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 May 2016
mel
each day
i fall in love
with someone new--
but it seems
i'm only falling
for different versions
of you.
 May 2016
Denel Kessler
patterns pressed
in old vinyl
needle-scratched
pop and crackle
background noise
just genetic ambiance
old as the blues
smoky aftertaste
blessing     curse
lost fortune
lured fate
lessons earned
the hard way

long playing
at 33 1/3 rpm
I'm humming
no resistance
my will altered
I submit
to inevitable vacillation
accept ambiguity
as sweet song
lyrics unknown
an uneven melody
I can't deny
or disown
 May 2016
Sjr1000
For all the lady poets
whose songs are sung
who dance on fire
when the night comes
who are willing to
go to the heart of the matter,
whose desires erupt
behind the smile
who hold secrets
and shadows,
who can turn you
into slick wet stone
with one word,
one look
one touch
one tap on the shoulder.

Who hold you between
their finger tips
roll you into a
tightening knot of
desire and fear and apprehension
and
bring home your reality
far too clear.

For all the lady poets
who know you too well
who know that shell
who can crack you
in a moment
and never look back
or
love you into life
or
leave you child like
stammering and wondering.

For all the lady poets
who love you too well
who are with you
for the moment,
know your
heaven and hell
and
open their words on these pages
a sweet treat
a sweet longing
a sweet surrender
the lady poets
can spin you
twist you
and
put you back on top.

The lady poets
hold the keys
have the words,
vast universes inside,
hold on
it's an exquisite ride
better buckle up
hunker down
hold on tight
without the lady poets
I'd never make it through the night.
 May 2016
SøułSurvivør
Worry* is a scurvy rat
It is a man's main bane
It chews on your self esteem
It nibbles at your brain
It will take your precious time
Your energies will claim
It will hobble your very life
It will make you lame
You may try to capture it
But that is all in vain

Doubt is like a cancer
It eats at your bones
It takes breath from your very lungs
It turns your mind to stone
It makes you feel incomplete
It makes you weep and moan
Under it's all-nagging pain
You will retch and groan
It is resistant to all cures
And you cannot atone

Fear is like a little death
It turns the heart to straw
It strikes like a rattlesnake
With poison in its maw
It's like a fascist dictator
Who makes the harshest laws
It can take your greatest strength
Make it pernicious flaw
Like a sadistic doctor
With a large chainsaw!

How can a person battle
Worry, Doubt and Fear?
How can our lives get better?
How can we have cheer?
Jack Daniels has no answer
It's not Budweiser beer...

It may be elusive
At first just like a wraith
But once you have a hold on it

The answer is our *FAITH.*



SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/27/2016
Found the beginnings of this poem earlier while I was looking through some boxes (I'm cleaning an old storage area).
It showed promise so I started working on it today.

This cleaning project has been taking up a lot of my time. Hopefully I'll be able to get back on the site over the long weekend.

May you be blessed this Memorial Day!

-
 May 2016
The Dedpoet
Petrified,
        Obsidian stones,
Fire understood,
      Superfluous verbiages;
The mangled butterfly absorbed by light,
       Hope is born at the tongue,
Confirmation contorted,
     Clarification of the crystalline cries;
  In the whirlpool of the first
Swirling at the tip of the tongue
     Chanted in a litany of animalistic
Nature,
       There is only a man,
Singing solar solstice,
     Staring into sun stars
Splitting solitary shadows,
     The end of the beginning,
Man and fires
Speak the dust,
       Tears of the evocative death,
Rebirth in memory,
Memorial in melancholia,
Misty eyed men mention losses,
      Speak the grief,
Speak the rage,
         Man that is man,
Tongue of emotional images,
                Speak as the first word,
A tree of names,
      Yes, the word,
Words,
       The poem everlasting
Longing to be unspoken.
 May 2016
L Seagull
Memory drawn on a page
Scribbled like a Freudian slip
From the back of your mind
It oozed onto the paper
To be devoured by your
Surprised gaze
Only you can understand
And maybe to surface
Meaning will take its time
But you will feel its shadow
Hanging over your head
And you will fear the same
You did before the child
Gave up his will to fight
Heavy it will be
But to step forward
The chain of memory
Will have to be
Linked back together
Sometimes our memories get lost among the shattered bits of our Self when trauma becomes our new birth into a dead state. One way to recover it is to improvise with words (in poetry) or visual symbols (by means of drawing/painting etc.), to express what it is that is felt inside without thinking, as spontaneously as possible. The product of such spontaneous expression may evoke explicit memories that were previously suppressed. This is difficult to do independently and one will be likely to start feeling extremely flooded. On the other hand, without our memory we can't reconstruct ourselves anew. It will continue to haunt us outside our rational understanding.
 May 2016
GaryFairy
solely engrossed, slow to emotions
prone to be a soul that is broken
lowly focus, frozen devotion
vocal notions erode when unspoken

doing fine, i lie with a smile
while i fight my own private trial
i clear my head, i'm alright for a while
but
a mind that is clear is a mind in denial

goal, avoidance of a throat opened
my vocal notions will go unspoken
choking on the voices stolen
prone to be a soul that is broken
working with long o and long i sounds
 May 2016
The Dedpoet
Though I feel that
    I am at the crest of the world,
I know I am only defined by words
    With a passion now human.

Though I have limits and limitations,
     I know that my hope exceeds them.

    And even as life tears me apart,
I still choose to write the sorrow and exploit
       The hollows of its weakness.

    Time is a dismembered calendar,
And though days fall like seasonal gestures,
    I neither end nor begin.

For though I am finite,
     The poetic dreams turn themselves
Around and preserve me.

I am a syllable from a broken phrase.
 May 2016
Mitch Nihilist
the worst thing I’ve ever done
was letting the world
know that I write,
it’s not the 2am phone calls
asking if I’m okay,
it’s not the regret of
of relationships or
the running away,
it’s the look in my mothers
eyes when I write about dying,
it’s the regard to kin
when holding certain
emotions in,
forging positivity
and relaying
the antiquities
of struggle,
the minuscule
moments of will
drill into minds
painting all kinds
of doubtful abstracts,
creating spousal transacts
of how to fix their son,
it’s not the questions
about what I mean when I
say my skin spits goose flesh
or my eyes wrap yesterday
in spruce mesh that
eventually frays,
it’s the days where
I get kindred
phone calls
wondering if I’ll pick up
because of writing
the night before
stating that
I’m skating
on thin ice,
I dont want them to worry
I’ll be fine,
but for now it’s the pen
that has to unwind
the noose from
confining words
I refuse to say.
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