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I know it's not just a fiction,

this thing, we see but seldom recognize


This isn't my creation,

not yet, not quite yet..


It's an unspoken love for what kills us,

this touch unseen with roses and smoke


The winter melts away,

and reveals our armor to us


Spring comes

and makes us want to cry


This is all I've wanted,

this recognition..


I won't let you sink,

Won't let you go under


Not so soon,

we haven't reached our destination


The summer sun comes to show us,


That we're all just walking each other home
You may not know
You may not care,
Angels can't tread everywhere-
You may not hear
You may not see,
The devil will there always be!

I tell you this
I tell you that,
God meets you right where you are at-
I scream the warning
Night till morning,
Don't be ignorantly yawning!

Good and Evil battles on
In life until the war is won-

So you decide
Pay heed to pride,
On which teams side you will abide

You may not know
You may not care,

You may not hear
You may  despair!

But trust me when I'm telling you
It is an ancient fact that's true,

This battle:

Over me and You!
Everyday is an ongoing battle between good and evil-lie and truth and yes in the spirit realm over me and you!be sure you know which side you are being fight over-and fighting for!
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Tim Knight
I did not kiss anybody last night,
yet my body-
from the lips down-
thinks I did.

Clad in a cotton armour,
like a pitch again tent
in a miserable northern monsoon;
the chest is protected from the disappointment,
the ribs are protected from the disappointment,
as for the heart, that’s the one that gets drenched
in drops of distress-
for it is the one ***** that gets played
by the hand of the female chess player;
knowing and knowledgeable, out to get
your king for only profitable stings
and club-night-pictures-check-the-website-for-more-details,
kisses.
@coffeeshoppoems
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Joseph S C Pope
My father lit a cigarette and smoked the room up
                  with choked circles,
                                                                    he rewrites every woman
                                               he sees,
                 metamorphosis asunder,
                                                              because nothing is on tv.

                                  My mom was hauled blindly
                                              away from love to evening's riverbed
                                                            --to **** the fear of
                                                                                        correction away.
                              Birds talk about fish
                                            that fly in airline crusades,           gobbling up wise owls.
                          Blossom talons pluck
                                                              --up their words,
                                                                         the closest a lie can come to the truth
                                                               and be set in stone  None of them
                              will be remembered
                              the way they want to. footnote retribution.

                     The wandering dead only care about
                                                         modeling on the covers
       of psychology magazines--hailing reviews that digest indulgence
                                                                         beautifully,
                                                carving chocolate waists
     down
  to starvation--we melt away to gnats
                                       in Prozac hives
                                            shingled with academic love papers
                                            & bible covers.

                Dear Alice,
                            you stole our table of tea, our shaved vigil,
                                          our western rodeo,
                                         our alcoholic omega.

                       Midnight on the dishonored battlefield
          with the scythe beneath us,
                                     we murmur love back into
                                    our sheets of high horror.

  Your meteorite adultery could not wipe
                      this hard drive clean--what we would lose...

   the things we cannot                                                   touch.
                                         Cloud 9 LSD,
                                     its warriors passing
                                  weapons down to the flock's ashes--to wives who fear

      the wrath of their husbands. Chlorine gills quit
                                          cold turkey
                            --sinks overfill under unorthodox skies--the turning of centuries
                                                                is nothing like flipping
                                                                                                      pennies
                                   into wishing wells.
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Terry Collett
Where he said he’d meet
You, on the beach, Lake
Michigan. But he

Never showed; you just
Waited until the
Tide went out and the

Sun lowered itself
In the sky like a
Fat lady on her

Chamber ***. There were
Few people on the
Beach, even less when

You realized that he
Wasn’t going to
Come and turned for home.

You’d worn your new coat
And hat, had your hair
Done, your face made up,

All for that. Him not
Showing. The wind blew
At your clothes, lifting

The hem of your long
Dress, revealing your
Ankles and shoes. You

Watched the sea and wide
Horizon, waiting
Patiently, smelling

The sea salt, hearing
The roar of waves on
The sandy shore. Still

He never showed up.
Never came, despite
His kind promises,

Despite all the hot
******* the day
Before. All lies it

Seemed, him, his soft words,
And his deep blue eyes,
Deceiving beneath

The shell. There was a
Chill, a biting of
The flesh, a nipping

Of the thin fingers;
But hope was still there
Inside, despite all

That, like smoke hangs in
The still dry air, like
An echo lingers.
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Seán Mac Falls
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.

Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.

O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.

Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
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