Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Oct 2015 Den
 Oct 2015 Den
the echoes of your stares
the rumble of your whispers
trapped in the pages of my journal
 Oct 2015 Den
Dr Peter Lim
Welcome, poets
though we have never met
yet your poems have brought
warmth and joy to my heart--how could I forget

their poignancy and tender touch?
and for more of your poems I do pine
would you welcome me into your words-sanctum
as I would gladly invite you into mine?
 Oct 2015 Den
Edgar Allan Poe
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
 Oct 2015 Den
 Oct 2015 Den
I'm reeling myself in
like an old tape played, stretched
too thin by toddlers who
had their fun ******* my core
I am made to sensitize music
against a wheel as I am lying
in shambles against the hostile
cracks of the floor.
Spread too far out from my
beginnings, looking at small infinities
like how a drunk gofer gawks
at the pile of jobs on his hands

They used to love me.
I smelled mixtapes and anecdotes
in the curve of my spin
But I guess stories exasperate
for they are left in my past luster
like an old flame kept secret.
I will never sound the way I
once was again.
People leave when something
is unfixable as the chaos
of liquor in their bathrooms
and memories dilate
the visions of their nightmares
like a poison ivy
I am just but a stored conspiracy
of little lies they all have told me.

I'll loop until I am as discarded
as the empty case that
once meant everything to everybody.
I try my best to make my poems at least not random but my brain makes these connections and Idk things  just happen in them.
 Mar 2014 Den
please read
before you indulge in this :-) *


The Sandman and I have an agreement:
     I will use his grains sparingly,
In return,
     He dispenses my prescription in
Nearly lethal doses.
          Where only contented dreams live
                    In abbreviated hours
                    Too succinct
To allow anything unpleasant.

          Trail skippingly through
                              ****** worlds
                              Utopian neighbors
                              Calorically absent banquets
Sharing property lines with
Idyllic, passionate women
                  Who peer over their
                   See-through fences
                   Teasing unbridled desire
          Of covering me in a favorite topping.

                                            (Dutifully,­ I double check
                                            Nocturnal filters
                                            To be sure I have prevented
Broadcasting of past names
To my present wife
                                  Half-dozing on the pillow
                                  Taken from my side of the bed.)

A mist sets then rises, a new act begins,
        Transporting near the river
        On the banks of my hometown.
         I am Tom Sawyer,
Lounging proudly with
My Huckleberry friends,
         Fishing line on my toe,
                                Bobber and stink bait
                                Mimicking ***** waves
                                On the Muddy Miss.

The string draws taut bending my stubby digit.
          It’s a big one hanging on
          Pulling so hard
          I'm driven from slumber.
There at my feet I can see I have
Reeled in the finest catch of my life.
                                          A blue eyed,
                                          Small mouth offspring
                                          With panting gills
                           Mumbling something about falling....

Then I remember,
        The only thing
        Better than my dreams
        Is waking to a son
                                 Who believes I am bigger
Than all of his.
 Mar 2014 Den
I didn't ask for antidepressants
Even though I know
I'm supposed to quell these dark things.
I got as far as the front desk
At the doctors
And when they asked me what I came for
I said 'life' and walked right back out.
Life is not about feeling all right
It's about coming so undone
A tempest hurls itself
Out of your ribcage
And tears at the coastline of your sanity.
Only then do you know what you're capable of.
Only then do you come alive.
I didn't ask for antidepressants
Because my healing won't come in pill form.
My healing is sunrises
And long moonlit walks
And deep tongue kissing
And black coffee
And travelling
And poetry.
I'm wide open, splayed, ready for the world
And the world never feels just 'all right'.
 Mar 2014 Den
Bob Dylan
walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, who is that man?
You try so hard
But you dont understand
Just what youll say
When you get home

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

You raise up your head
And you ask, is this where it is?
And somebody points to you and says
Its his
And you say, whats mine?
And somebody else says, where what is?
And you say, oh my god
Am I here all alone?

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, how does it feel
To be such a freak?
And you say, impossible
As he hands you a bone

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

Youve been with the professors
And theyve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
Youve been through all of
F. scott fitzgeralds books
Youre very well read
Its well known

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

Now you see this one-eyed ******
Shouting the word now
And you say, for what reason?
And he says, how?
And you say, what does this mean?
And he screams back, youre a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?

Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you comin around
You should be made
To wear earphones

Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
 Mar 2014 Den
Tom Leveille
i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me

i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes
 Mar 2014 Den
E. E. Cummings
my girl’s tall with hard long eyes
as she stands,with her long hard hands keeping
silence on her dress,good for sleeping
is her long hard body filled with surprise
like a white shocking wire, when she smiles
a hard long smile it sometimes makes
gaily go clean through me tickling aches,
and the weak noise of her eyes easily files
my impatience to an edge—my girl’s tall
and taut, with thin legs just like a vine
that’s spent all of its life on a garden-wall,
and is going to die.  When we grimly go to bed
with these legs she begins to heave and twine
about me,and to kiss my face and head.
Next page