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Francie Lynch
Music doesn't age like us;
Rather, it ages with us.
Don Bouchard
Approaching customs, my father slowed the car.
"Time to eat! he said, and pulled us to the side.
He'd bought peaches from a fruit stand,
Forgotten they'd never cross the border.

Never one to waste, his plan unfolded.
We stood beside the car, peach juice
Trickling down our arms,
Falling at our elbows,
Gorging a delicacy turned to glut,
Making memories of forced generosity,
Gluttons of fruit, victims of parsimony.

My mother knew what was coming:
The cramps we kids would have
From smuggling peaches
In stretched bellies
Into Canada.
1968 or '74. One of two vacations to Banff, Canada....
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.
I’m scared as f*ck
to want you.

But here
I am,

Still wanting you
sometimes being with him feels like im drowning
waves in my stomach crashing
the tides rise and fall in my chest
cause of death: i was obsessed
wept too many tears
caused myself to drown in a planet of my fears
haven't written in a while I just wanna get all my thoughts out even if they may make more sense in my head
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,
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,
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!
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)
(when first I learned my
paled by compare,

did not weep,
for my eyes
with love keeps

reminding with
every glance,
my intuition
is where my
value lay…


of course, it a genius creative choreographer,
Lar Lubovitch,
to remind of the obvious
I forget
Today in early morning dew
My eyes were searching for my moon.
Much to my delight
I saw a little quarter light
still sleeping like a baby sickle moon
covered by a little see through cloud
dreaming of the sun still yet to come
to greet at dawn of day.
I smiled and said “ hello my old friend “.

Shell ✨🐚
Moon lover
I still remember the last time I saw you
and I remember the day I realized
it was really over

but life goes on, as things do
however, I still find myself
thinking about you

I’ve seen other people,
I’m sure you have too
but still, I really, truly do
myss you
Mystic Ink Plus

Genre: Micro verse
Theme: Privileged
Author's Note:
He/She might not say
Anything casual

Expect something
Calm to ears
Why do they come up
Why bring me back to the horror
Why make me remember
Why must these memories haunt me
only to leave me once more???
my name is brandychanning the writing drips over the side of the coffee mug,
dripping stains upon its ceramic clean whiteness,
making me love the perfection of its perfect~rounded simplicity
even more…to love even more

what a great thing
that is, must be, to love beyond loving, even more,
makes me morning giddy at the possibility that at
anytime, or even at any any you will offer me an
elixir to turn dross into injectable gold, thrilling me
for real down to my tingling toes that I laugh at my
very own foolishness and immensity of possible that
poem spilled out when I spilled my coffee and was born
in totality, and received like an infant in a straw basket
floating down the Nile, where a princess (yeah, yeah,
was a princess before becoming a Queen, no nitpicking),
pulled me from the bulrushes flanking a wide snaking
powerful river, aged in its own right, dress in a hurry,
out, out  with no destination other than LA sun on my
face, a calming force to my warnings of rapid heartbeat
Apple Watch informing on me, so yes, I need your comments,
need your knowing attention to reassure this sharing is
worth something to you, that this too
is a possibility immensity.

so here’s that poem:

even more,
even any,
any any
for real
very own
possibility immensity
I'm tired
You know?
And just so very
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.
She changed
He noticed it in her eyes
The last time he acknowledged her was
before he left
When fresh tears came out her eyes
When she dedicated her love to him
But no matter what she did she couldn't stop him
from leaving
Her eyes held sadness and love
That he had never seen in anyone before
The kind of eyes when someone betrays you
This time
Her eyes had fire
And as he stood and looked at her
Her hair and the wind
Her eyes and the sun
This time
This time he saw her worth
Her love
Her strength
But this time she was strong enough to fight
Strong enough to say no.
folllow me on instagram
I sold my soul to poetry
And never looked back
But now every relationship
Is a writing prompt
Every trauma, a metaphor
Nat Lipstadt
inspired by a short story from the man from Snake River


no alarm clocks heard expiring,
unrequired and unrequited,
those, self-employed by the
nocturnal repetitive recounting
of sins of omission and worse,
those commissioned in
anger and haste, that breed only
more anger and lay further waste
from humans to 
awaken with an
irregular precision
and bad disorder,
demanding chances,
expiation, restitution, amendment,
but time erodes
possibilities for the
foreign forgiveness

knock-you-down rushing currents
of water erodes Snake River boulders,
them oldsters just like the litany of our
malfeasances, indestructible in nature
and in
human nature
terms, such as time measurements,
irreverent and irredeemable,
for our sins
live far longer than
our owned memories,
in those harmed, who
cannot in the unlimited timeless quantity of
ever ever,

your wry smile,
your why cries,
audibles you’ve
play called, go
unheard, unseen,
even and odd
Bach Orchestral Suites,
Beethoven Sonatas
more mock than soothe

trapped between industrial carpet
and flat unpainted Armstrong ceiling tiles,
in a hell of your own creation, forgot to include,
a Sabbath day extant, of rest for weary creators,
ever ever,

or planned in a world you’ve  designed,
so the best you
can do
is write
another and another
confession ever ever

watching and listening to
the alarm clock that neither
requires setting, for
it’s audible ticking is
alarm-ing curse
enough ever ever
that always never
see “4:30 Am in the City” by Jim Cunningham from his book of short stories,
“Reel Stories”

writ at 7:00am
your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about

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
It's just that
i'd like someone to
write for me
just once
i'd like to be the object of affection
i'd like for someone to find
that beauty my mother keeps telling me
i have inside
i'm not complaining
but you see
i'd just like to be the
and not the poet
for once
i would give you
all the stars,
all the planets,
just to see that smile
Salmabanu Hatim
Nine hit eight,
Eight hit seven,
Seven hit six,
Six hit five,
Five hit four,
Four hit three,
Three hit two,
Two hit one.
Zero was frightened,
One is going to hit me hard,
So it huddled with fear in a corner,
Waiting to be hit by one.
Instead one came and sat beside zero,
Zero became ten,
Stronger than all the rest.
Help ,
Don't hit.
I look back at my poetry
The ones about sunshine
And fresh breezes
To remind myself
That at some point
I was truly happy
She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."
What's the difference?
You and I
have a story
behind closed doors,
sneaking at night,
stealing kisses,
secretly holding hands.

But you and I
both know
this story
shall never be told
not even to a single soul.
I would trust anyone
with my life,
before I trusted them
with feelings.
queen of hearts
I don't miss people
I miss the parts of me I gave them
this one ******* HURTS
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.
He gave me dead flowers
So I can smell them every day
The rotten petals falling
The color of decay

The washed out sunflower
The dehydrated leaves
The mold on the water
The color of debris

The richly red rose
Now drooping to the floor
The color of love
Existed no more

But still I saved the flowers
And smelled them every day
And watered them with tears
To let them grow again.
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.
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.
The Nine Doubts
I guess I'll go make a cup of tea
Because sometimes it feels like
You have time for all of them, but not for me
I'll be here waiting for you to see my messages.
Where Shelter
In God’s No~Fly Zone

blessedly, so many of you are
unaware of the full color spectra
that be can seen only when an
age of experience has been reached,

reached, not attained, for the no~fly
zone is no place to be, without any
redeeming colorations, it is dark hued
twilight that inhibits vision clarity,
a precursor warning of the hungry
that offers to swallow one
into shades of sad remorse, and other

How came I to earn this distinction,
was not by acting out, rather by inaction,
the failure to pick the  correct fork in a
life of sentence diagramming, sentence
in the prison sense, all my sentences,
broken down,  no connection sensible
to the next phrase, next phase,  so I
sit beneath my vine and fig tree, unable
to fly, unable to tear shed,
grounded, pounded in my head
i am a hopeless romantic
with suicidal antics
that cant seem to love herself

she cant seem to nudge herself
out of depressive episodes
but she has expressive goals
to fall in love

to call on love
for several favors
and she has several wagers
that "this one will be 'the one'"
that what ever is done
can be undone
and that she will be okay
because one day love will fix it all

she is a pathetic romantic
with an optimistic aesthetic
and a manic
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

No matter who you are
You have my deepest respect!

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 am so tired
everything that
exhausts me
keeps me
at night
having a hard time sleeping
Jaslin Goh
I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love
The idea of company sounds great
Family, friends, soulmates
I love the silence
Now some chatter feels good
I’ve changed
I long for company
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