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 Jul 2016
SøułSurvivør
Poets DO have issues!
Poets are insane!
We have a different record groove,  
We have a different grain!

We have a different wiring
Don't respond to "normal" tests
We are the fish who climb up trees
Of this I can attest!

(chorus)
Poets hear their colors,
Poets see their songs,
Poets touch the music notes
They taste to sing along!

We wear t-shirts in 10 feet of snow
Coats in sunny climes!
We have no sense of timing
'Cept when we write our rhymes!

We go out in stormy weather
When it's clement we stay in!
We eat pizza in the morning
Write limericks on a whim!

(chorus)

We are calm when life gets frustrating
Mad when things go well!
Write rants when times are blissful
And sonnets when it's hell!

We travel to the Moon and back
Wear Stardust in our hair
We know the very Cosmos
Sitting in our chair!

Our pens they scratch a tympany
Our pages plumb the depths
Of profound Pacific trenches
Or drown in puddles wept...


We have a different wiring
Don't respond to "normal" tests
We are the fish who climb up trees
Of this I can attest!

Poets hear their colors!
Poets see their songs!
Is that so ridiculous?
Folks, is that so wrong?

Poets hear their colors
The colors of the heart!
Come and see this song with us

Let your mind fall apart!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/10/2016
I'm speaking strictly for me actually...
But can anyone else do this sing-along?

Lol! Thanks for reading!

-
 Jul 2016
Louise


Seeing you on the other side of yesterday
you softly gazed at me
a memory I had forgotten
a sight I'd never thought I'd see

Hearing you on a silence from the future
you sounded like a different kind of man
I won't know what it is that you said
until that future is part of the plan

Tasting a sadness that reminds me
of a time that is still to come
I wash away the sweetness
that lingers upon my tongue

Inhaling an aroma of what was
I let it settle, closing my eyes
A scent of Springtime and longing
once upon a sunrise

Feeling you softly upon my soul
sending my heart straight back to you
my body is now yearning
my mind, so easily fooled



Written in February but not posted
 Jul 2016
The Dedpoet
I am 37:
Writing a poem I wonder of the words
And an echo forms into my very fabric,
I sit in my chair and the pen begins;

I am 12 years old
And mother is dying in front me breathing
Her last breaths as a bullet takes her from me,
I see the quarter moon and pray for mercy;

The quarter moon stands in a night
Filled with wonder and
I am 32 years old when I find out my
Daughters exist, all that came before
Comes together in the moment I find
Out they are mine;

And the moment is an algorithm
Of change that never really changes,
I am 15 years old and she looks deeply
Into my soul and tells me she is ready,
I enter her,
The time is phosphorescent;

In the afterglow
I am 47 and I have not yet begun
To live, but my days are ending
Because I could not control my urges
And the alcohol eats my liver as my daughters
Cry for their father;

My daughters cry for their father
Reaching out to me,
And I am 34 years old when I see
That this is something to cherish and
I immerse myself into the moment
And all things seem to stand still,
Timelessness, yet it all must pass
To become forever;

I am 37 years old,
All stands still.....
The years passing away.
 Jul 2016
Stephan
...

I read the news today, oh my
Koo, koo, kachoo
The fox in is charge of the hen house
Gates are secure but the creature is inside
Feathers fly in helter skelter patterns
“You’ve got to crack a few eggs” is heard
as those who hear, scramble
seeking the sunnyside

A dozen or so duck the falling shells,
raining down from straw filled verses,
bland but obviously first in the pecking order,
hoping it all would be over…easy

While down on Broadway a church mouse sings off key
"Grabbed my coat and grabbed my hat,
ate the cheese in seconds flat,"
to a blindfolded audience
waiting to applaud till the curtain goes down,
so not to be seen greeting late arrivals
with luggage and tickets
hoping the next show is not sold out
for this standing room only presentation

Fortunately three, maybe four seats still remain unoccupied
as stale popcorn and sticky floors beckon them to
crushed velvet seating with
back pocket indentations left behind

The lights go down and the band strikes up
a rousing intro to what should be a good show,
at least that’s what the reviews said,
5 stars, Brilliantly directed, The best choice
for your daily intake of culture…

When a tuxedo with a smile
makes its way to center stage
and begins reading backwards,
“I buried Paul”

Boos rang out from the crowd.
“We came here for poetry!” was shouted in unison
But it just kept on, “Number 9, number 9, number 9”
The audience ran for the exit doors (stage left)
and as they hit the streets looking for something better,
“Turn me on dead man” echoed after them

Meanwhile, back at the chicken coop…
Props to The Beatles for the few snippets I borrowed, in case you didn't notice. :)  "I am the eggman"
 Jul 2016
Stephan


Parched and dry, this barren field stretches,
I wander, head hung low,
staring at the emptiness eclipsing my thoughts
Brittle blades of grass disappear beneath
my worn out sneakers,
black and white crushing beige
in slow fashioned footprints of blistered dust


“My sanity for some cool water.”

When upon my shoulders, reddened by solar intensity,
wet from exerted energy, comes a breeze
as if Autumn has come to claim her colors,
to gather her brown and sepia landscape,
pull the lifeless trees, with little leaf
from the chalk textured ground taking it
where it would suit another, for this is my luck


“Take my shade I beg not, for it is merely a branch.”

Like fingers of a silken web’s reach,
a soft caress of skin is not understood, though very pleasant
Nature finds me a shiver, a small comfort in this arid place
once crawling with snakes of assorted length, now
green as if lush has just been defined
with sweet air and pomegranate skies featuring a glow,
pristine shades of which I’ve never seen, heavenly


“To whom might I thank for such a gift?”

When before me stands, my eyes saturated and lost
slowly focus on beauty, winged loveliness now smiling within my own
personal oasis, which quickly forms in my heart
An angel, a goddess, extends a hand to me?
My cracked and weathered palm touches, smooth, gentle
her hand as she lifts me, I am weightless, floating
to her, my breath leaves me as I wonder, is this my end?


“If this beauty shall be my final curtain, let it be dropped slowly.”

A voice of velvet speaks, as I fade in and out of reality,
now steadied by her touch and the sweet scent of lavender and lime
“I have come to you as a verse, for poetry is thy keeper,
thy words have been heard,” lyrical this voice sings
melodic and harmonious, a rhythm to the beat of my heart,
the race of my pulse, the love of my life, my muse, my all
  

*“Eternal to you I shall write, for your beauty fuels my pen.”
 Jul 2016
Lora Lee
I will never be
ensconced in
charming lace
valentine
            hearts
candypink encased
You will not see me
withering away
back of hand
          upon brow
in fainting stance
in a flowing silk dress
swinging on a
           perfect bough
For I am a river
wild and true
sometimes quiet
sometimes
roaring and
             soaring in
shimmering hues:
Blues and greens
mixed with shades
           of earth, of fire
bespeaking emotions
in tones of desire
My river can get messy
can flood over too fast
because my heartstrings
                       get pulled
by the strength of
                        the blast
It can bring up
colored stones
in its undertow
fish and otters
spinning
in voodoo
          overflow

As the colors rise up
in this heated coolness,
                          this deluge
the influx overwhelms me
with a power so huge
and then I need
     some metallics,
flecks of silver and gold
to soothe
passion's piquancy
                when it gets
                   particularly bold
                      Specked within rocks
                    to ground me, keep
               my feet on the soil
             prevent my heart
          from slipping
       down into
     a choking,
         hot oil

Bronze minerals reflect
peaks of sadness,
     searing pain
        from rawness of hurt
          with no one to blame
             Yes, it can be a balm
                         and also a burn
to be so linked
by spirit-threads
to another, in emotions
that churn
just on the brink
but never truly there
to experience the
         fullness of rush
ripe culmination
abundant and lush

and that's when the
river turns
into molten
              lava...
and I must dig
deep under
layers of ancient strata
seeking relief
in coolness of earth
as my spirit
             again undergoes
              a kind of rebirth
For when we
grow to love
strange things
happen, indeed
       In the core of
my essence
you are the root
of my
        seed
https://soundcloud.com/musichick-1/the-colors-of-this-river-***
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