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 Aug 2015 Amanda In Scarlet
nivek
A world full of throwing fire and death
hideous death
where passwords ignite killers

Exploding in any sane mind.

He and she brother to the dead
and a sister and brother
have killed themselves

Have killed
themselves

Themselves
killing other
Brothers and sisters



What is really left
nothing more disgusting as being killed by the blood and guts of a misguided lunatic
.
Under loving branches of tree,

Singing birds bathe in garden,

Butterfly and cat jostle, sleepy,

Flowers bolt into the open sun.
~~~

"and ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band"

Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"

~~~

just one more,
for Sally B.,
who loves their music,
and all the poets here


~~~

when best messing with perfection,
hope for a close enough
second place finish,
at best

when tendering a gift,
gotta give only your
best,
for this is how,
you will be
best
remembered

yet all our stops here,
were and we're
never neatly planned,
indeed,
as you
sail on silver girl,
through to all
of our
unscheduled ports o' call,
and though our fingers may never intersect,
they have touched,
more than once,
on this poetry river
of electrons,
this bridge
over troubled waters

no need to make a plan,
to get yourself free,
even tho' I am no more
than a poor boy from New York City,
I make no jest,
always laying low,
but not here, not now

for this job I took upon mine own,
so after changes upon changes,
mount the stage, spotlighted,
one more song,
one more poem from a one man band,
this poet~fighter composes alone,
ill prepared,
carrying a reminder of every poem that laid him down,
but
tasked and
accepting nonetheless,
this challenge bout

old friends,
he sings,
i've come to talk to you again,
for this revelation still remains,
well planted in the brain

this song, this poem
will be shared,
let us all read it aloud
to break
the sounds of silence,
in a chorus of a cappella voices,
this simple verse upon which
I cannot improve

this poem, this stop,
this hello
to an endless poetry voyage
that transports human finery,
was indeed
never planned neatly,
but here was born
a sole sufficient refrain,
contenting the writer and the reader,
all of us poets,
all of us one man bands,
all of us in one voice singing

you are simply the
best here,
you are home,
and to you,
we are bound


~~~

August 9, 2015
Shelter Island
~~
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Paul+Simon
~~~
"Homeward Bound"

I'm sitting in the railway station.
Got a ticket to my destination.
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand.
And ev'ry stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Ev'ry day's an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories
And ev'ry stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be,
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Tonight I'll sing my songs again,
I'll play the game and pretend.
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
Silently for me.
 Aug 2015 Amanda In Scarlet
MKF
They tried to bury us my dear
But they didn't realize that we were seeds
 Aug 2015 Amanda In Scarlet
Helen
I never intended to be
a writer of poetry
most times it simply
wrote me
alas, now just bleached bones
of a ship sailed too close to shore
a carcass of denial
forevermore
 Aug 2015 Amanda In Scarlet
Helen
Every drip from bleeding pen
will forever drop
into an ocean
of broken hearts and distant shores
drowning hopes and flailing flaws
Every line, a path to cross
detailing every love lost
Every hate turns into crime
presenting as a moment in time
failing are the words
sitting as wingless birds
as Winter settles
upon us under snow clouds
we allow to own us

Our words will ever fail
leaving a faint trail
that allows me to find you
but only if you speak true
Speak to me
so I feel rhythm
give my heart beat a rhyme
break me out of this prison
where words have failed me
I'm done being a prisoner
for committing no crime

And the old habits once that led to good times
are just now old addictions
it wasn't supposed to last
to see another day
now it's fifteen years.
With the scars we bare
the shackles sting
we forged a prison
only to never see past the bars
Empty scenes and the faces
I no longer recall
I'm beyond the edge
welcome to the abyss.
**** the greetings lets just start this
as strangers who have grown all to familiar to the flame.
The story is there I just don't care to recall.

Perhaps because you sit there
at the edge of a fiery pit
casting memories into a flame
that were never legit
mocking the chains that hold me
casting aspersions to the skies
when did you get so close
to Purgatory, held hostage
by others lies?
Unchain me from this misery
how so easy it is to forget
the path taken to Ecstasy
is scarred with arrowed hearts
something more scary than
Lost Love and littered with
bones of Regret
You know the story well
you feed the fire with it's ripped pages

As in wasted lies and tattered pages nothing feeds a fire like a good dose of delusion.
No more do I view the possibilitites, simply count the days and escape further into myself.
Sometimes we find within the depths there are no clear answers .
Sometimes locked within we find just more emptiness and nothing more.

Old tracks and new scars together keep company with stories
I care no longer to tell.
The page as it was before you is as broken as before we met.
Does it all ever truly change or just become as twisted and bitter as I?

Do we wish to re read old stories, those that shattered into glass?
Do we want to tell the same old tales? Should we even try to rehash?
Sitting in the darkness, tracing old scars, feeding the fire from pages
that are not who we really are.
Wishing  we were progeny of those that had it good.
Thinking we are better than most but they misunderstood
that we stand in front of the fire, feeding it pages from our book,
never understanding all the mistakes that we took.
Never understanding that we listen to our conscious as we lay,
never understanding there was a price we had to pay.

We tell old stories out of the same old lies
In seconds and empty barrooms taking comfort in space
and drowning in distance .
We wore this disguise, we no longer can recognize our own reflections .

Sometimes truth is the only thing that keeps us from the destruction
all of it built upon lies .
The tides change, taken to a distant shore only returned like a message in a bottle,
discovered long past our time .

Why weather the storm when we always preferred it’s chaos my dear?
Old wrongs would be far easier if not feeling ever so right .
Sometimes you have to follow a dead-end for the pure hell of knowing.

And in that dead end we find the final passage of the book
Written in blood, scratched upon the walls,
tucked away in some hidden nook, in a corner
where we like to hide our eyes.
The final lines of a storm damaged mind, a wrecked soul cast upon a lonely
tide, the final words scratched into scars that wind around a body like a
cloak
The last three words scribbled in a ****** mess..
What a joke!
In empty crowds and fallen stars we often see only what gives us a much easier day.
Wine with regrets, hearts and barbwire confessions, none where ever as true as you .
Bleed those thoughts once more and we will pretend together .

This waltz is as clear as a sinking ships bliss
tell them all I've long since gone insane
Give my regards to your memories for I will burn in their illusions
till our Hell is left barren,  no remorse suits the ash as does this bitter pill
and a never existent flame.

To hide what is so easily viewed  now the scars we bare with such glee in a perfectly twisted display.
Give me no tomorrows promise for I only yearn for today.
I will never be able to articulate the true pleasure of writing with John. In between building/crafting a piece, we get to know each other more deeply than the line before. He's a master writer, a great listener and a true friend.
 Aug 2015 Amanda In Scarlet
nivek
the mad idea you were writing poetry
was not your own, in the beginning of scratched pencil picturing and colours and dreams and happiness and pain and wanting and needing
and anything in between , or counter to opinion popular, when popular was always in conflict with truth and truth was something no-one wanted to share or admit that it actually exists, and even if it did the general thought is it matters not, so why bother with poetry.
I am a small rose
In a clearing with you.

Wrap me in tendrils.
Celebrate the suns' flame
And see my light with moon
Glow in the night with us afar
As we make love under stars,
In the soil is our one keepsake,
Roots that plait the fertile earth,
By winds, we make our journey,
Each leaf is a palm of touches,
Each bud a knuckle of fealty
And all the thorns our glory.

Lie with me in the deep tangles
Of airs and moon and rains,
See the red, fire in my hair,
And the blush of my face
As the petals they are,
See the red, red rose
Of my fearless love.
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