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 Jun 20 Pagan Paul
Kalliope
I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.
If I weather your storms, could you handle mine?
Storm chasers have never been easy to find.
I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
This poem is my way of catching a moment when something that once felt real and meaningful slowly turns into just a shadow, a projection, an illusion. I wanted to show how reality can sometimes feel surreal, and how easy it is to mistake a reflection for the real thing, like in Plato’s cave. We often fall for false impressions. The image of the hand’s shadow on the wall becoming a barking dog or a disappearing rabbit is my way of speaking about disappointment and coming to terms with what happened.
For me, every poem is also like a diary, a way of keeping things I do not want, or maybe cannot, forget. I try to leave space for different interpretations, but what matters most to me always stays hidden underneath. To me, the hand in the poem has already become a shadow. And somehow, even if it makes no sense, the shadow still casts another one. It feels like a game of broken telephone with consciousness. Scattered pieces only make sense to me as a whole.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                           Let Us Celebrate No Tyrants Day


                           “We have no king but Caesar!”

               -A long-ago mob as written in St. John 19:15


Even the King of Kings is under the Law
And too, since Magna Carta, our earthly King -
From the people and their voices he can only draw
Such powers as their assemblies vote to bring

But may God protect us from a Common Man
Slithering to supremacy through serpentine speech
Emboldened by the power of cabal, club, and clan
Mobs chanting for their master, a soul-******* leech

God gives us His grace in a King and Queen
Republics give us the guillotine
14 June 20245 - our Stasi handcuffed an 87-year-old man today: https://x.com/CarolinaLumetta/status/1933669206114898254/video/3

The machine (or The Machine) may have replaced a word in Line 8 with a series of censorious asterisks, presuming that I was employing a crudity. The word is "soul-*******," "soul" (presumably "soul" is not a vulgarity?) followed by a common term for negative pressure, "*******," as in a vacuum cleaner.

I strongly disapprove of junior-high ***** language in, well, anything, but certainly in poetry; it suggests that the writer is deficient in vocabulary or is simply trying to be shocking. Yawn. But I also strongly disapprove of prissy persons who find wickedness in commonly used words and in other innocent aspects of life.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

     Our Capitol Police – Keeping America Safe from 87-Year-Olds

                       No Unmarked Cars for Senior Citizens

At least when our police ‘cuff an elderly man
They stuff him into a well-marked van


14 June 20245 - our Stasi handcuffed an 87-year-old veteran today:

https://x.com/CarolinaLumetta/status/1933669206114898254/video/3
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

              Our First-Person-Plural God-Emperor Bible Salesman
                                       Orders a War for Us


                   “Hell hath no fury like a non-combatant”

        -many attributions; dates to at least the American Civil War


The imperial We have / has spoken:
First His parade, and now our young people’s war
And what do His commands betoken?
Maybe for Him a shiny Silver Star

For sending our young to die in glorious battle
Across the screen and over the top
Waving His joystick like a baby’s rattle
With diet soda by way of an air drop

He’ll order our children to face the foe
But be assured – no Trump will ever go
 Jun 20 Pagan Paul
Traveler
Herbicide rich farm lands..
Pesticides on every lawn..
Long live the American dream!
Capitalism is a long lost song..

Roundup sprayed ski slopes and golf course turfs!
Bucket list of old rich folks dying of cancers..
City water that stinks..
The ink of our receipts..
Testosterone levels,
rapidly deplete..
Year’s of no regulation,
Aluminum in the sky..
They obviously want to make sure…
No one gets out alive!!
Traveler Tim
 Jun 20 Pagan Paul
rick
I watch her apply creams and lotions to her face through the steamed glass of the shower door before lathering, rinsing off and stepping out.

she greets me at the bathmat with a towel,
then towels me off and flashes me the most
beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. I smile back,
feeling more understood and less misconstrued as she pats and wipes the beads of water away.

it’s moments like these that can make a man
crumble into submission, capturing the quick
glimpses of the joy and the gentle peace from
another beautiful soul when there’s so much
terror, fame & corruption reigning down in
this misbegotten world.

we stand there facing one another

we don’t have to be anybody
we don’t have to be anyplace
we don’t have to worry about anything
we can just simply enjoy each other’s company

looking deep into the eyes
she caresses my beard
she understands me
she takes care of me

& it’s nice to be taken of
especially after a lifetime
of taking care of yourself

I stand there feeling the good times pass
as she dries my ***** with this
lucratively warm towel.
first poem I wrote about my Vietnamese lady friend
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