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 1565° 
Alex Teng
We fell in love by chance,
We stay in love by choice.
 329° 
David Lessard
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
 121° 
Goddess Rue
Heaven rained on me,
I breathed in the petrichor,
Bathed in the downpour.
I have sinned,
So destroy me,
With your rain.
 116° 
Marie-Lyne
:)
I think
the world
needs
more
of us
than we
can offer
 109° 
Salmabanu Hatim
About people leads to gossip,
Curiosity about ideas will light the path to creativity,
And progress.
25/2/2024
 89° 
Ariana Bagley
I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.
 80° 
ketjil
You can’t compare yourself
With the unbroken girls
Surrounding you
You already shattered
Creating
A new form
Of beautiful

-jt
a somewhat older poem
 48° 
Saint kaya
The sky is
A graveyard of stars

And I remark
Something so tragically beautiful

Just like fireworks of art
From here to the nearest star

And I wish
I could lay awake
In the night

With you
And our lingering hearts

And tell you all about a tragedy
Called life
 44° 
brandychanning
The Pleated Skirt  by Brandy Channing


It was in San Fran,
a destination chosen for
its variety of vicarious distractions,
romance was in the ebb stage
of ebb & flow, and there was
a sufficiency of distraction there,
that my mind
could be there,
in actuality,
in the present,
in the moment,
accounted for,
and the cancer of
rooted sadness,
that wastrel feeling,
was temporal boxed,
in my traveling attic.

On a cable car,
of which
the hills, insisted,
when the
lactic acid, persisted,
be re~viewed as an actual
conveyance methodology.

A-man got on,
sitting
near enough, but not
invasively too near,
and began a
study of me;
perhaps an exercise
in memorization
for a sculpture or a painting,
that would be shown,
in a gallery quaint,
nearby in Benicia,
and destined to be
displayed (dis~splayed?)
near a picture window in a
big old home overlooking
the North Bay, as the
She~Muse mused amusedly.

Or it was just another
inspection by “a man,”
common enough that
it was noticed and noted,
but attended to with a
practiced nonchalance,
which is a French word,
meaning nonchalance.

Ah! descending near the Wharf,
He~too, as he was now labeled,
stored and forgettably tabled,
He~too descended as well.

A meandering into familiarity,
of ancient memories of smells,
of clam chowder,
gulls and sea lions
the inhabitants of Pier 39,
all traced my face with
a grimacing smile,
for sometimes one lives
in a state of duality.

But a voice from behind,
gently inquired if permission
was grantable to recite a poem,
yes, directed to me,
yes, from He~too,
who, awkwardly shifted
his stance from side to side,
as if performing a
pantomime dance routine,
while waiting for
my pithy or pissy,
but always well considered
R.S.V.P.,
which is four french words(!),
meaning, “sure, why not, try me”).

Alas this Techi-he
as he was subsequently
re and de-nominated,
recited a variant of
roses are red etc,,
but concluded with
“your pleated skirt.”

(Roses are red, violets are blue,
when I observed your pleated skirt,
my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT!
let this woman ever escape your purview)

Now this navy medium wooly weight
(always chilled in SF)
somewhat too short skirt,
was a hand-me-down
from my mother (mom!)
who in a prior decade,
dressed like everybody else,
but with a panache,
(yes, a French word meaning panache)
that declaimed and declared,
“I do it my way”
and was in truth,
a fav of mine when
accented with dark tights
and preppy but comfortable
matching navy penny loafers
(mais non! pas de béret ridicule).

By now, you know, I know,
how to deal with men, whose
onslaughts are like the beaches
of Normandy, littered with death &
destruction from my hot herbal tea,
heated by rapid fire of my
machine gun fire,
my bullets of verbosity
from an old, original ***,
used by my grandfather.

But this reference to my pleated skirt,
flattering me when accompanied
with a beautiful French blouse,
sunglasses, and my heart and hair
openly parted down the middle
in a nod
to Haight~Ashbury
hippie history,
was off kilter,
or as Techi-he would later
joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt),
and taken prisoner, a POW, which
under the rules of the Geneva Convention,
would be guaranteed all the necessities
of a good loving.

We are California Commuters,
me in LA, he in SF,
an unlikely combination,
he and me,
of milieux, personality,
yet not dissimilar:
harmonized when
he writes code snippets
on diner napkins, and
I,
snippets of poems
on diner napkins,,
he clears my laptop’s cache,
I clear his heart and vision,
a blending of

vive la différence!


and we see each other often,
as in as often as we can,
we vacation in the South,
of France, where he learns
of Impressionism, and a
different sea coastal ocean
environment.

I, learn from him,
his remarkable human fondue,
of intensity and concentration,
which melts into gentility and
a softness natural that steals my
heart, accompanied by the ridiculous
rhymes he passes me beneath the table,
notes toujours,
always perfect
for that moment,
like my pleated skirt

*(which now resides in his closet,
lest
its magic work again, thus,
kept safe by him, in a wardrobe,
to which he has locked and keyed,
and is worn upon request, my bequest,
it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined,
a wearable honoring
our commencement,
our commitment,
our pleated,
plaited hearts.)
 33° 
Nina
We hug
We kiss
We cuddle
In bed

We were just friends
We made out
To him
We were having ***
To me
We were making love
I was his friends with benefits
But he was my lover
 24° 
Reimers
It may look like I'm silent
But don't let it fool you
I'm holding back the will
To say that I love you
 20° 
Nat Lipstadt
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath


Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.  

Tinkered with June 22, 2013
With a push from Bala,
A serial peeper, thank God!
 12° 
emnabee
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
 12° 
Nolan Willett
Untold times reaching
Out with grasping fingertips
But invisible
 11° 
Rainy Days
I fell for the boy
Making sandwiches in the kitchen
Fell for his eyes
A deep green
Like a pine tree
I fell deep for the boy in the kitchen
And boy I love him
And the way he looks at me.
 10° 
Nat Lipstadt
The Level of Uncertainty, This Yellow Star

“Even though I’m OK right now,
there’s a sense it could all go
away in a second.”  

<>
foreboding,
a disease well known to me,
not “as if,” but in fact
been Cain-marked at
birth to be wary, be watchful,
ever alert, never inert in the
realm of possibilities,
the king
in my universe’s galaxy is the
randomness of existence,

microsecond, milligram minuscule,
muscular instability that even if
unspoke,

danger!
it’s bespoke nature, customized
just for me, lurks, prepared to ****
me into a hard fall, loss of balance

yes,
I prepare with subtleties, minute
measures, discrete and indiscreet,
measured steps, slow-wide turns,
“hands on the railing down the stairs we go”
motto~attitudinal, antithesis~carefree,
for this birthmark was forehead installed
from birth, as a reminder that
reckless abandon
is a countervailing force,
and there are whales in the ocean
and whole coteries of fish in the sea,
waiting, wanting to swallow me whole,

lions across the ocean faraway continents
eager for a nibble of my tender heart,
round ****, and
thousands of people
who hate me and my kind, for no reason,
other than my birth mark,
this foreheaded
yellow star,
notifying all eyes, that I am to be dreaded,
feared, for reasons no matter,
just but unjustly

because, I am a Jew

who prays thrice
times daily for peace
for the whole world.

Sat Feb 10
8:35am
 10° 
Jack Torrance
Today I’ll ponder,
on these scars.
Tonight I’ll wish,
upon a star.

Tomorrow may bring,
another wound,
but wounds can heal,
if treated soon.

Yesterday,
I thought of death,
and felt the wind,
sigh with his breath.

Not today,
he whispered clear,
perhaps tomorrow,
but do not fear.

In the end,
he comes to all.
The weak, the strong,
the big and small.

He’s timeless and constant,
Death’s always “been”,
and he has no pity,
foe or friend.

He’ll lead me on,
to the unknown,
giving me the thing,
he can never own.

So I will not fear him,
and I shall not fret.
For tomorrow,
has not happened yet.
Death comes to us all.
 10° 
misha
your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you
if only i could chase you with pizza but shots don't work like that
 10° 
Sofie Louise
I’m not empty.
It’s not that I don’t feel anything.
The exact opposite.

I feel so much.

So much I get desensitized to my own emotions.
They flow around like water in every corner of my body.
Mixing in with my blood until there is no cell untouched.

It used to be a gentle lake.
But now It’s an ocean.
So all I can do is sit here and pretend that I’m a puddle.
Just like everyone else.
 9° 
hsyclara
every other month,
i fly.
when my mind fills with worries and unease,
my lungs expand with fear not air,
my heart speeds,
and with a single backpack
i take a bus to the airport.
long ride listening to my comfort songs
is just a beginning to my little getaway.
(i already feel calm writing about this moment)

quick 30 mins wait at the gate, then
i fly.
my reality you can wait for me at the airport
right where i left you,
because you deserve a break too.

see you in 5 days.
i'll meet you back at the airport.
 9° 
Chaos
i tried to find
a song
a poem
a piece of art
something, anything
that felt like
or sounded like
you

i looked
and searched
asked
and wondered
yet no matter what
i tried
there was nothing
that came close

for you
my platonic soulmate
are one of a kind
a light in the dark
warm, soft
kind, loving
selfless
a best friend

i couldn't find anything
because
nothing
nothing is like you
 9° 
Jermon
It's your decision
whether to make your mind
A prison
Or
A stepping stone
23.09.2019
 9° 
SANA
do others always define of who i am??
 9° 
e reed
We count the same stars

We whisper to the same moon
    each night.

That is enough,
just knowing we’re in the same universe.

e.reed
 9° 
Anna Patricia
~
There are pauses in between musical notes and stops between an artist's strokes and periods in between a writer's sentences. We have come to an end. We have come to a stop. But sometimes the only way to continue is to halt. The only way to begin is to end.

- apbq, pauses and stops
 8° 
Levi Johnson
I just have to look
at you
to feel it.

To know it
I have to look
away.

Like the pages
of a book
mid-tornado,

Fragments of
information, the pieces
all out of place.

Still,

I believe you
beg to be
read.
 8° 
lua
there was a moment in time
when death sat beside me on a park bench
and he had rested his hand on the gap between us

i,

too,

rested my hand there
and brushed my fingers against his

and for a chaste moment
i savoured the warmth of his skin
and intertwined my hand with his

but he stood up

and left

and maybe he knew,

it was for the better.
it was the right option
 8° 
Zack Ripley
History is like a mirror;
the closer you look,
the more you'll see things
that you don't want to see.
The more distorted the picture becomes.
But, if it's your history you're looking at,
the distortion offers a rare chance.
A chance to change the way
you look at your past.
 8° 
Max
She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."
What's the difference?
 7° 
Anais Vionet
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.

In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a stone pine,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.

Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.

Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.

Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.

You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”

But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.

The Saint Tropez of summer.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Haggard: tired, disheveled and abandoned
 7° 
Ann
keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  to is what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.
"Keep your eyes closed, love. sometimes all you have to listen is to what the sound of the waves tells you to do."

When I was much younger, beaches were my second favorite places. I still love watching waves as they go by, crashing against each other and the whole process repeating all over again.
 7° 
haysia
They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love.
"
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."
Appreciation post for myself; for you and for everyone as well. You deserve more than the world has to offer.
 7° 
Ally
I rise to greet the dawn

distracting my heart

I take a sip of dark roast

and exhale

today I will

just breathe
 7° 
Rupert Pip
Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.
Get to know me like I do you; inside and out.
 6° 
Traveler
Whether a comma, or colon:
Punctuation slows my rolling
I need no period. When I end
no Capitalization when I begin
Rulelessly I flow my art
  Not a single!
Exclamation mark
Are you not the one
Who'll know?
Where a question mark
No longer goes

Warp the structure
Bend the lines
Put in repeat
Let emotion unwind
Make yourself
Your poetry's the best
Be your own ruler
Pass your own test

Take your own road
Where ever it leads
Lover or hater
It's all poetry!
Traveler Tim
.


Hay
No matter who you are
You have my deepest respect!

Vanity
All is vanity
The meanings of passion
The aesthetic expression
The lines we draw and stay within
Even love is beyond intent
Vanity transcends
Flowing from our pens
And so we breathe again
 6° 
Aseel
I don’t want to be a princess.
I prefer to be a wall
or a shoulder
that some one can lean on
I don’t want to be spoiled
I want to
fight
Get dirt on my clothes
Clean them
search more
fail more
know more
see everything
Try everything
I want to share the road
With some one
Running not carried
I want to look behind
And see MY footprints.
I want to be free
 6° 
Arden
Can we talk about the word trigger
Because people are dumb
Teenagers say they are triggered when
They don’t want to write a paper
They miss a goal in soccer
They drop their phone
That is called being annoyed or disappointed
That is not triggered

A trigger is an emotional allergy
Some that triggers distress or panic
A trigger is loud noises cause a panic attack
 5° 
Lady K Milla
And after all those months of heavy rain, gusting winds, and burning sun, the leaf still left the tree after it grew tired of hanging onto its branches.

Or maybe the tree outgrew it.
Either way, the season said that was enough.

Some people call this the separation phase, but let’s be real, that same leaf is never coming back.
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