I write when the river's down, when the ground's as hard as a banker's disposition and as cracked as an old woman's face. I write when the air is still and the tired leaves of the dying elm tree are a mosaic against the bird-blue sky. I write when the old bird dog, Sam, is too tired to chase rabbits, which is his habit on temperate days. I write when horses lie on burnt grass, when the sun is always high noon, when hope melts like yellow butter near the kitchen window. I write when there are no cherry pies in the oven, when heartache comes like a dust storm in early morning. I write when the river's down, and sadness grows like cockle burs in my heart.
I am not able to get the system to publish a lot of my writing. It seems other people aren't having that problem. Perhaps they DONATE MORE? I am not able to donate much because I'm on Social Security disability and I have a fixed income. Recently I donated more than I could afford. I'm still having this problem. I have many friends on Facebook. Perhaps they would like to know about this problem and find other poetry sites rather than hello poetry. I don't want to do this, because I used to like this site a lot and there are some excellent poets here. I have tried twice to inbox you, Elliott. You have not responded. Perhaps you're trying to force me off the site. You are not succeeding. Instead I shall take this to a higher authority. God. I pray for you. That your heart will be changed. That you will be blessed with everything I want for myself. But I will take this to Facebook also. I don't want my friends to be hurt by a site that does this to people. Thank you for reading.
SoulSurvivor Catherine Jarvis 1/24/2021
If anyone else is having this problem please inbox me. Thanks.
If I could walk into your eyes I’d be where my fascination lives And I’d find your tears you shed for me And slowly my kisses I’d give And if I cry and you wipe my tears Your touching a part of yourself Because the day that I sought your gaze is the day my soul received its help
Just a little taste or sip of Me and you may feel I'm kind, I'm here to caress and console you, I'll make sure no harm comes to you. So much for the sip - the depths of Me will rip your ideals apart. Security and respectability and your sentimental morality flee or die at the sight of My heart. All that you cherish, take yourself to be is a lie - at best a useful lie. Yet sipping's good for now; keep sipping until you are ready to die.
Snows much a walk to touch dusk is the air between here and there I wander low is my heart vibe truly black as night shaded bright blue under a yellow hue the stars align my mind is dry ice is a rush my brains too mush to brush air is to dare to dream a new reel reveals a moor marsh the soul is parched white starched.
There's a little boy that hides in the dark corners of my soul. He doesn't want to be hurt anymore. I spent eight years with Beth. For the most part, it was hell and constant pain. She made nightmares look good. I heard the little boy cry late into the silky night, while snails got smashed on the streets of Ventura.
When I drank, which was often, the little boy seemed at peace for awhile, while swans were murdered in Venice, and I tasted the ashes of Neruda. Years flew by like seagulls; up down and darting. The little boy continued to hide in the dark corners of my soul.
He wanted to come out and be loved. He was thirsty for it, but there wasn't any around. It was dry, like the deserts in hell. It's too late for sorries, here comes the plow.
He began to see the pattern of life. There are monsters that walk in the light. Vulnerability equals pain. The little boy got mean. And now he carries a knife.
I kissed a girl with a broken smile; nothing could come near. She carved it with a pocket knife; slit from ear to ear. And she wears it like her favourite scarf; it keeps her from the cold. So I told her its only woven by her enemies of old.
Mildy distracted by the same song on repeat I allow the notes to carry me through the day Whilst I’m chasing sunsets in my head My feet are planted firmly in reality I wonder which side of me will reign supreme today A tug of war between both But when I look in the mirror My adversary is always myself The choice to compete was mine all along But the moment they unify That’s when the magic occurs.
I can't properly describe, your memory in my mind. I only remember pieces now. In awe of your beauty. Sometimes I try so hard, force your image to return. Parts are missing, forgotten. The fragments that remain, I will cherish until they leave, like the rest of you did, and will, in time.
अनुभव के अतिरिक्त कोई आधार नहीं , परमेश्वर का पथ कोई व्यापार नहीं। प्रभु में हीं जीवन कोई संज्ञान क्या लेगा? सागर में हीं मीन भला प्रमाण क्या देगा?
खग जाने कैसे कोई आकाश भला? दीपक जाने क्या है ये प्रकाश भला? जहाँ स्वांस है प्राणों का संचार वहीं, जहाँ प्राण है जीवन का आधार वहीं।
ईश्वर का क्या दोष भला प्रमाण में? अभिमान सजा के तुम हीं हो अज्ञान में। परमेश्वर ना छद्म तथ्य तेरे हीं प्राणी, भ्रम का है आचार पथ्य तेरे अज्ञानी ।
कभी कानों से सुनकर ज्ञात नहीं ईश्वर , कितना भी पढ़ लो प्राप्त ना परमेश्वर। कह कर प्रेम की बात भला बताए कैसे? हुआ नहीं हो ईश्क उसे समझाए कैसे?
परमेश्वर में तू तुझी में परमेश्वर , पर तू हीं ना तत्तपर नहीं कोई अवसर। दिल में है ना प्रीत कोई उदगार कहीं, अनुभव के अतिरिक्त कोई आधार नहीं।
अजय अमिताभ सुमन
मानव ईश्वर को पूरी दुनिया में ढूँढता फिरता है । ईश्वर का प्रमाण चाहता है, पर प्रमाण मिल नहीं पाता। ये ठीक वैसे हीं है जैसे कि मछली सागर का प्रमाण मांगे, पंछी आकाश का और दिया रोशनी का प्रकाश का। दरअसल मछली के लिए सागर का प्रमाण पाना बड़ा मुश्किल है। मछली सागर से भिन्न नहीं है । पंछी और आकाश एक हीं है । आकाश में हीं है पंछी । जहाँ दिया है वहाँ प्रकाश है। एक दुसरे के अभिन्न अंग हैं ये। ठीक वैसे हीं जीव ईश्वर का हीं अंग है। जब जीव खुद को जान जाएगा, ईश्वर को पहचान जाएगा। इसी वास्तविकता का उद्घाटन करती है ये कविता "प्रमाण"।
Snow arrived, quite suddenly. The city fell to silence: softness flurried, whiteness spread. Our footsteps punched a rhythm: crisp heel, crisp toe. Steaming cars slid past in slush, peeling back the long black road. The trees drooped: tears splattered on the streets, but still my heart lay cold.
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 . P.s Strange, the Hellopoetry computer demanded I put two stars on this poem to repost it to the front page... But it was worth it, it’s been on here for over a year now, I appreciate it Elliot.
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
I know you. Sometimes you say things, expecting that I won’t understand, and I think it’s strange because I know you. That’s what this is. I know you, And I want you, And I care about you Anyway. Don’t want no one else. You might not know me, The stanchions you use to prop yourself up eating all that I have fed you, In the darkness, In the night, But I know you. And I want you anyway.
Where have you gone, little child —my little child You told me all your secrets but never told me your plans and was it nothing to you? —all those golden weeds we plucked and laughs that bloomed I should’ve built you a castle out of it all—
I should’ve covered the windows with dry leaves and letters I know well of the temptation, but what was ever so promising in that hazy night? My little bird, didn’t I teach you how to fly didn’t I adorn your feathers with petals —and poems I wrote tales for your wings and Will this be your repay?
What of the endless hills we sailed over All the gleaming waters we kissed I should’ve built you a kingdom out of it all— We could’ve been queens of a starry land yet here we are
I sit with the weeds, they chew away our lilies you have long run away with the dark and the world is dry— the world is dry without you.
Why is poetry dying when we still have the gift? If we still have water then we still have a ship. We can sail to the places these words take us. We are still shaken by the words that make us. Why should we let poetry die when there is so much to explore? If only people read it and discovered more.