Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Sep 3
Bekah Halle
A little girl’s bike
Has lain, stranded,
In the secret garden
For weeks…

Lonely —
longing for lanky legs
to return —
So it can reclaim
Its purpose,
Joy actualised!

To end there...
would be foolish,
What's happened to that little girl;
is she hurt and in hospital?
is she stolen, stapled to a wall by a stranger's stare?
is she warm at home enveloped from the frigid air?

Inanimate object --
Where we hold the multiple meanings.

I search the online news
and stray streets for any clues,
little girl I hope you're okay
and your smile wasn't stolen or snuffed without your say!

Joy interrupted...
 Sep 2
Traveler
Seriously!!
Feel free
Tell 'em these are your words
Read them out loud
Fear not the gathering crowds
My words know how
To logically survive
Come into my thoughts
All you really need to do
Is live my rhymes
Go now you'll blow their simple minds
Make 'em laugh and certainly cry
Perhaps even sing
Like I say
Share my words with your whole team
In the end
(my favorite part)
You'll sound just like me!
Traveler Tim
 Sep 1
Bekah Halle
Angels —
Heavenly creatures;
I have oft thought of them
As far off, mystical beings with porcelain features,

But, are they in fact here amongst the living?
Daily? Hourly? Even in this minute?

Or are they only present
In the presence of those who are dying,
As a gift from the Alpha and Omega —
Reminding us He’ll bring us home, dancing, not crying?!

What if we could see them angels?
What if we could feel them, sense them
Be vessels of their love.
Surrounding people in pain, grief and disdain, holding them close like a hem
Holds the loose strands of life —

What if we could be the angels —
To each other, loving without demands,
Reminding people of where they came from —
Whom they come from and where their DNA strands
Will return —

To the Angels around me now,
Thank you for your love,
Thank you for your purpose
And thank you that you hold the ones in need,
like the precious wings of
doves.
 Sep 1
Lou Romano
The moon was but a sliver of a smile in the sky
It followed me relentlessly as my world passed me by
I kind of like being followed by a smile,
Haven’t had one myself in quite a while
So I smile back at that waning moon
And drive on, drive on in my motor car cocoon
Wrote this at 70 MPH going down the expressway and dictating to my phone. Took me 13 miles to complete. The moon really was smiling at me!
 Sep 1
Lou Romano
I was crushed to find
she had another crush.
So crushed I sat and
watched "Blue Crush"
sipping my Orange Crush
with crushed ice
from a crushable aluminum can.
All I wanted was to crush her
in a crushing hug as I sat
crushed between the cushions
on my crushed velvet couch.
Contemplating this crushing experience.
 Sep 1
Kiki Dresden
Infidelity (noun) \ ˌin-fə-ˈdel-ət-ē \
Betrayal of a vow. Or whispered otherwise, the first time Coyote tasted the salt of my wrist, when lightning seemed to have waited to arrive. Grandmother would call it shadow-marriage, the reminder that paper rings and courthouse oaths cannot bind the spirit. It flowers soft and fragrant, sweet as mesquite after rain.

Myth (noun) \ ˈmith \
A traditional story, especially one natural or social phenomena. Or in another tongue, to be called Inanna while pulling my hair back, as if the goddess herself had crawled from shadow to breathe on his neck. I laugh because I’m no goddess- just a woman with cracked nails and unpaid bills. Still, myth enters flesh like fever, and we burn until the walls drip with story.

Body (noun) \ ˈbä-dē \
The physical vessel. Or in broken voice, the altar on which every promise is tested. My body knows what paper cannot: the way desire bruises, the way grief leaves its thumbprint. Flesh remembers long after the mind has lied itself clean.

Eros (noun) \ ˈer-ˌäs \
Passionate love. Or named differently, a hunger that follows, like a stray through desert parking lots, its tongue bright with need. Eros offers scraps, sometimes nothing, and still I remain, hollow with wanting, certain one day I will eat from his palm. He is no child, he comes like a jackal-god- wild, luminous, not easily bound.

Pulchritude (noun) \ ˈpəl-krə-ˌtüd \
Beauty. Or carried on another breath, the ache. I see him sketching a body not mine, tracing hips that could belong to any girl at the bus stop. I know beauty is a weapon sharpened against me. Still, in his eyes I find fragments- cheekbones my father gave me, hair dark as my mother’s shame- briefly holy, before the mirror cuts again.

Unravel (verb) \ ˌən-ˈra-vəl \
To come undone. Or in another telling, the way every thread between us shivers like a web in prairie wind- fragile, trembling, already near to breaking. Spider Grandmother whispers that love weaves and unweaves in the same breath. The art lies in knowing when to let the strands snap, and when to hold fast, even as your hands begin to bleed.
Next page