Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Nov 2017
Seán Mac Falls
.
In dusk a cloud moves,
Barely are there any stars
And the sheet drops, sinks,
As lovers we came to this
Gentle pond without guile
Under the willows green,
Set on the banks of whin,
In sight of a stone bridge
And settled in to watch
The swans arrive and go,
Like windy arcs of bounty
Under great falling blanket
Of indigo and gold sparkling,
Enameling eyes of the heavens.

Now, I come to visit alone,
Only memories gliding slow,
Love has fled near after song
The sweetest spring awakening,
How time unveils dark truths,
My hair, it falls in the wind
With the groping willows,
The godly eyes of the skies
Are now mere stars that flash,
My love is betrothed to another,
Still, the cool white swans at dusk
Ride in waters turned shallow, murky
And black as their eyes in day fall,
And yet they remain wondrous,
White rose of my soul,
Drifting away.
They make their way through the crowd.

Beneath the sky amber in the last sun
the retrieved spark steers their feet
to explore the gorgeously festive town
smelling of discovery at every turn
of people and shops and sellers
and food tempting to be tasted
women too lovely not to be noticed
houses illuminated like light is free
flying as in a dream long in the coming
but arrived too glorious for any regret.

The younger when a few paces ahead
stops so the other could catch up
always remembering the six years
matter much in the count of speed.

The sky above grows older and paler
but their blistered feet feel no pain
from the four hours of rewinding years
glistening as night dew in their eyes.
A travel with my brother, and dedicated to him.
October 29, 2017, 11 pm.
 Oct 2017
Akira Chinen
War hung himself
from the electrical cord
attached to his power tie
and plugged into an outlet
in the cracked night sky
and not a single star did weep
and each did fall to sleep
and with weary eyes
now peacefully closed
did dream and dream
and as wars blue and gray face
did dim and fade
children now did safely play
in fields where no bullets flew
or missles soared
and hope like flowers grew
 Oct 2017
SG Holter
There's room for your every
Blade between my ribs.
I have a thousand other
Cheeks to turn when

You need to fling
Frustration from the channels
Of your heart's palms.
I can take all your punches.

I am a statue to your weathers.
I am the sound of handfulls of
Dirt and pebbles against an empty
Casket. I can take out my every

Nerve, my heart, my pain centre
And place it in a pocket; take it
All back out when you need to
Dillute your tears with mine

Over some matter that weighs
Heavy on the hearts of little
Girls playing with big boys; falling
From swings designed for

Denser bones and hands rough
From climbing. I am the teddy
Bear missing an eye and a limb,
Exposing stuffing through seams

Torn from being dragged over
Stairs and through sandboxes,
Always a thump behind little legs
That carry love for it, unequal to

Any.
When sadly so fades the lonely night
To pave way to the golden dawn light,
In a while, not long, not so long,
Birds embrace the day with a new song:

"The night is fled, the night is gone,
Let us splash in hues of the golden sun,
Let us shake off yesternight's sorrow,
For night is fled, night is no more."
 Oct 2017
Imran Islam
I make a request to Rain
Do not wet my eyes
They already have tears

I make a request to Cold Air
Do not make me tired
I am already sick today

I make a request to Summer
Do not make me sad
I am already unhappy

I make a request to a Cyclone
Do not make me lose
I am already homeless

I make a request to Stone
Do not smash me
I am already destroyed

I make a request to Fire
Do not burn me
I am already ember

I make a request to Cries
Do not make me yell
I am already upset

I make a request to Horror
Do not make me fear
I am already afraid

I make a request to Poetry
Do not make me a poet
I am already a poem

I make a request to Friends
Do not make me mad
I am already manic

I make a request to Everyone
Don't cause my heart any pain
It has already broken into pieces

I make requests to you, Sweetie
Don't turn back to me again
I have done love!
 Oct 2017
Nat Lipstadt
still be on my feat*

oh Joni you showed up at my door once more, Saturday morn,
blonde bangs and ***** voice, two octaves below shrill,
right about where the register intersection of
heart piercing, me humming, memory smiling,
poetry inspiring, yeah memories crying, that too

together, we have had more than many,
one case of you, a million sips, and I am writing
to see *how you're feeling
and to let you know
I never drank a case of you that left me,
being still, left me standing on my feat

my feat?

drank de-feat like it was the sea, boundless but not soundless,
sweet waves repeating, sea tears tinged with bittersweet cries of
Tupelo honey,
cause you were one of my angels,
lifting me higher when love was saying
not!
this time kid,
place, babe, not this peculiar particular apparition,  
wrong rendition,
and at last, finally, long time later, sheepishly, sweetly only,
what was her name

your voice stood me up, your words still slap my face with
cases of kisses upon my neck, tune-turning prophetic notions of
what's next still  be only just around the corner,
waiting on a new, simple twist of feat,
another song, poem, lover, and yet another,
case of you, so we can always see both sides,
and when I think of you Joni
my mind seesaws,
and I, still be on my feet, and thanks to you
ready for my feat

<•>
10:59am 10/28/17
a fiery lava pool is my heart
a lake of incandescence    bubbling
over my body    melting me to raw emotion
burying me in an *******    pyroclastic flow of feelings

Love has taken on meaning
has produced Life
messy     viscous    muddy    hot
writhing
Life
has given new depth to my volcanic soul
and driven temperatures
to icy    bottomless    chasms

under which is my fire    my heart’s hearth

a legion of ghosts crawls over my rim
an infantry of past experiences to
remind my heart
of a once-fought war on the field of my soul
on the Plains of Love
in the chapel of my body

my heart pours its lavic gift over
my rim
leaving nothing of them to recall
or bring forward
or sound retreat
for
they are not memories anymore
they are echoes of echoes of echoes    disappeared
neither inchoate nor fully realized
gone


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Next page