Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
patty m
Earthbound pantomime
purloining longing
I once had an ******
driving in my car
so vivid was it in my mind
I slammed into
the bumper of the car in front of me

Never ****** heading down
an off ramp,
eyes halved as a millions
flutters clutch. I
came uncorked in
champagne bubbles of light
a reeling song
that knows no brake
but hits the gas to fly
open lipped into ecstasy's kiss
Then the present snaps
into focus.

An old piece of crap car
with a dent that matched
a multitude of others,
but with my shade of red.

He names his price
we haggle, and I wonder
was it worth it?

I pay the guy fifty bucks to make him go away.

Stooping to ****
a cool drink through its straw
I wash down lust and dust
as I migrate slowly into traffic,
                  chasing the dream I paid for.
loriann capra
it takes me two times longer to fall asleep,
when you’re not on the phone,
                              on my pillow,
                              next to me;
i count the seconds.

CL Fjell
Crush my spirit
Use it as medicine
For your own benefit
And give it to your friends
And give it to your family
Your dogs and cats too
I have no need for it
I don't want a need for it
Stretched thin and squeezed
Like a summer lemon
Now I'm a lemon
And you're refreshed
Take a walk with me
Down the streets of my heart
Deep down to the end of the route
Take a look at the beautiful lawns at the roadside
That's my love for you

Take a walk with me
Far away into my mind
Read my thoughts and record the depth of my love for you

Take a walk with me
Deep down my emotions
Feel what I feel for you
Take a walk with me
Pour your torment on the page and let the sound leak out of you

Your music bleeds out of your veins and it’s so personal, so emotional, how could people keep from resonating with it?

So now, you get to perform the same recurring nightmare every night. Reopening the wound you couldn’t heal.
I don't know if this path is the right one
but i'll walk it fearlessly
city of flips
for the ladies who liquid lunch


the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palette,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!


your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
your very own brand of
loving tears

it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing

I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me

so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy

impossible to eat just one

p.s. you tease me mean,

bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting


back for more already?

The Lone Rager
Poets sometimes experience a temporary
inability to translate subconscious impulses into art.
This self-communication  breakdown is typically called:
"writer's block." As for Muses, they're first-cousins    
to the Easter Bunny.
Olivia Henkel
Discolored outlook
Am i still stuck in the loop?
Retracing footsteps  

An intrusive thought.
Resist casting judgment on
an obscured shadow
You were ready,
To be a target.

So said,
Your clear signals.

I took a shot.

It was a direct hit.

You moved...
At the last second...
beth stclair
there are no ghosts
in the sky,

my tabby cat wears the moon,
curled into the corner
like a sleepy fog,

the dreamscape is made
of silver and gold,

you (like always)try to get my
attention and i (like always) ignore
you, trying to write
my poem…
the mind rot was cured but
I felt it spread
wildfire, new grass growing
while being poisoned
everything is clean
underneath the grime
YOUR self worth is not determined by what others think of you.
It’s not determined by the that fact that you may not have the body type that is praised over social media.
It’s not determined by what society claims to be good or bad.
YOU are Worth it.
YOU always have been worth it and you always will be.
YOU’RE worth every second someone takes out of their day to talk to you.
YOU’RE worth every breath you take.
YOU are blinded from your beauty that we all see you have.
YOU are worth it.
i prayed for sunshine
but all i got were storms
were i patient enough
i’d have seen the rainbow
tonight, what am i to you?
am i a toy?
My heart aches from within
But nothing can be done
Cause memories are there to stay
None have faded away
Only bittersweet feelings
Are left studded in my heart
Removing them might seem hard
Surely enough you can tear it apart
But no one knows the scars left behind
Takes forever to heal
At times may never be done.
blanket me..
sheer lover so sore we vent,
blanket in the basket

I visualizer your straight aura
bask in their vast expanse between time & space
an afro burned in the midnight air,
bellow the fryer;

chaser after the bees
you were there with situations to vent
strength like the weary toad
lend me an ear

cross your fingers
bent as to every turn my soul doth turn
The one who left you in storms
can never give you rainbows
and sunshine.
this is
where i

i never
for you
i was
in love
with the
idea of


Love is the color of orange
Red is too much of scorn
Pink makes me think too much of a friendship
Purple’s too deep
Where we won’t try to understand it
Green is too free
Where we’ll move earth like the birds and the bees
Yellow so bright, the love of family
Blue, well it’s true, is too sad
Black love
Black matter, never
Exist it’s too bad.
Our love is the color of orange
my patience is melting like an ice cube in the heat
keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­ l                  is to 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.
Nat Lipstadt
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")**

I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone, with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints, super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash

I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already ****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.

This summer, beloved,
and love of summer, deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling pops.
^ See "The Summer Alphabet of Woman (I Speak Woman)"
August 23 2013

^^ See "Made the bed backwards"
August 24 2013

^^^  See "Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians"
August 22 2013

^^^^ See "* Acorns in August (Sonata for Summer Cello and Fall Piano, No. 3)" August 19 2013

* Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old
A hundred feathers
A tiny bit of leather
And one cube of ice
Is all it takes
To remind you
Why you’re human
You dug today
Some mud and clay
With two-year-old hands
And a giant *****.
You dug today
A new place to play
Filthy, muddy wonderlands;
Just the place for an escapade!
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems too *******.
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
I didn't feel like writing today.
I was afraid I'd say the unsaid.
I dont wanna face the truth,
I dont wanna give up on us.
Why cant you come back to me,
And be the way it's supposed to be?
But alas I'm a poet. I must write.
You make me want to tell stories.

With such fluidity,
such grace,
my words are dancers
spinning in space.
They're airy
and light
floating on by.
No weight to them
at all.
Follow the path
I lead you on
and don't ever stray.
My words are
you from pain.

You make me want to tell stories.
Yes, I left you.
I do admit it,
but I don't regret it.
Nat Lipstadt

Every summer, I relearn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
Its charms and naked arms,
Its own alphabet,
Clean forget.

Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
With a mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all, cold,
know them all, hot.

I speak Woman.

Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.

There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!

I speak Woman.

There is no **** in the summer.
**** being an **** word.  
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days,
vacations, no school, no ways
Is there ugliness in any woman of the summer?

You could take this writ many places.
Most of them wrong,
So sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Makes you **** and wrong.

Could not give a good *******,
In the summer of 2013,
There should be no ****, no prejudice.

In any summer,,
There should be no ****, no prejudice at all.

Long past my primal,
I still speak Woman
With almost perfect fluency,
Au naturel,
Naturellement, à la française.

Gym clothes, denim short shorts, yoga pants gone mad,
A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels,
Flats clip clopping, flips flip flopping,
Stilettos making love craters,
All over my heart, like a surgeon doing good work.

It is the bare arms and the fluorescent, mint stripe hints of
Summer Cleavage, the short skirts,
Body hugging one piece fabrics,
stretching from here to down there
That do not hint.

The shoulder strap of the underthings,
Asking, commanding me to
Wonder where these paths lead...

Even the light shoulder wrap,
Casual over bare shoulders slung,
A late night elegance that mocks me,
Like gift wrapping over a
Smile demure, a teasing blindfold...

All these say:

Write us poetry in our very own tongue of

Will oblige.

I curve with curve of the *****,
Invert geometry of the S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, never failing...never letting me fall

The crayola musical colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses...
How can
Tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?

Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, following ******* by eyes sparkling,
Timpani crashing heart and thunderous pulse quickening,
Violin heart crying out, joyous wailing need and desire sparking.

Just as Byron wrote:

"Music arose with its voluptuous swell,"

Yeah, just swell,
a voluptuous sea swell.


My eloquence is a poor instrument to portray my

Early May man glorious loves life,
Late July, sadder man,
Knowing  the summer foliage colors will soon, fall-fade,
Come August, my vocabulary, already diminishing.

Never forget
how to say in the language of Woman, this:

Without you,
I am nothing,
With you,
I am more than everything.

Tho I can no longer say it well,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.

My one true language of love
In a world gone mad.

August 2013 ~ July 2016 - May 2017
First posted here on August 22, 2013
Edited July, 2016, May 2017
You asked me how I felt about you
You wanted me over and over again
You asked me if you meant something
You wanted to know me in every corner.

All I could answer is that I cannot answer
I would rather keep the feelings to myself
I would rather keep enjoying the bitterness
I would rather keep enjoying the sweetness
I would rather keep the mystery to myself.

You were curious of that ****** mind
You wanted to know my flaws
You asked me to open up myself to you
You desired the secrets that held my heart
You envied the darkness that covered my soul.

You were not ready to confront the devils in me
You did not consider how weak you could be
I was not ready to let go of this you and me
I was not over that clinging heart that lacked us
We were the unspoken devil and angel of the earth.
melissa rose
She invites me in with a therapist smile
as I step through her door
observes me with that deep blue gaze
leaving me longing for more
begs me to follow
as she moves across the floor
she lingers slightly with her touch
as she gently squeezes my hand
but it’s the warmth of her hug
that I wonder where does she begin and I end?

Truth is bitter with her scent so sweet
she doesn’t love me out loud
in this lifetime it’s just not meant to be
her love isn’t real
all images in my mind
of what I long to feel
we’re not lovers
and we’ll never be friends
but I’ll love her in breathless whispers
as the depth of my love for her has no end
7/12/19 cliche
you were never mine,
but i was always yours.
i’ll always be yours,
if you want me.
same old street, it's raining light
when will i suspend my sight?
powerless, yet still up for a fight
when all is wrong, just turn right

same old street, it's always night
when will i suspend my flight?
powerless, enshrouded by fright
when all is wrong, just write.
im so afraid of growing up. what is the future telling me, will it be kind?
Ashley Kaye
There was a time
when time was not time—-
For me,
For you.
The water it collects and tarries
Carries itself.

you whisper
my thoughts linger to go
July 13,  2019
ting is
your           life
thro             ugh
a ne           edle
and         if
you sew
Next page