Rob Rutledge: Favorites

Gateways

Apr 30 Rob Rutledge

Todd Sommerville

Gateways

Memories are gateways to the past.

Childhood endeavors that couldn't last.

Passages through time,
love and laughter, joy and tears.

Moments to savor in our passing years.

Still there are memories left to make,
Surely there are gateways yet to take.

Highways and byways to explore.

Paths of golden light
reaching deep into the night,
leading us to some far off cosmic shore.

Too more memories,
more roads,
life's a book we pray
will never close.

Even as the final chapter nears its end.

We look for another gate,
a portal escaping fate.

And hope for a new journey to begin.

So I would really like to encourage all of you to check out
the you tube video I made for this poem.

This poem has been turned into a full blown song
through the magic of AI. And I think it turned out super cool.

https://youtu.be/SXa9h8Ntoro?feature=shared use the url here or go to you tube and search @tsummerspoetry
Thanks so much!

Apr 30 Rob Rutledge

The girl on my heart is you.

Apr 30 Rob Rutledge

Ami Mathur

The ******* my heart is you.

Traveling in this haunting noon.
Drenched in my own sweat.
I still step forward—
Just to see your face, a glimpse of you.
The distance between us.
Will come closer by each breath.

In my every travel, towards or a drift away for home.
I wait on you.
My chase, my fleeting race
My lifelong craze—
Whether up or down a phase
I long for you.
Now, my soul is for you
Every beat of my heart is for you.

Songs in the cab
Ads featured on my tab .
My every headline is you.

In the waiting hall of this airport
I watched readers, some whistling music listeners.
I heard some gossips — the untold whispers.
Still in every face I see you, I imagine you

For me, the girl listening to music on her pod is you
The guy reading the Alchemist is you.
The ******* the phone is you,
Picture ******* the water bottle is you,
The ******* my heart is you.

I bought a book called Dreamland.
To stay away for a bit from this notion—
From your wonderland.
I gulped a lemon tea like a potion.
But I couldn't stay away,
For in every word I read,
Is a word about you,
The ******* my heart is you.
The ******* my heart is you.

Apr 29 Rob Rutledge

Leave me a pinch of love

Apr 29 Rob Rutledge

Maria

Leave me a pinch of love

I stand in front of you, stunt, sickly.
My eyes are rayless, my skin is weakly.
No sign of joy or peg to life.
I'm tangled in whole in a net of lies.

I don't cry, but tears are all around.
It's like a life circle for me is shut down.
I don't scream - no strength, no strife.
It's like a mouse has gnawed of all my life.

I stand in front of you, disheveled.
I'm like a book, thumbed through, bedevilled.
And there's no use or purpose in it.
Her place is on the far shelf indeed.

I stand in front of you as I am right now.
Don't drive me away from you, put up with somehow.
I've no strength, no faith, no meaning, no purpose.
Leave me a pinch of love at least, with no pose.

Thank you very much for reading my poem! 💖
You give me the opportunity to tell about my state, my feelings, my experiences and my pain. It's very important for me. Thank you very much!💖

#stuny #sickly #weakly #life #tears #strength #strife #meaning #purpose #faith

Apr 29 Rob Rutledge

I’ll see you in Heaven

Apr 29 Rob Rutledge

Timothy Charles Carter

I’ll see you in Heaven

I looked at you
You looked at me
I reached for you
You cradled me
I opened my heart
You mended it
I acknowledged you
You swept me away
I lived for you
You went away
My life for you, I go to Heaven
My heart to yours, I go to Heaven
I seek your love, My heart goes to Heaven
I go to Heaven
I’ll see you in Heaven
Written by: Timothy Charles Carter of Las Vegas, Nevada

Apr 25 Rob Rutledge

She Was Always the Fire

Apr 25 Rob Rutledge

F Elliot

She Was Always the Fire

(for the Woman, and the Cowards who Fear Her)

she was never too much—
only too alive
for those who mistook control
for strength
and silence for peace.

her becoming was not a performance.
it was a war—
and the ones who claimed to love her
dropped their weapons
only to place their hands
around her throat
in the name of order.

they called her chaotic,
but it was their cowardice
that feared the shape she would take
if left untouched
by their grip.

they chose the seductress,
the one who dances at the edge
of her own erasure—
pliant, priestess of their small gods,
goddess of their easy pleasure.

but the true woman is not
a priestess of men;
she is a temple unto herself.

and to know her,
to truly see her,
requires the man to suffer.

to suffer her beauty
without owning it.
to suffer her fire
without extinguishing it.
to suffer the rise of a soul
that will not yield
to his fear of being seen as less.

he must descend
into the fragmentation
that makes him reach for control—
and there,
only there,
may he begin to rise.

and she?

she is not waiting anymore.

she was always the fire.

and the fire needs nothing

but its own spark

to blaze.