Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
listening out for the catch, through the ordered lines
then running into familiar counter-melodies
that hit the gut like surprise meetings with old friends

pushing against the current
you write the soul’s ebb and flow of discovering
break and breakaway, meet again

figuring it out along the way, slipping back,
humble, soft vulnerability of emitting,
rolling out in music and codes interior landscapes
A poem about how it can feel to listen to Elliott Smith's music and lyrics
breathing the turquoise like lavender,
and sipping the blue summer.
bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,
floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.

soon, a moment, now
rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.

cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,
pumps the air with springing spirals
pushing and pulling the senses,
reverberating through cells.

heavy mud humming, stomping
echoes through our atoms dizzy;
balancing tuned body to innate electricity
the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.

we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.

strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,
dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,
lines of colours overlapping,
colliding, mixing, merging, blending
in with the forest.

washing over souls the life fire sparkles
like a clear water cleansing harmonies,
sound waves crashing against inertia.
phosphorescent glow of re-charged love
for the world, for being, animation

flowing through burnt smoky ashes
of sapphire charcoal skies;
dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.
the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,
trembling lights softening the eyes'
grip on outlines, loosening lies.

watching the cycles of patterns
tumbling colours through a mill rotating,
and the silence of listening
when the music comes to an end.
Something I've been working on for a long time on and off since 2015.
 Jun 2018
Bus Poet Stop
the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
 Jun 2018
James LR
Withdrawal pains:
They rot my brain
Nausea and headaches
Faint and fatigue
Long nights spent
asking "why me?"

To think that pills can do this too,
I thought this was unique to you
 Jun 2018
James LR
My home has a trillion rooms.
And a ceiling made of stars
I share my home with everything
That's found both near and far
 Jun 2018
Shubham Solanki
Once upon a time
        In a land not so far away
        Wait, Sorry that was right here
        Last summer this very day
        I bought three bunnies
        black white and grey.

        before bringing them in
        I worked all things out
        built three wooden warrens
        poured milk in separate bowls
        As I put them down
        like a precious prize
        what they did then and there
        took me by surprise.

        All three baby rabbits
        latched onto the same cup
        like allies in a fight pit
        they went slurp slurp slurp
        But I tried to let that slide
        maybe they were hungry and dazed
        Later that night I put them to bed
        in their wooden boxes side by side

        Waking up the next day
        what I saw blew me away
        cuddling together in one box
        there they were cozy and gay
        Do they fail to see
        the difference in their color
        like we the "righteous" humans do!
        Don't they feel superior to one another
        like we with our clever conscience do!

        Are we the savages or are they?
        Is humanity just a cliche?
        From cavemen to civil beings
        are we too evolved to see
        Death doesn't discriminate
        So why should we?
We all were created equals and as equals, we shall live
 Jun 2018
strawberry fields
the sun drips
like
a
yellow yolk

oozes
down
the gold knots
of my spine
breathe the first of Spring days
the radio plays our favorite song

i see you backwards
quickly
all the times we had
vulnerable;
gone.

the sky is blue, the lake is blue
your eyes are blu
and they say i look like your
sister
oh gods. help me
i can’t feel anything
except you
and everything here is you
Edit: Thanks everybody! I didn’t realize this was a daily until later.
 Jun 2018
She Writes
I’d rather write than speak
My pen is always responsive
My ink doesn’t judge my mistakes
My paper doesn’t argue
My lines never cross me
My sentences never disappoint
And my words will never leave me
 Jun 2018
Manda Raye
You and I sometimes speak in energies,
our auras reach out, connect, and entwine.
Like when you call out from another room
to me in the shower, just to tell me
that I am loved, when--unknown
to you--just moments before, I was trapped
in my head, apologizing still
for something I did a year ago.

You are the most attractive to me
when that's the way you feel.
You pull me into you with big brown eyes
and lashes long enough to do it alone.
Your hands, up behind your head,
effortless, and you smile to one side
while your hair just perfectly
swoops to the other, and there
was never another option; I am yours.
Next page