Poems for a heart that hurts..

Oct 2016

r

Last night I rode
that dark train
through the hollows
of my childhood
on the black wings
of a swallow fleeting
beneath the eaves
of long ago evenings
where bone moths
were breathing
their last breaths
while dead children
slept well up the hill.

Oct 2016

Brother Jimmy

Escapism

I've got
an itch
to get out
of this city,

I'm done.
I'M DONE!
I'm sick of
this flow...

Let's go down
to the ocean
and swim
with the rays.

Let's watch
the sandpipers
as they run
to and fro...

I picture
a place
high
on a cliff

Only
accessible
during
low tide

Where *****
are our lunch,
and we pay
with sand dollars

Which we find
while we walk
down the shore
side by side

Oct 2016

wordvango

piety and poetry

some believe in the deity
others in the sanctity of self
I think poetry is a religion
a soul unto itself
not a god
but close
and I seek her his its
calming words
wisdom
to get on my knees
and worship
every night
alone
here
in my sanctuary
like any
true believer

Oct 2016

Akira Chinen

bleached black veils

A white dress made of bleached black veils
And a wedding ring forged over a funeral pyre
Black flames burning over the red sea
Lost love swimming in a dead ocean
Nothing living inside of me
Nothing dreaming in my hollow heart
Nothing matters
With you so far away
No wheres home
When the roads don't lead to you
Just a ghost
Of a fleeting hope
A penny tossed
Into a poisoned well
A wish made
On a star gone mad
A pillow full of secrets
That will never whisper in your ear
A blanket warming
An empty bed
A skeleton bird
Pecking away at my ribs
I can't feel anything
Except numb
Unless I dream of you
And all I can do
Is dream of you
Wearing a white dress
Made of bleached black veils

Oct 2016

calpurnia mockingbird

Torment

You will not see my shadow pass
the gate of mournings eerie dark
Nor hear my voice among the reeds
that grow above my silenced heart
No fondest kiss to furrowed brow
to quell the torment of your making
for you have left me here alone
to sleep the sleep that knows no waking.

The last line was pilfered from a Victorian grave stone. It was too beautiful to leave there.

Oct 2016

Deniz Demiriz

Galaxy, the four lettered word

A kaleidoscope
Of your hair, lips, eyes
Is all I see
Laying in the cool grass
Enveloped in a curtain of night

Twinkling stars that
form constellations in my heart
and resonate in my chest,
Are honey drops
of your laughter

Gravity loosens its hold,
I lose my breath and
the world tilts
When the scent of your skin
Seeps through my pores

Under my fingertips
You,
Ignite the sun's never ending ember
that flows through me,
Melting the moon

And the taste of you darling,
melting in my mouth
oh so sweet,
leaving a trace

of the milkyway

The revised version of an old one

#love #moon #stars #space

Oct 2016

Stephen E Yocum

Bing

His name was Bing,
one eye grey the other blue
an Australian Cattle Dog
the best I ever knew.
Cows or Sheep he was the man.
Nipping at their heels, heading
them where you bid them go.
Smart as a whip, quick as a bullet,
Work all day for a pat on the head.

One early day no Bing appeared,
Strange 'cause he was always the first
into the truck bed, first in the pasture,
first to work, the last to quit.

We called out his name many times,
began a search, buildings to barns, silo
to shed. In the center of a cut hay field,
I saw him, hunkered down not moving.
The boss and me approached and called
to him, yet still, he did not seem to hear.

At twenty feet he stood up quick,
turned to face us with a ****,
his eyes burned with hell's fire,
his muzzle and jowls were awash in foam,
his deep-throated growl a caution warned.

Not much doubt he'd been skunk bit,
was beyond redemption touched in rabies fit.
I was sent on the run to fetch
the long gun from the truck.

We approached him careful like,
I was still panting from my run.
The boss cocked the lever,
chambering a round into the gun.

Bing's eyes looked to be pleading,
as if to ask that we end his pain.
In his crazed anguished state,
he could have reached us in a flash
spread the contagion to our flesh,
yet through instinct or love
old Bing held his ground,
awaiting his inevitable fate.

I tried to swallow but had no spit,
and then the rifle thundered
and stung my ears,
One shot through the head
took old Bing's pain away.

The Boss, a hard-edged man of fifty
began to silently weep like a child of five,
the loss of his dog too much to abide.
I must admit my tears weren't far behind.

We bore him from the field
like an honored fallen warrior.
Buried him in the yard by the house,
He deserved that respect and more.

Over fifty years later and I still think fondly
of old Bing. His actual name was Bingo, but
we all called him Bing, either way, he did not
seem to have a preference, even a shrill whistle
of summoning pitch, would do to bring him near.
Unlike most dogs, he did not crave human attention,
he lived for his work, that was about all he needed.

Oct 2016

ryn

Blanket

Images extracted from
the tapestry of my dreams.
Sewn intricate...
Into a patchwork.

A quilt,
embroidered with lavish sequins and ornate beads.
Bringing forth fantastical motifs...
A dazzling display
upon the backdrop of my dreamscape.

Yet...
This mosaic of dreams
does not warm me so.
It never lasts.

They fall away like autumn leaves
come the dawning sun.
They get washed out and pulled into the tide,
as the waves beat upon the shore of wakefulness.
They fade into fragmented memories
that make no sense...
Incoherent and disjointed.

Eventually, they disappear...
For they do not belong
in a world of worldly things
and ticking clocks.
Their intangible and mismatched nature
render them inconsequential...
Naturally...
They get misplaced.

But I am stubborn.

I will fashion such a blanket.
One that skirts the boundary
of this realm and the other.

I will tailor it so...

So that...
I will sleep tonight,
swaddled tight and cocooned within its
glorious seams.
Tucked within the safety and warmth of
this blanket...
Woven immaculate...
Out of
worldly things and breathtaking dreams.

#blanket #hellopoetry107

Sep 2016

SE Reimer

hope’s song

~

when joy seems lost, when peace is gone;
to earth falls flat pleas skyward cast;
when those thought once to be a friend,
have all gone on, seems none are left;
when ears that heard, yet now are deaf,
when dreams lay torn, and hope bereft.

do not despair, nor call for end,
beyond these mists i am your friend;
your voice, a cry on wing and clear,
not all have left, know i am near;
i am hope disguised as gentle hands,
that reach to sooth the soul in angst.

i am love cloaked as eyes that seek,
the wounded heart that silent weeps;
i am your brother, i your kin,
though not by blood, nor race, nor skin,
yet beats within this breast as yours,
a heart breathed life at heaven's door.

your breath, my own, my will i share,
till yours can breathe, your burdens bear;
my oath, my pledge, your comfort be,
my blood transfused, beats still in thee;
i lend my hope to be your warmth,
i offer arms to hold you close.

you need not face another day,
a lifeless soul who walks away,
a faceless one who’s lost their voice,
but ’til your own has been restored,
to you the lyrics, lines belong,
'til you remember, i’ll sing your song.

~

*post script.

approximately 96 hopeless souls reach the end each day, and pull the trigger on whatever their choice of escape they had planned it to be (that’s one every fifteen minutes). the number is even larger if we include those who attempt and fail. if there are only six degrees of separation, imagine how many in your circle this means are contemplating, and are in and out of some level of consideration of making this day their last. remember, a song is amazingly powerful. it does not take a fireman to talk someone down off a ledge or a policeman to coax someone into laying down the gun, it only takes someone who is willing to listen, long before the gun and the ledge; someone willing to smile and be hope and notes for a soul who has lost their song... to remind them of the song they have forgotten; their song... hope’s song!