Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far off, high in the maples
The wheel of a locust slowly grinding the silence,
Under a moon waning and warn and broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember you, soon the winter will be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
 Sep 2015 Emma-Leigh Ivy
Hilldene
Roots softly entwined
like thoughts in the dark cold earth.
Woven in the loom of the mind.
How something so pure can grow from something so sinister.
Long hairs tinted yellow sprouting from your tips.  
Your soft white whispers drifting through the air,
catching the current in the skies.
I hold you in my hands, gently inhale your temporary beauty.
Caught in a trance as I exhale and watch you disappear.
Up to the skies I look to see you getting swept up.
My wish made was never granted.
You're gone now and I'm left with an unearthly empty shell.
I open my hands and all that remain of you fall effortlessly to the ground.
Your fall cushioned by long green fingers reaching to the sky.
There, you are reunited with other such as yourself.
Those empty promises echoed in the carcasses that lay next to yours.
-
Your brazen tips glazed in a shock of colour
Pregnant with joyful scents, bursting through your silky palms
Untouchable Ivory put on ostentatious display
Waxy green protection against jealous creatures allured by your bold skin
Spiked tongue lapping up soft powder
Palate tingling colours
Come now young one, let your hand out
Touch the rays of sun that break through the clouds
Unfurl your glossy arms let them reach to the skies
Embrace the copper halo of fresh dawn
-
Kaleidoscopic explosion of feathery pink from
frivolous lace of green
shooting from an abyss of fleshy undertones
chirping in a bloom of tenderness
Natural flirt laying delicious kisses on your diaphanous hands
Dashes of bittersweet morning yellow erupting from flaxen haired beings
Quotidian fever blushing your glossy cheeks
Exuberant vitality in the eyes of the beholder
-
Darling Delilah somersaults under the summer sky.
Tender yellow belly jade-inlaid silently teasing
Wistful white limbs under threat - recited childish game
Droplets of tears cried over lost lovers, gently caress your velvety skin
Loves me, loves me not.
Follow the trail of loved golden petals
Plucked from a field of menageries
The field of unspoken languages
Jovial melodies escape your white rib cage
Wolf-whistle hymns emanate from your progeny
-
Winter’s frost biting at your satin petals
Drawing your soft palms together in a synchronized motion
Awaiting the Sun's demise
Fading from fluorescent pink to a beige purple
accepting your fate as night crawls nearer
Tiny capsules cuddle your closed body, capturing the light of day
Bitter breezes sway your spirit sweetly as the moon shines over the sleeping
-
Midnight blue hung it's head low, gracefully dipping it's toes in the icy water
Exhaling soft whispers in the ears of the insomniac
under the blanket of tattered stars
Glitter embellished skies shatter into fragments of shadows
Picturesque luminous nebula sprayed across the abysmal crescent
Luminosity fades from your touch and lower you bow
Lullaby your fragile celestial glow into a deep sleep
-
Mourners tears fall
Staining your diminutive blue faces black
Remorseful mutters tremble your weary heart
Aching voices tearing your delicate edges
Myosotis silvatica engraved upon the headstone where they lay
Forget-me-not child as I am immortal, lost souls earnt divinity
Warm blooded fingertips clench your presence
Dark figures gently brush past
A ceremonial statement
For the grieving
H.E 4/9/15
Gather yourself
Ill prepare some lines of *******

Oh God your still reading...


I arrive home from work
And immediately grab my bottle of wine
Sweet red wine
Too sweet
But tonight it will do just fine

I drop to the couch while guzzling
That cheap sweet red wine
It drips like maple syrup
And sit atop my stomach
As if in the Black Sea

I draw a substantial drag
From my hydrocombustion device
And wonder why I care?
I'll find another **** job

I'll have to play a few nights out at the bar

All that aside
The worst of it is that sweet red wine
For what I'd do for something a little sour

I'm 22 years old
I do the work
Of children and beggers

Opportunity is a time share
For those buying or already bought in
Turn kings
From
Tenants and insurance agents

American dream a lie
Though plenty of room
for poor poets
In ratty apartments
On the East Side

And how it kills me
You live in the city
And have no time
To free me from my wounded
Masculinity

Wish I boarded the 6am train
And lived in a tower

Maybe I could afford something a little
More sour
..And I probably shouldn't
have used my real name

But that's the fool inside of me

I walk home at three in the morning
In a white fedora, black suit, and winged tipped shoes with a pointed toe

Accompanied by a lone trumpet
Shrieking a wailing lonesome tune
As I walk slyly, cigarette in hand
In a strange off beat step
Through dark alleys, side streets,
And ***** parks

I give a *** a fifty dollar bill

And wait,
Stop there!
A scumbag is assaulting a woman
And I of course save the day



Suddenly
I come to, crawling to my toilet
A horrifying sting of mace

I dreadfully check my messages

And in ***** covered disgrace..
I despise,

My big dumb tequila poisoned face
I wonder,
If the sunrise ever looks down on our inhabitants,
And holds it's breathe as the beauty of life overwhelms even that of the sky
 Sep 2015 Emma-Leigh Ivy
g
You get real tired of that boy
that takes and takes and takes.
I am so ******* tired
of drinking and calling
and wishing it was more
than it actually is.

You move out of your home
town to forget them
and you paint the walls
the color of their eyes anyway.

Sometimes my head feels
like it is carving hieroglyphics
into my skull because
I can't seem to read myself
any better than anyone
else can.

There is nothing like
throwing up in the shower
because you couldn't
wash off the feeling of
their fingertips almost three
whole years later.

But the boys that take
and take
and take
will keep you up at night
and never ask why your
walls are blue or why you
cry in the shower and
why you scream your
favorite songs alone.

He won't ask until alcohol
fills his blood just like the
first and last time
he kissed you.
My darling,
upon the mountain's caress.
My ******-friendly mess
in a pineapple dress.
I couldn't love less
or less of you.

Young explorer,
drifting from world to world.
A huckleberry eye
that shifts from trembling duress,
with my hands onto her back.
Why can't life cut you any slack?
The chair is going out under
as the skies are mumbling thunder.
My violin underneath the sin,
sounding from within
"...I love you."

Broken water
bounce from cheek to chest.
Your breathing sounds the best.
With my words onto your lips,
and how the saliva drowns and drips.
I grip around your hips,
with the world releasing a boulder,
that drops upon your shoulder,
and I shake you senselessly,
why can't god set you free?
I can feel from you to me.

Blood, down, to ever and let go,
with your body in the snow.
My river-drowned girl,
engulfed by the swirl.
Love, oh no, from year to year.
Your words so everclear,
"I love you, too."

Silver-shiner,
moon-kissed and ever so,
your feet on the bathroom floor,
the kills from the handled snore.
What I wouldn't give to drink
from your fountain.
What I wouldn't give to die
on your mountain.
My darling, from colored-t.v.,
with a kiss and a motel fee,
I could know what the known couldn't,
with my fingertips where they shouldn't.
Turn down the volume and say
that you'll stay another day
or three.
I've been trying to make father and dad rhyme
But dad has the essence of holding and never letting go
and father is some one who writes you letters after years of no speaking
Dad is some one who held you when you scraped you knee
And father is someone you only remember seeing once, and it was very cold that day
Dad is some one you talk to
and Father only wrote you one letter and you are 16
Dad is someone who you fight with, but you love him
and father is someone you will never know
Maybe its best that I can't rhyme sentiment and hopelessness
*Present and absent will never coincide with each other
Because my dad is not an antonym
And my father will never be a simile
"I've been trying to make father and dad rhyme" is not my line I heard it in starving artists
 Sep 2015 Emma-Leigh Ivy
AlanK
I tried to tickle my vegan fancy
With bushels of quinoa and kale,
I was told no meat or dairy
Was the healthy Holy Grail.

But I was sad and hungry
With every burger I declined,
See me toss away my salad bowl,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.

I filled my fridge with veggies,
Bean sprouts and legumes,
But I dreamt of pancetta
And links of sausage to consume.

Breakfast was plain yogurt
Lunch was collard greens,
Snacks were roasted edamame,
****, they’re just soy beans.

I was getting much too skinny,
My ribs were protruding,
I became short-tempered,
And was dark and brooding.

I covered all the mirrors,
I looked so pale and pasty,
All day I would salivate,
Craving something hot and tasty.

My vegan days are over
Enjoying pork chops, ham and bacon
I thought veggies were the answer,
But it seems I was mistaken.

Feel free to live off plants,
If you are so inclined,
But I’m firing up the grill,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.
Her loneliness wears maroon,
                 I am aware," to her yin, my yang,"
mine in deep purple echoes,
                the density that's her, in my presence.
On an island of her own, she sojourns,
                 where there is comfortable room for two.
A happy recluse she is, ruminating,
                 diving deeper in to the sea of consciousness.
What does it really mean?
                  we are wound around a "KOAN", working on it,
wouldn't stop to think,  I flow
                    with the insistent gravitas of the current,
Through her the dense silence speaks,
                     in voices clear,  heard within me.
all beyond words, and in a far more
                     subtle plane, than this existence.
Koan--aparadox to be meditated up on
(C) K.Balachandran(balaprimus@gmail.com)
Next page