captain of my Soul"