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these two hands, small, stubby,
nonetheless,
invite you to come aboard,
all, the unselected
all, the unprotected

the pretenders, outsiders,
hallway cool, self-collected,
girls who wear dresses,
boys who write in diaries,
Camus, Sartre hangers-on,
never-removed sunglasses wearers,
24/7

trip time,
comb your eyes,
system cleansing,
you, self-affected,
you, self-selected
you,
step away from the gallows,
get down from the scaffold

come to, for you, to get collected,
the unaffected,
the undirected,
road trip to the unexpected,
place where the disconnection is
disconnected,
where the unexpected, that's you,
expected

I know you well
I know you all

you are my desirables,
my touched untouchables,
wilderness voices,
no longer crying,
bound for greatness

from hands to pockets,
my chosen ones,
now my protected

No more unhappy birthday parties
that no one comes too
no need to pretend, sell love,
to the takers of advantage,

now on you breathe in an atmosphere
I've collected,
100% exhaled relief breaths,
purelled oxygen, fresh start air

no more disaffected,
now fuel injected,
now that you are
in and among the
touched, carried,
the affected,
the every poem read...
What is this feeling
that leaves me longing
My heart begs to hold on
Yet the golden dream
of this beautiful stranger
fades from real to reality
Although we've never met
I know her somehow
Somewhere someway
Perhaps from the past
Perhaps from the future
Maybe a soul mate
I've yet to meet
It's as if she was torn
from my being
And in my waking hour
I am but half a man.
I long for more
than just a dream
Yet at least I hold her
in my unconscious world...
Traveler Tim
The strange life of a Traveler.
Re to 02-17
Smashing the ice with a sledge hammer is exhausting
Pounding, sweating, blisters pulsating
Slowly chipping away at the vastness of frozen emotions
Yet, the ice is formidable from months of winter

Forced to recalculate, to innovate, to anticipate
Salt has the ability to melt ice into tears of joy
Unless the salt solvates in open wounds

Progress freezes until nature's spring decides
The sun is enlightened enough to slowly
Allow thawing in his Mother's time
Where are you now
my son?

Where are you now?
I seek you

in the high noon
and at eventide

I wait for your presence
in the hall

your entrance
into the main room

sitting at table
or in your favourite

armchair
but I look again

and you're not there.
I listen

for your Mutley chuckle
in a further room

or your deep
soft laugh

or words of wit
but I listen again

and there's none of it.
I gaze at your pictures

about the house
those when

a mischievous child
or thoughtful student

or grown man
all spread

to a twenty nine
year span

all having
that knowing look

that smile or grin
and it makes me

hurt within
that you have gone

yet proud
Ole

proud
my son.
YES TERDAY WAS MY SON OLIVER "OLE"'S FUNERAL. GOD BLESS HIM.
Flowers are the breath of the Earth
The music of the birds
The daughters of the trees
Kisses of the stars
Art of the universe
The clouds companions
Muse of the sun
What the **** did I just write,
Fleurs
We will tell you what to paint
What canvas portrays the truth
How many strokes your brush must take
From what colors you can choose

Whether oil or water color
Portrait or landscape
And if you try to paint with words
We'll tell you what to say

Set your easel up inside our garden
The one behind locked gates
Feel free to paint by numbers
They're much easier to erase

We don't want any problems
With the art in which you ink
Don't want those in the Worlds Gallery*
*
To have the slightest opportunity to think
The Art Critic is the Government
The Artist is the press
I never thought in my lifetime I would be afraid of America's Art Critic
sometimes I wish I were a martyr
a  Billy Joel punchline that hit premature
I wish that something would strike me
so that I could feel struck instead of stuck
sometimes I wish I had a cause worth dying for
then I could truly feel alive
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