Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
KG Jan 2016
She woke, shivering in the dark of night
Wary of the long shadows on the wall
Flicking on the pink hued tulip nightlight
To forget the monster with one eyeball
The giant teddy bear with sharpened claws
The troll that sneered and chased her down the street
The King Kong turtle with quick snapping jaws
The freckled boy who ate her ice-cream treat
She runs down the cold hall to Mommy’s room
She turns the **** and tiptoes to her bed
“I had a nightmare,” the little girl croons.
“Shhh, it was only a dream,” Mommy said
She tucks her in and rocks her back to sleep
Years later she wakes alone, cold and naked
Her dreams a waking truth; the woman weeps
Resenting all the precious years wasted
From room to room she walks the barren halls
There is no one. Only an empty house
With silent photos hanging on the walls
KG Jan 2016
Come, take my hand
Follow me into the forest
The fallen leaves, drenched with rain, will guide our path
Through the shaded glade and up the moss covered hill
Don’t be afraid to step in the mud
Listen, hear the crisp snap of twigs echo in the distance
The soft lull of trickling water, flowing in the creek
Watch, catch a glimpse of the timid deer
Hiding in the thicket and the little squirrel
Lilting across the treetops, acorns in cheek
Touch, stroke the rough bark beneath your fingertips
Caress the summer leaves, immerse your hands
In the tranquility of soothing waters
Feel, accept the dawn’s gentle kisses upon your face
The pure spirits that inhabit the trees
Feel nature pulsing through your body with renewed vitality
Breathe deeply;
Infuse your lungs with the richness of life
And speak:

Tell me, Mr. Arborist,
Do you still wish to destroy the forest?
Children have a beautiful relationship with nature, uncorrupted by greed. They make us question the morality of our actions. They are the true voice and guardians of the forest.
  Jan 2016 KG
Thomas P Owens Sr
and should this night find you alone
staring into the abyss
shivering in the chill of hopelessness
fire the candle
dip the quill
and speak to me
for i await your solitary tear
your desperate moment
giving rise to the beauty that cries
deep within the soul
of the poet
  Jan 2016 KG
Windsor I Guadalupe Jr
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
   as they    pick up a mound of the Earth and  throw at genuflected  roses.
these battered men   in parks   searching  for light
   and   my woman   is no longer with  me.

it’s all  vaudeville:  this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant  flutings,   these  unprecedented fluctuations.

opening  the yellow gates  to death
as the  automobile churns the  last of its exhausted snarl.
   we    are children   peering through   glass cases
as   death laughs at his   hopeless  clientele,
    sad,   desolate   progenies   in   working-classes,
in   parks,  in factories,   somewhere along Mendiola,
  or  just treading the waist-high  hellish   froths   of   Dapitan,
    there’s   always   death in   the nooks   of the quiet
and from   where birds    stir in  sidereal circles,   death
  with his hands    resting   on the   cage,   chases us  back to  our homes.

death   the changing of the   gatekeeper.
death  the   telling machine.
death   the dentist.
death   my next door neighbor.
death,   this boorish broken-winged   Maya twitching in  front
   of my dog’s shadow  shot out of the Sun’s  shameful recoil.
death,   my loud and loutish muse,
death    the   truant,
death,   the   copious  fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
   death,   in my   hands through   darkness    and  light,
death   through troves   of enigma,
      death   through   undisputed clearings,
death    the   long line  of red beads   in EDSA,
  death  the gates   of Plaridel,

     it’s the moon   following you,   trailing your measure,
i hold   my woman’s used   shirt,  pick up her photographs
    and there’s no tender movement left but  the still-seeking   lion
prowling   the jungles   of my  heart,   seared by  lovelorn undoing.
  
through   the  bottom of  the sky and the  unchanging roof-beam,
  the weathervane ceases to  a sojourn  and the  wind is  trapped
    in   a place  where we   cannot   utter any word  between the  gnashing
  of   our teeth – through the wasted   years,  through  the sleeping in  and out
  of   homes filled  with beatings,  to cathedrals swollen with  tribulations,
      and to   the vineyards     wrung   out   of wine,    my  lover,   walking  through  fire,
        sound     silence.
  Dec 2015 KG
Allyson Walsh
Standing in forty-degree weather;
Water threatening to change to ice.

Perhaps, the rain will cleanse me,
And I will feel pure.

Maybe their blackened fingerprints
Will fade away from my skin.

The grease from their selfish palms
Leaving without a trace.

If I stand out in the cold showers,
The storm may sanitize my soul.

And maybe,
Just maybe...

I will forget their selfish appetites.
For myself

For a past (and present) I don't share of often.
KG Dec 2015
Sopor fuels the pen
Darkness devours the sun
As she carves the page

With beautiful words
Ethereal, Opulent
Sonder, syzygy


Vellichor, Gambol
Efflorescence, Effluence

Words without meaning

Lurk in the shadows
And hovels of ambition
Creep onto the page

But the mind embraced
In a blanket of obscurity
Cannot find their worth

Her Mellifluous song
Ensorcelled her lover
Bliss in limerence


How can the stagnant
Heart waltz with stars, write of love,
Beat in unison?

How can the lifeless
Soul connect with humanity?

*My words are worthless
Reworking this piece.
KG Dec 2015
Am I in Paradise
If I fear the beast?
Darkness devours the sun
Next page