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fearfulpoet Aug 2018
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon

in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern

debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken

knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)

will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag

we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching

besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)

asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one

tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction

could be northbound could be southbound
hell could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound

cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it

too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I want to be a materialist as much as I could.
I want to kiss the sun and marry the moon!

I want to invite all the stars, sending them a tweet,
and I’d like them all to join me on Facebook!

I want to carry the Himalayas on my shoulder,
and I’d like to swim across the Atlantic water!

I want to wax lyrical over the waves
and would like to fly with the clouds.

I want to be in the green
and would like to spread across the spring.

I want to paint on the sky
keeping my head held high.  

I want to wear the perfect fit ring,
as perfect as the pi-perfect circle,
with no endless nano-decimal hole,
just fine-tuned to my finger hole!
island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
Woody Jul 2018
I’m old enough to remember when
coyotes all lived west of Memphis,
Tennessee, and the sheep ranchers in
Skull Valley, Utah, still paid a twenty
dollar bounty for a perfectly matched
pair of ears, not that I ever shot at any
of the gods’ four-legged creatures, but
by god, those two-legged primates with opposable thumbs that shot at me, I sure as hell shot back, (although counting
coup by taking two ears that walked on two legs was frowned upon, even then,
as far back as I went, by Generals and
the public in general, I think), anyway,
the point I was trying to make is just this: just when and why and how(l) did the coyotes decide to cross the mighty Mississipp into Memphis as I mentioned sometime back before I digressed about the opposable thumbs and guns and counting coup and such ridiculousness, but still, the question remains and I’m quite perplexed about the spread of four-legged varmints more-so than the two-
legged illegal aliens in search of safer harbors and their children, caged up like so much vermin and varmints that Trump
and his angry too much Mussolini in his heart and hair, his hateful MAGA red-hatted, conceal-carry permitted redneck backers, Putin and his Russian hackers, and here I go again, oh boy, I swear I only wanted to know if coyotes spread so far east to howl at a new moon rising out of the Atlantic, and if they sought asylum, would Trump separate the pups from their Moms and Pops or build a wall along the Arkansas side of the mighty Mississippi, while I listen to those dreaming coyotes howl and call out to a new moon rising
up and out of my Atlantic like a welcoming sign for all coyotes to come and sit high on the dunes waiting and watching for a compassionate new moon shining free?
Oh, ccome on. Even if you’re totally ambivalent, or gods forbid, for Trump, can’t y’all at lest find some humor in these not so harmonious times?
Onoma Oct 2018
that something...

& the Ocean.

that something...

&  the Ocean.

that something~

& the Ocean.

a woman's eyes...

Atlantic.

thousand as a

favored poetic figure...

of times to fall.

for all.

till no more can be

beared.
trf  Sep 2018
fema $
trf Sep 2018
we danced in the streets as the days were long
only recess and reckoning while water crept in
this city of dead, our place, where the stench lives
and bodies float, lying above the crypt's graves  

hurricane red absinthe & hand grenades
slugging the gulf like a shooter's brigade
a forecast shifts, flooding any escape
so we fire our motors with boats on em.
nola luvs u
Jade  Jan 2
Atlantis
Jade Jan 2
From the moment
the tale of her ruin
made itself known,
mankind has
coveted proof
of her existence.

Many a curious hand
has stalked across
the glossy veins of maps
and the cracked vertebrae of books
enclosing information
most pivotal to
her secret whereabouts
and the tragic evanescence
that initiated her exile.

Many a
sailor
explorer
scientist
poet
have perished among
the gnashing jaws of the sea
in their pursuit of
the glory
her exploitation
would surely bring.  

In response to such
grievances--
the reality
of losing oneself
in the midst of
searching for what
has already been lost--
imagination--
the belief in magic,
in the seemingly
unbelievable--
was outlawed
within the
human psyche;

now,
they say she is merely
a madman's legend,
a myth concocted by Plato
so as to warn against
the perils of greed.

But never did they consider
that perhaps she did not
want to be found to begin with,
that her seclusion
has always been a necessity
so as not to repeat
the monstrosities of the past--
so she should not resurface
to satiate their earthly desires
only so she can be drowned anew.

{Atlantic}
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A W Bullen  Mar 2017
Awen
A W Bullen Mar 2017
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where

The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.

Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.

She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
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