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none of my words seem to rhyme anymore
I'm grasping at thoughts strewn across the floor
throw them in to the fan spinning out of my hands
hitting the walls, scratching the stucco, flailing and falling
yet to discover my calling
Miryam meets you at the bar
of the base camp in Madrid.
She has an orange juice
and cereals
and a coffee chaser.

Did you sleep o.k?
you ask, sitting beside her,
with a coffee
and toast and cigarette.

Sure,
she says,
afterwards.  

Her eyes light up
like lights
on a pinball machine
when it's played well.

You? she asks,
you sleep all right?
Sure, but the ex-army guy
wasn't too pleased,
me getting back in the tent
at that hour,
you say.

**** him,
she says.
No thanks,
you reply.

She sips the juice,
her lips hold the glass
as she drinks,
her mouth is fish-like
as she swallows.

You talk about
the ex-army guy's moans
about his mother's boyfriend,
how they don't
get along(he
and the boyfriend),
and how he feels
left out and how
he got thrown out
the army because
he was suicidal.

She sips,
and you watched
her eyes feasting on you
as they did
the night before,
and you recall her
******* in
the small space
of her tent,
the girl she shared with
off ******* some guy
she'd met on the coach,
the tall guy
with an Australian accent.

You watched her,
as you disrobed yourself,
the space throwing
you together,
each touching each,
kissing and *******
and kissing.

He still feel suicidal?
she asks.
Guess so,
you say,
tried to talk him
through it all,
laying there
in my sleeping bag,
half asleep,
listening
and talking to him,
eyes closing,
and his voice
becoming a drone.

Anyway,
he seemed happier after,
snoring not long after,
as I was laying there
thinking of you.

She eats the cereal,
talks about the girl
coming back
just after you left,
well ******
and happy,
glassy eyed,
giggling
and stinking of *****.

You sip the coffee,
take in her small ****,
pressing against
her coloured top,
flowers and balloons,
patterns, eye catching.

She begs a smoke
from your packet
and you nod,
and she takes one out
and lights up
from the red
plastic lighter,
the cigarette,
held between her lips,  
kissable lips,
lickable.

Yes, it had been
a good night,
you and she
and someone
strumming a guitar
from the bar,
nearby,
loudly singing,
not far.
The irony of Christmas time.
Let us not forget.
When Christmas bells are ringing out.
Tis not the sound of pealing bells.
The sound of cash the tinkles.
In retail tills.
Electric stars that twinkle.
No oranges or bags of nuts in your Christmas sack.
No turning back!
The angels they all chorus.
Don't know what went on.
Bring back tradition of Ex-mas long since gone!
(c) Livvi 02/12/2013
please forgive the slanty line
between the words and common rhyme
It's gotten out of hand, oh man, just sayin'
nothing's worse but what what I mean
a rhyming verse is not obscene
yet hardly worth the birth of notes I'm playin'

better to be out of words
than force the ones you've always heard
and bore you more with punctual partition
set in golden platitude
I'm working on my attitude
a sadder dude would swear he's near Perdition

I try to keep it off the cuff
but sinking low, enough's enough
and just as rough to find a way to end it
not poetic suicide
my own phonetic cuter side
to find the brokenness and try to mend it

thankful for the little things
the corny rhymes and onion rings
the stuff my dad would say to make us smile
that subtle joke, so funny Dad
and gee I miss you, now I'm sad
and hope to see you soon
" Just wait a while".
So there it is. Grief. Has to come up and it's healing. Dad would always want to hear my latest poems. He loved all of them and would say 'Get that published!"  One of Dad's common lines was " Wait a while." I miss my dad so much and it is always a comfort to pray to God and ask him to give my dad a hug for me. Tell him I miss him. Often times when I am just being quiet and waiting for God to speak to me, I will get a line which is my Dad's kind of humor....Always a comfort and like a healing balm to my heart.
When you first met me, you told me that you were instantly intrigued,
"It was like a click,"
You said months later, pulling me closer to you like you would never let me go,
For a long time, I never understood what you meant by that,
However, I never questioned it,
Because we had each other, and we were knee deep in our fairytale.

Months later, we were savoring our rare and precious time with each other,
Lying side by side, on the damp cold grass of a football field,
The sky pitch black, except for little diamonds lighting up parts of the sky,
You looked at me, completely memorized by these small points of light,
"You love the stars, don't you Goof?"
You said, tracing my point of view with your eyes,
In my silence you found my answer,

To me, you see, stars were some mystery, beautiful points in the darkness,
Beacons of hope in a pitch black surface,
A safety place when all you see around you is darkness,

In that moment you took my hand, but instead of just holding it tight in yours,
You pointed our joined hands to the sky,
You revealed the most enchanting thing about you,
You picked out constellations in the night sky,
Telling me the stories of Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, and the Little Dipper,
Soon, after months of you taking my hand, spinning me around and showing me these stars,
They became my constellations,
My Cassiopeia,
My small beacons of hope in the dark,

Only when things ended between us,
Did I finally understand what the click you felt when we met meant,
I didn't feel it in the beginning,
I didn't realize that the click was the beginning of our connection,
I didn't realize that the click was the beginning of our journey,
I didn't realize that the click was us falling for each other,

However, what I did realize,
Sitting alone, knowing my phone would never have your name on its screen again,
Was that even if you can't feel the click in the beginning,
You can sure as hell feel the pain of that click coming undone,
And all your small beacons of hope in the night sky,
Becoming beacons of unwanted memories surfacing every time the darkness crashes upon you.

-E.M.W
I don't dedicate poems

nope.

the dedication is in the
composition.

In the composition is:
the ceremonial fire

the ribbon drawn tight
ready for cutting

the struggle, heavy breathing,
the ****** of completion

the satisfaction of having
torn off a piece of you,
and in doing so, you
are even more whole
than before

when it is done
I don't dedicate to you

I surrender it, grant and give it,
push it away, can't even
remember it days later,
cause it ain't mine,
ain't mine no more
from the second
I push that
black n white
Save Poem
button.

someday I am gonna plagiarize myself,
and then laugh and laugh all the way
home.
11/24/13
We let the light behind the bunting
provide the decoration we needed.
The fireworks bled, they're still bleeding,
and we're treading water because the wind
congealed into something cold,
hats nor scarves can curb this temperature's hold;
I'll let you lead us home, under the influence,
under the direction of that wine you had.
Forever, if a measurement of course,
would be an ample amount of time
to walk behind you, dark horse.
Cotton scarf whip,
rouged lips again and
it's ten to ten,
we could go home.
coffeeshoppoems.com
Lydia's father said
she could go with you
to Waterloo railway station
mind the roads though

he said(in his
sober moments
he could be quite
considerate)

and not too near
the edge
of the platform
can't have you

falling in front
of a train
so you took a bus
to Waterloo station

both sitting at the rear
of the bus
on the side seats
having paid

the conductor the fare
and sitting there
watching
the passing views

she in her pale
blue dress
her dark straight hair
pale features

thin arms and legs
you thinking
of the steam engines
the power

and the puff of smoke
grey white
and she thinking
of her big sister

coming home
in the early hours
puking in the bog
her mother giving one

hell of a loud scream
of abuse
and her father saying
O give the girl a chance

and Lydia turning over
in the double bed
dreading her sister's
arrival stinking of sick

hanging off
the side of the bed
with a bucket beside
throwing up

what was once inside
the bus arrived
and you got off
and you said

hang on to my hand
we'll cross together
and so she held
your hand

her thin bony fingers
wrapped about yours
her hand cold
thin nails chewed

got to keep an eye
on you
your old man said
you said

and you crossed
running to avoid
the rushing traffic
and once across

she said
that man next to me
on the bus
put his hand

on my thigh quickly
but then we got off
and I didn't know
what to say

she added
you should have told me
you said
she looked anxious

and bit her lip
no matter now
too late
but if you see him again

tell me
and we'll get
the ******
you said

she nodded
and so you walked
into the station
past crowds of people

and porters
pushing trolleys
of luggage or mail
by the tall copper  

with hands behind
his back
and on to the platform
and took a seat together

to watch trains
and hear the sounds
and smell the acrid
smoke and engines

come and leave
sense the overpowering
sounds of released steam
and whistles blown

and flags waved
and passengers
boardings
and disembarking

and you taking
a side view of her
sitting there
anxiety

in the features
of her face
her hair straight
and well brushed

she unaware
you gazed
and took it all in  
and she thinking

of her sister's moans
and occasional vomiting
and she hardly sleeping
and now here

watching trains
you beside her
in your short
sleeved jumper

and cowboy shirt
and jeans
and sniffing in
the smell of smoke

and steam
and listening
to the engines
start up

and sense
the thrill of power
in the huff and puff
and she for once

happy just being there
far from her sister's snores
and her brother's tease
here to be

with you and be
as she please.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1950S AT WATERLOO RAILWAY STATION.
sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty..


1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
                    spongy sea-**** with sun-skin points
                    bloated fish who didn't make it
                    swollen seals with child

and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
               like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
   soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul

nobody would believe
             how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
             how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
             how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
             how many of so much..


2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
                      the span of lands
                      the points of stars
                      the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
                      grinding
                      gri­nding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end


3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..

oh no..


4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)

when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?



true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*





S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
oh, heavens... what a stunningggggg day!




sub: fishy

1.
rainbow-fishy
on see-through sheet

layers reveal
foliage beneath

transparent lives
in breeze of eve

2.
fish of wood, times two
hang open from a rope
unison in blue-tails
no blood-guts spilled

they sleep tonight
in dream-float awe
away from
the boats of man
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