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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)
Alex Teng
We fell in love by chance,
We stay in love by choice.
I should’ve
for someone
her to
into my
Nat Lipstadt
8:28 Sunny Sunday Marching 3rds


as per usual,

(tho my fingers strangely type ‘per Isiah’)

commencing at my beginning with no
direction home, an entitled title asking
for complete composition, and your
attentive compensation, threatening
to sue for “failure to finish,” a crime
for which I’ve served many a year behind
the bars of my ever increasing
TO DO file

but struck am I this morn by the poetry
of the common place, the phraseology
that we use without momentary cognition,
the every~day verbiage that, within lies
perhaps veins that deserve mining for
nouveau riches

and we get what we deserve,
no more, no less, but when
I inquire who has decided this
measured cup of justice and
painted the lines of liquid fluidity,
or just vanilla inspiration, a one
hand clap and a mocking hoot is
returned  reverberating as in an
empty spelunking cave

we are all experts in the ordinary
diurnal doors that require opening
by morning, closing by night, while
waiting for that “break that would
make it ok…from the wreckage of
your silent reverie”^

yesterday was my birthday,
no, it was not, but I’ll pretend
to have that right to make the
summary judgements that the
spirits and harlequins, who,
now revealed as my silent mockers,
the less, no more, no,
I am rendered,
split asunder, by the sentence I’ve self~
impose down on my conscience and

balance does not require balancing,
more bad than good, wrecked and wracked
by the un~proportionality of my unbalanced
imbalance, what flaws, what traits,
what genetics,
what misapprehensions, foolishness, led me into
this straying straight life, of no more, no

and I quit here for the answers do not appear,
and that voice says you need a shave, go!
look in the mirror and revelations will dance, emanating from your eyes who bear witness to all,
no more, no less

^ Sarah McLachlan, “Angel”
No more lies
or games
no shame taken

I am
what I am
and will
with no fibre of me
just to make you feel
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.
Goddess Rue
Heaven rained on me,
I breathed in the petrichor,
Bathed in the downpour.
I have sinned,
So destroy me,
With your rain.
I think
the world
of us
than we
can offer
Marshal Gebbie
Ah! Sweet moments,
Those often tiny vignettes of time,
Captured landscapes,
Life quilled upon passing seasons.
Gifts and treasures collected
Tucked into memory's
Dusty corners...
Filling the Soul's bookshelf.

But sometimes
There comes a moment,
Unnoticed and slipping quietly,
Into its' own silence.
It will have no tomorrows
No memory to ease the emptiness
Of regret...or words
To paint upon our bare
and introverted canvass.

Which avenue travelled
Rests with the toss of the coin,
For the realm in which we dwell
Is determined, primarily,
By chance.

3rd March 2024
You can’t compare yourself
With the unbroken girls
Surrounding you
You already shattered
A new form
Of beautiful

a somewhat older poem

time is fleeting
love her hard
love her fast
give everything you can
for as long as you have
be open
be honest
be humbled
admit your defeats
she will give you every thing
every part unraveled
stand with her
do not run from her magic
a love like that
may only come around but once
it is a fate far worse than any
to wonder what if.

Sally A Bayan

I cannot not remember my mother,
whatever time...whatever day,
during work or while viewing sunsets
while relaxing...or while too stressed,
her face...smiling or wearing a frown,
or a tune of a song she used to sing,
all these hover over everything
around me, they dangle like tassels
of memories,
they make me recall more.

I cannot not remember the scents
of flowers in my mother's garden
that she used to grow and love,
for they all still exist  in my garden,
dishes she used to cook for us,
I now cook for my own family.

When a breeze brushes over me,
i cannot not remember, how in the
early mornings of her life, my mother
had rushed to the church, to hear serve God 'til the last days
of her life...she did, in every way.

I cannot not remember my own mother,
for i saw in her how to be a mother
and a grandmother
with love, extreme effort and care.

sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 24, 2024
...was reading some works by Rabindranath Tagore,
and I ended up with this poem...
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
I am stupid
And naive
To think this would be easy.

I am stupid
And naive
To believe it would be served
On a silver platter.

I am a complete and utter ignoramus.
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
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
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!
Nat Lipstadt
“This Insubstantial Pageant Faded”
(spoke by Prospero, The Tempest, by W. Shakespeare)^

Our words are all actors,

a long run, run its course,
our long playing record,
scratched, love~worn to
worn out extremity, yet
yeoman service did offer,
extreme only in magical
transforming plain sight
into visions, a legacy,
bent gray, tarnished by
weary wearing aging,
their brief sparks now
but reclamation flares of
burst lights of waning days
in short lived tastings of what
was and can be nevermore

everyone’s magic has its preset
timed timing, and with
every day, each a concentric
ring marked and hallowed,
a heartbeat ring narrower
than its predecessor,
a shallower hollow,
a fair represent of both
all that came our way, and that
we resent with no resentment
into a cloud capped atmosphere
for all to ****** from a flailing,
flying breeze, their brief gleam,
multiplying, thus envisaging,
illuminating the manuscript of our
hinted future forward’s next percept

“And like
this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep”
Prospero’s speech at the end of
, The Tempest, by William Shakespeare

March 2 2024
Heavy Hearted
The babble of the valley Brooke
A rush- the flowing, liquid memory moving
Water; the stillness of
a puddle
A pond, the pooling-
scintillates & permeates.
A gentel lapping
against the creekside,
A skip-stone-scape beneath the wetness
Augments the heavy water
As nature's soundtrack.
The valley walls
She met an artist
His fingers were made of gold
They moved like brush strokes
She was an empty canvas
His portrait of rainbow tears
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.
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
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.

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.
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.
i tried to find
a song
a poem
a piece of art
something, anything
that felt like
or sounded like

i looked
and searched
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
a best friend

i couldn't find anything
nothing is like you
She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."
What's the difference?
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.
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



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
Levi Johnson
I just have to look
at you
to feel it.

To know it
I have to look

Like the pages
of a book

Fragments of
information, the pieces
all out of place.


I believe you
beg to be
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.
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.
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.
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.

It's your decision
whether to make your mind
A prison
A stepping stone
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
Aaron L Osgood
I been so absent minded.
I neglect to find it.
The reason behind it.
Prospect declining during the current timing.
Blood pressure is rising as I continue writing.
Hyper active situation is only icing.
Words continue slicing the taste is inviting.
Urges only burn so I ignite the nervous.
Won’t describe the purpose of this nonsense it’s worthless.
Trying to reach the surface to expel my service.
Sunday churches, I’m hearting The Bible verses.
My mind contain the circus keep clowning around.
I still find life funny even when I’m feeling down.
I’m over here expressing feeling now
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.
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
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