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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
the angel amongst us

~for Alexander, master splasher~

flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns


the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both

two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression

the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?

this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!

little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future

the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer

the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing

but he measures the degree of difference at this
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity

“time to go”

the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,

as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics

"no go now,
now go later^"

though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs

one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself

that is the angle amongst us
^Surprising as it may be to most non-scientists and even to some scientists, Albert Einstein concluded in his later years that the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously. In 1952, in his book Relativity, in discussing Minkowski's Space World interpretation of his theory of relativity, Einstein writes:

Since there exists in this four dimensional structure [space-time] no longer any sections which represent "now" objectively, the concepts of happening and becoming are indeed not completely suspended, but yet complicated. It appears therefore more natural to think of physical reality as a four dimensional existence, instead of, as hitherto, the evolution of a three dimensional existence.
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
This cursor is staring at me
But it doesn't understand it's flocking to me
Waiting for me to come up with gold
But before I do, I have to get old
I'm too young to have any wisdom
And I'm not sure how to get some
Does age define a mature mind?
Or is the way you live your life?

Writer's block ticks like clocks
While tired eyes wish it'd stop
Finding hope in midnight thoughts
That get lost in parking lots
Begin with a cliché and pray
That it won't just be cast away
Print your heart and make it hurt
For rolling eyes are so much worse
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2015
From out of the lights the poets came
From out of the cities the poets came
From out of the forests the poets came
From out of the fields the poets came
From out of the mountains the poets came
From out of the darkness the poets came
And the poets are here
And the poets are here
And the poets are amongst us
Poem to open an evening of poetry with.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Mohamed Nasir Feb 2018
There's a flower in between the rocks
Undesireable unless one seek the flower
In cravices in the shadows of ***** towers
Procure trade on whims of nameless men
Openly or in disguise she thrives due to
Demands, in decadence of her world
The underworld enslave her soul
Like the geisha in *******
Decries a social stigma
Imposing upon her
Remove her off
The streets if
you will
Back sprouting
Amongst people and rocks
Enticing yet perceived as weeds still.
Darby Hurr Aug 2018
you formed in the dark, from the ashes and mist of a young world
and that’s where you’ve lamented ever since
always on the verge, but never quite able to make it to daybreak
and now, I feel you on the horizon
I see you in the deep violet of pines against the sky
And hear you in the breathy wind, something violent and distant
I know it’s not right to look for you in dark, but I know it’s not right to pretend you haven’t always been here
Why is that you always lurk in the most eery places?
why am I writing about you when I shouldn’t even think you you again
Seanathon Aug 2018
To the cutest girl
   Amongst all the lunks

Purple, white and black as the sky
   (As you know)

Hard work and a trusty Honda
   Such things will get you anywhere in life
   Be it an outcome which requires this
   Such slender *****

Enjoy your night!
Gotta love *****.

Racquel Davis Jul 2014
Supreme Love,

Through a land of barren fields, leads to a nourishing tree, that rhythms in the wind like a heart of bleeding green.

There, you will find me, prostrating in its lingering boughs, gazing into your sky with smiles of Eros.

A nightgown of innocence awaits you in the lotus, falling amongst the constellations of my parallel.*

©Copyright 2007 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Edited 11/24/16
misha Jul 11
I sit by the window on a Saturday morning
with nothing but a cup of tea in my hand.
I was too late to watch the sunrise, so instead
I watch the way the flowers blow in the wind
painting streaks in the canvas of the sky.
The incessant scratching of a coin against a lottery ticket burrows into my mind.
My inner voice shouts over it, just to remain in control
filling up my head, pushing out my thoughts and threatening to explode
but perhaps it is too late.
The scratching already comes from within.
It reminds me of the time I scratched my arms raw
after my mother told me
no boys would like me if I kept hurting myself.
Just like the time my mother told me
that I could never make it as a poet.

I redirect my attention to the window
trying to focus on what I want to see
(is that what they tell you to do in therapy?)
I had already wrung every drop of poetry
Out of this humble garden.
Back in the kitchen, my mother stands up,
and I notice the scratching has stopped.
Instead, the sharp and familiar sound of ripping paper fills the air.
I am reminded of all the poems I had ripped to shreds to start anew
as she curses and throws the ticket in the trash,
dramatically slamming the door.
A selfish part of me is happy that she didn’t win.
Because I know that if she did, she wouldn’t hesitate
to do the same to our lives.

Relocating us to a place
where flowers and fountains are found in rows
like fresh cuts on an arm
and not in haphazard paint splatters
like stars in the sky, or freckles on a face.
A grand white mansion,
elegant as a mausoleum,
where the sound of scratching
and early morning yelling
and late night sobbing
would echo through the empty rooms
bouncing from wall to wall
until the house threatens to fall apart.
Or else, we would be on a plane,
to some far off destination,
Sitting all in one row and
shielding our phones from each other,
thinking how much better it would be
to sit amongst strangers.
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