Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jun 2016
Seán Mac Falls
.
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
 Jun 2016
vircapio gale
onus of science, or dream, to all explain;
the inexplicable remains dismissed:
being here or there: exactly arranged
and no one yearns to know of nothingness
between the emptiness of meanings each
with labeled names, boxes tightly-packed--
towers darkly lined, well beyond the reach
of but a few, lost, scattered minds...
xe shouted through hir lungs a greener hue
that we could live beyond the concrete grey
die in love despite our evil ignorance,
our rainbow cutouts crying for the sun
  --posthumous teleologies begun
  in kinder dreamers, earthly songs enhanced.
 Jun 2016
ryn
"Yet you feed us lies from the tablecloth"
- B.Y.O.B. by System of a Down*

We sat across the table
as we feasted on misguided notions.
Our integrity tenderised,
thoughts manipulated,
traded with unconditional compassion.

Twisted ideals,
served upon the finest china.
Delectable treats,
laced with shards of
such distorted agenda.

Multi-faceted truths,
all lobbied for self-centred gains.
We're the ones who'd worry
and cower under tattered brollies...
To anticipate for when it would rain.

Between us still sat the table.
We'd still be served age-old (t)ale
while the room stank of rancid broth.
But I have lost my appetite
the moment we were fed lies...
Offered on the most extravagant tablecloth.
 Jun 2016
Marshal Gebbie
Insanity watched by these eyes far away
Sees the tail wag the dog in a deathly, cruel way,
Sees the Gun Lobby wield such a formidable grip
Holding Nation to ransom and shoot from the hip,
Forcing public opinion to heel and rescind
Any right to renege on the madness infringed…
Orlando, Kileen Sandy Hook and Fort Hood
Killing randomly, callously….not understood!
Little children, students, shoppers and cops
Loud bark of the rimfire till emptied and stops!
A terrible silence, warm stench of the blood
Cold terror emanates out and above…
Madness accelerates, reaching a SCREAM….
While political acolytes adjust…to be seen.

M.
Auckland and the world watching a civilization burn.
13 June 2016
there is a dead sheep in the lane.



pushed to one side away from

the passing.



traffic may have hit it, or it went

natural?



we walked on up near the copper

mine , a darker place yet

the forest came light.



sbm.
 Jun 2016
Seán Mac Falls
.
After childhood sleep,
Of days into dawning,
Shucked of dusted clay,
Eyes set unto fawning,

Then, the rowing began.
Shy gentle waves lulling
As it does for Everyman
Who seeks loves' culling.

In a tempest of blue sky,
I was engulfed so plain,
That time was sore to eye,
All suitors never maidens.

One true love never came,
Nor to fly as birds teeming,
Now all is shipwreck of age,
Ah, but to drown dreaming.
 Jun 2016
Riq Schwartz
you and me
we barter like kings
and haggle away
deplorable things
wage wars, set siege
whatever it brings
and care not until
our epitaph sings

you sit swaddled in morality
wide-eyed with ideology
and conversational felonies
beneath a narcissist cowl

I sit asunder thunder rolling
let my thoughts get lost while strolling
meanwhile you are stalling, drawling
your self-inflicted toothless scowl

you and me
we barter like kings
we wear our wealth
in copper rings
until tomorrow's
daylight stings
the whites of our eyes;
the stumps of our wings.
 Jun 2016
Emily B
I keep planting
My hands in the dirt.
Keeping the weeds clear-
Making the garden grow.
Repeating the thought that
There is healing there
Maybe even for me.
I never wanted to be buried
Under ground.
I have already known
Too much darkness.
But there are days
When I have to wonder
If I planted this old set
Of creaking bones--
Would something more beautiful grow?
Next page