Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 May 2016
Rapunzoll
it's nights like this, when we tangle
together like weeds in a seabed of lust
i beg for once, your eyes instead
of your mouth, would confess
how you felt for me.
your lips grow like ivy along the grey
mortar of my spine, your fingers write how
much they don't love me all over my body
and tiny birds take flight from my breath
to be together, is to be apart
when i am with you every word is a mistake,
we press our lips together
harder than we want to press
them against each others mouths
i keep tripping over apologies
and you just want someone who
is steady on their feet
i once knew a boy who told me
he wasn't an artist, but painted
the shores on my cheeks
when he spoke, even the trees leaned
in to hear his beautiful lies
© copyright
 May 2016
Rapunzoll
i know you're searching
for a savior
but you're just another
ship captain and i'm
just another lighthouse
flashing you towards
the rocks
attention only makes
me more distant
at night i suffocate dreams
of you with a pillow
until i lie beside the
cadaver of our love
wrap it's cold,
dead hands
around my neck
like a scarf in
this winter hell
last i checked the
weather report
promised no sun
a god told me  
i'll sleep like the dead
when i live
like them too.
© copyright

"Are the dead as lonesome as the living?" - Other voices, Other rooms
 May 2016
Aeerdna
Mother, in your hazel eyes I can see the rainbow
the trees flowering
the grass getting greener
rising to the bluest sky.
Mother, in your smile I see sadness
and your forehead is full of wrinkles,
in the space between your eyes I can see the worry,
Mother, your heart is a firefly in my night
when I close my eyes you guide me,
your hand so warm, I need it to hold mine
when it's cold in my mind.
Mother, you're so far
and I can't tell you that I'm hurting
I'm dying inside and I can't show you

Mother, you're so wise, please, tell me
why is it autumn again
if it's only May?

I see tulips so beautifully painting the sight
and yet in my heart
the last leaf has fallen.

Mother, oh Mother, tell me
when I will fall to the ground
will they step on me
or will they pick me up
and keep me between the pages of their hearts?

Mother, I'm just a leaf
and you don't know
that my autumn has come
to bury me again.
I am falling,
the dirt is covering me whole,
your hand is so far
I'm reaching but there's only the wind
tearing me apart.


*Mother, it's autumn again
and you can't see me falling.
Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head..
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAJ_74tDZzU

.
 May 2016
Denel Kessler
The thaw begins with a drip,
builds to a roar, subsides to sunlight
prisms playing over every surface

illuminating still-wet velvet wings
maroon and yellow, neon blue
pseudo-bark underneath.

In the clear-cut, pink fireweed
pierces a sky alive with souls
reveling in their last year on earth

sampling nectar with newly curled
tongues while summer degrades
to fall, burrowing in the cool

damp cord of fir put up for winter
awakening in spring, tasting summer
before the reprieve, too soon over

time come to fold
battered wings, to slip free
of this mourning cloak and rise.
He scoops sands in baskets

then balancing neatly on the shoulder
carries to where needed
through bone breaking hours.

Upon his footprints is there a name
or a home
where he goes back for the night
lands featherlight kiss on a woman
awakes her sleepy bones with her hands
forgetting his days sinking in the sands.
 May 2016
S S
The topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide.

From low to high it's all washed clean
Footprints, castles and trails alike
Unetched slate of flat leveled sand
Grains aligned by blessed wave strike.

From high to low it's all exposed
Fragments, jetsam, seaweed entwined
Littered, scattered on shore amuck
The sting of empty shells combined.

Yes, the topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide
From low to high and high to low
A gloriously exhausting ride.
 Apr 2016
Elisa Maria Argiro
High above the Holy River Ganges
where the water flows like Brahman itself,
  is an ancient cave, a place of sacred pilgrimage.

Entering silently, our small gathering
sat together, meditating here where the great
sage himself transcended in deep samadhi.

Wrapped in warm shawls, dhotis and saris,
eyes closed gently in the stony half-light.

Early hours had seen us awake, readying
for this auspicious day, and the sleepiness
of a little child began to overtake me.

With that same innocence, a childlike feeling,
I curled down into a woolen bundle, asleep
in the inner depths of that holy, dark place.

Sleep was sleep, and not sleep,
as awareness shone within me.

Limitless akasha unfolded inside me now,
and the ground where I rested expanded
into that same unbounded, cosmic space.

From far beneath the cool, damp earth,
a radiance travelled into my small frame.

Renewing energy suffused and blessed me.

Bowing in my heart, I touch the lotus feet
of Maharishi Vashistha. His darshan
shines on into our present day, and
throughout all of Ved Bhumi Bharat.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
 Apr 2016
Gidgette
So I haven't had time
To read many prose and rhymes
Sneaking pretty words like drugs
From all the **** poem writing thugs
Hide up under the bar
I've only read two so far
Work is cutting in to my addiction
Reading and writing, my affliction
Maybe I can hide in the storage closet
That gives me time to write one comment
Jotting rhymes on my arm
Who said poetry didn't cause harm
Its my obsession
This is my confession
I cannot hide it anymore
I recognise I'm a poem *****
I go from one poem to another
"Feeling" them up like a lover
Then on to the next
For more word ***
Yep, I'm a ******-poemac
Addicted to poetry crack
Your pretty words are my drugs
And you **** poets are the poem writing thugs
After fifty years
I slipped into the school.

Madame Bela was visibly pleased
The classroom was too empty
Now I've one to do maths with


No less happy was Auntie Aloka
My favorite student is back
She lifted me up and said with a kiss
So vacant felt my class of English
Without a boy from olden times
Sweetly singing nursery rhymes


My eyes searched her and before long
Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue
I'm so glad to see his face
Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness


And there he was the only Sir
Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher
Isn't this the boy never won my trust
For always being in every race last


Fifty years haven't changed a bit
Either their age or their spirit
And surely the fun was doubly more
When I stood before the school mirror.
 Apr 2016
PJ Poesy
As I rise, cumuli are my clouds
Purple rippling through hot pinks and gray
Waving to me in tattered shrouds
Above horizon of shadowed trees, come day
Commit to memory ether and solar play

For never could a photograph
Or great master’s paintings depict or imply
Phenomena of heaven’s autograph
Inferiority, obscurity shadowed in my sky
What wondering adrift, now present to eyes

Sensational this morning’s vividness
Ballyhoo applauds first light of dawning
Awestruck I am within this immanence
Call forth  flash of conception spawning
Clearest notion of  earthbound belonging
In the twilight hour
We reached the watch tower

The swinging trunks had got our smell
And one could tell
They weren't pleased

We had just intruded into their dust bath
Post the shower at the pool
Between us the distance
Was one of studied silence
Till one's trumpet froze me to the ground

From among the trees
Big little mud hills surrounded the space

Our clicking lens
Wore out their patience
And we were just nuts
Before that large herd

Some more were coming up the river
We heard someone whisper
And I thought of rebellious elephants
Fighting for territory once their own
Against an invader that spares none

What if this dwindling day hour
They crush the watch tower!
Next page