Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jan 2017
harlon rivers
hours drip slowly
onto a taunting empty page
the soul’s depictions brushed simply

a palette of whispered words
dry as if it were thoughts painted
onto a tightly stretched canvas

it's been said so many times before
                   similes,...
     form clots at the tip of the quill
                    words,...
finally surrendering to gravity’s flow
as the ink scribes the paltry ruminations;
flooding the same stifled notions
another way into another moment

metaphorical sleights of hand
incarnate onto the absolving
       sheet of parchment;
traces of past now’s ensconced
       in considered words

        miles of silent reverie,
                     spun,...
        like a spider reprocessing,
        carefully savoring
        each fine silk thread of web,

        spinning the womb of time...

© H.A.  Rivers 2012 … All Rights Reserved
... dedicated to all lonely, wayfaring word whisperers,
lost within the silent confines of a bared soul
 Jan 2017
r
Sometimes at night

asleep by the firelight

I dream about them

how they died

some are singing

and others saying what

they no longer see

walking fencelines

limping as if in pain

some of them handsome

and some mysterious

silent but not

for long they tell you

men scarcely know

how beautiful fire is

and old stories

they can't remember

unless you can

still look them in the eye.
I used to eye her more than books.

She had good looks
and for me
in the library
she killed the dullness of patience
the stifled air of silence
with her lips' hidden smile
that was quite a diversion
from pouring over yellowed pages
all the while.

In the garden I sought my chance
but she resisted any advance
telling me it's not her
I needed to be in my mind
but a job I must find
for couldn't be raised a family
merely loving in the library.

I think she gave me love
when I needed a job
but by the time I earned the bread
she was already married.

Once I thought of her as Miss Giving
but now as I look back
I have serious misgiving.
My third in the Miss series, part true and part fiction, writing this brought some cheers to one of the hardest times of life been passing through.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1279850/miss-take/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1778123/miss-place/
 Jan 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi
I don’t run to poetry
To save my skin;
Quite on the contrary.

I conjure the humming bee
On the blue rosemary tree,
I followed as a carefree
Boy in the backyard,
Only 'cause I’m scared
Of the scarred face
Of metaphor.
© LazharBouazzi, January 24, 2017
 Jan 2017
Gidgette
I spent the night with the man in the moon,
He smiled, and winked at me
I told him my secrets, blew him kisses,
Till he sank, in the milky way sea
 Jan 2017
Sjr1000
A full moon
or
was it the dreamlight
through the window?

Woke me up
Wandered around for a while

Went back to sleep
for an hour
had a dream
(inside the dream?)

That told me everything

I forgot it all immediately

something familiar
a mood that lingers

a rare experience
a questioning feeling

I find myself
I keep on singing

Merrilly Merrilly Merrilly
Life is but a dream

Is it the dreamlight?
or
was it the moonlight?

I wake up
I had a dream
it told me everything
I forget it all
immediately.
 Jan 2017
phil roberts
All of the shining mad ones
With their heresies of reality
And other visions and other voices
Are not diminished
By the multitude of choices
That is their truth
Upon each waking day

They are woken by the howl
From beyond the first ear
And into the deeper mind
Where there is other language
And blinding colours of emotion
For madness has the purity of pain
That martyrs can only long for

                                           By Phil Roberts
 Jan 2017
nivek
She drinks from an ancient wellspring
-older than the rocks which cup it.

Deeper her thirst goes
-quenched for a fleeting moment.

A small poem from her heart
-flown from her wetted lips.

She drinks the skies
-the place her poetry finds freedom.
for all sisters
 Jan 2017
phil roberts
On wheels
On the road
Off our heads
City bound
Let's go bro
Let the adrenalin flow
In search of narcotics
On Devilment Row
Where the good don't go

Here dealers compete
In a threatening way
And if you're not bold
You better not stay
Young joeys surround you
On the carpark
But you ignore them
And head inside
The deals are better in there
Amidst the heavy dealers

Thirty or forty
To pick and choose from
What ya sellin'?
What ya deals like?
Everyone's suspicious
And everyone's armed
There are people murdered
In this part of town
And nobody blinks an eye
And you know that when
You're that close to death
You feel so very much alive

                                     By Phil Roberts
South Manchester in the late 80s. A time of anarchy in the streets.
Next page