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 Oct 2016 Larry Schug
mk
there must be a place where broken words go
the ones without a limb
not fully formed
not spoken right
not heard

there must be a place where broken words go
the sentences left uncompleted
the trailing words that never left the lips
the "but" and the "and"
that were always left hanging

somewhere between silence and speech
there must be a place where broken words go
full of stutters and writers block sufferers
somewhere between the "i love"
and the "you" that never followed
or the "wait"
that was whispered into the air
the "please come back"
that made peace with dying
on the corners of a turning mouth

there must be a place where broken words go
the words spoken but never heard
the letters written but never posted
the train of thought that crashed into the clouds
the words in the bottle that traveled the sea
but sunk to the bottom before it could ever reach

there must be a place where my broken words go
the stains on my diary that didn't come from a pen
and the letters on my thighs that don't make sense
the things i could never say
and the things i said that came out all wrong
all the broken alphabets in my song
that cry for salvation
for one more chance

there must be a place where broken words go
there must be a place i can call home.
 Oct 2016 Larry Schug
Lora Lee
It is hard
to describe
how the rush of
          the drench
of a furious
     storm makes
my downpour
             clench
wet desert wind
that sparks me
                   alive
sending currents
from the whorls of
                my scalp
down through the
rings of my spine
It trips over
                  dermis
like kimono silk
thick as the cream
of lapped-up
              milk
alighting my
senses in
rose quartz tints
igniting cells
to my surface
with earthed-up flint
The strike of rocks
echoes ancient
           sounds
reverberating heat
throughout my scared
                        mound
And I let the rain
pour directly in
to my soul's
humble vessel,
cleansing me,
     rinsed
from relentless
        spirit-wrestle
free of stains
from self-doubt,
         self-hate
to align my vision
with choice-infused fate
and I am the storm
that swirls through
the trees
I am the dream
whipped up thick
in the breeze
ready for surrender
as I pull the reigns
ready for the tender
conflagration
         of the
sacred
      blaze
"I am the storm/ and I am the wonder/when I have flashlights, nightmares/sudden explosions"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADBKdSCbmiM
If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time

Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again  
On but an arm, the  koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves

On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?



Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky -  Gibran
I was once called
A communist, a fascist and an anarchist
All in one sentence
Which I thought was quite impressive
And this was because I was a union man
My fellow workers elected me to represent them
In our dealings with management
I was involved in negotiations
About the application of regulations
And other tedious vexations
And on rare occasions
I led disputes and even strikes
And, over the years
I helped to save many jobs
Not numbers
But peoples' livelihoods
Some will say I was a rabble-rouser
An agitator
Some can say as they like
All I ever did
Was stand up for the underdog
And I hope I always will

                                   By Phil Roberts
 Oct 2016 Larry Schug
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

------------------------------------------------
my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
 Sep 2016 Larry Schug
Darkly
There are some who may prefer a cloudless sky and the touch of a warm sun. These hearts are similar climates, and you may find them at no great distance from the equator.

Not mine.

My love is for the sedge and moss covered upland of frozen lakes, where the cold white blanket covers the steppes. Peace is found here, among the ice and whispered within the biting gale as it travels over her skin.

Her chill breath touches me, and I am not driven away.
For within my chest beats a fire as black as space between the stars.

And I go unclothed, as the caribou carry me across the frozen land.

I am the horned god.
Like I said. Frayed hair dipped in barbecue sauce. I can't even.
 Sep 2016 Larry Schug
Illya Oz
When my day is feeling gray
And my mind is in disarray
I look outside
Only to find
A blue butterfly
Fluttering through the sky

When I saw the blue
Of its wings as it flew
It brought a smile to my face
As its wings flap with grace
It brings happiness in its wake
And many friends does it make*
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
For my friend Kirashma, who is always so kind and friendly and always makes people happy just like the blue butterfly.
 Sep 2016 Larry Schug
Grace
Untitled
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