Ishant17 Oct 5
Summer fails,
Clouds disappear,
The winds drop,
The flowers don’t bloom,
All the leaves wither away, a fall in the mid-summer June.
And you are left wondering,
Of all that the summer promised
All that it offered,
All that was destined, but never happened
That summer,that sunshine
That never came but just went.
Went, far away, to cold distant lands
Never to return.
Never to sing of the songs we learnt.
But only to haunt us forever,
Forever, until this sun burns
Of all the things we couldn't overturn.
this difficult thing happened with such an ease.
  Jun 3 Ishant17
B
A paper boat to an open sea
A world still separating you and me
I wish you could join me here
And sit with me on this pier
We don't have to talk or think
Just watch the sun as it sinks
To where all good must one day go
To a place nobody seems to know
That's where I go, I hope you do too
Until then, I will sit and wait for you
  May 16 Ishant17
Ammar
I love you but
I really wish I could but
I miss you but
I do care but
I didn’t want to hurt you but

All the buts you’ve ever said
Will turn to all the things
You’ll regret when you’re old and dying
  May 16 Ishant17
Sonja G N Woods
problems
solutions
calmness
Ishant17 May 6
She lamented, " How fat I look, **** me..."
I consoled," baby its fine...follow some schedule and you shan't be fat".


I regret . I lament.
How beautiful it would have been to say its fine if you look fat... being fat is beautiful and the world won't judge you...
  May 6 Ishant17
Where Shelter
trigger warning:
Hate long poems?  move on.
Love words?  pleasure your self

<=>

drought and famine of the spirit,
over-staying summer
house guests in an overly sun blanched,
voided, white outed, mental abode.

faculties parched,
overly starched,
compositions lost in transition,
why can't they make it ashore?

It's after 2 AM, and though
ferries have stopped running,
mainland hangover hangerons are
working overtime to prevent
"author"izations, so all I get
when I press send is a whole lot of
"permission to cross," denied!

causes of vexation undisguised,
dual natured and manifold,
luxuriating and drowning in home grown,
city organic insipid,
makes one quick to blame
nobody in particular,
but yourself, repeatedly.

reasons many, the distractions of
rustling contradictions populate,
another life road fork looming,
a track record for choosing badly,
colors the blacktop even blacker and
ramps up desires for a janitorial,
but first do no harm, status quo.

Need a beer.
Need a distraction.
Need a homework assignment,
which I buy at the IGA market:

obey the eleventh commandment
which every writer knows;
you think you're Mr. Bigshot,
so pudding prove it,
write it,
one true sentence,
let it be a constitution for all,
with the lengthy consistency,
of a Hemingwayesque,
one true sentence.

dearth to riches occurs
as fast as a basketball
three second violation,
inspiration dripping like
windshield condensation,
got so many true sentences,
how ya gonna choose,

O sinner man?

sadly you don't hear or feel
my background music,
stringed surf sounds playing
Perlman's Mozart low to
the thunderous, sweltering,
swells of applause of
90+ degree heat
w/o a Silver Beach breeze
to console the disowned

these superheated thoughts
now focused,
emerges a bill of sight,
lading my heart's many heresies,
staccato thoughts now,
rapid fire rebel,
a pre-discourse insurrection,
voices of words lash out -

pick me - immortalize me,
I wanna be,
a constitution for one,
one true sentence.

The Moment of Ownership.

Hillel did it,
standing on one leg,
a Sanskrit mantra,
not by me,
not for me,
not through me,
even more succinct.

full clarity unobtainable,
begin when fighting thru
the static of each nerve,
knowing that
each thought,
each emotion,
is a constitution
of sorts,
recognizing life is a series of
moments of ownership,
but that are truly ours
only when relinquished.

each one, a true sentence
when writ, spoke,
but only when disabused
of notions of possession
only true, when gifted away.

Lucian F. painted those whom
he knew best, their portraits,
fully clothed but wholly *****,
a painter of revelation
thru the skin tones of the flesh.

exposeur of skins interior
displayer of old and ungainly,
left us eyesight more true
than an honest mirror,
with poetic brushstrokes overlay,
gained entry to what his
grandfather named id and ego,
artist's superego, his reflections,
a continuous judgment
on a pool of stretched canvas
that makes me despair that:

I will ere succeed
to cross the borderline
that modernity insists upon,
self preservation, neurotic fears,
impositions on my psyche and
that my moments of ownership
will be n'ere be stamped "transferred."

I take back my life,
by giving it away
this alphabetized self portrait,
a wrinkled sketch of me,
my ownings, undertakings
needs taking by you
so I can disown it.

these words are my own,
their conjunction is a
junction to you,
and a constitution for me.

once this expiation
is in your purview by the voted
election of Send,
bonded by a mutual
Moment of Ownership?

so net net,
bottom line,
these are my
one true sentences,
summarized, constitutionalized:
I am yours, for the taking,        
so come by, for and through me,
in many moments of ownership.


p.s. let us shelter together in place, an island growing
lost for many years; for Mary Winslow
  Mar 11 Ishant17
guy scutellaro
I wrap my arms around a tree
hold me tighter
I say
hold me till the flowers bloom
and the leaves appear on the trees.

hold me
when the wind rustles the leaves
and the turtles sun themselves
on branches in the stream.

hold me closely during a distant rain.
when every thing is renewed.

through rain, flowers, and forest
from high up in heaven.

we are reborn.
Next page