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Despair Feb 8
Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
Pastures of azure
amidst agony, frozen
within a monster’s jaws.
Its frostbite fades into my
veins.
Again, within these beryl
everglades cannot move.
I cannot see you.
Where have you gone?
This air, it blisters
Into my lungs and
benumbs me.
And still, I run.
Accept my feelings,
here and now.
And in parting, let me vow
that in a night
or in a day
if you vanish
or if you stay
in my death
when my flesh is gray
you will see me in your everglades.
I run
in search of you.
within the moor
and its creek of dreams.
lucent crystal cannot hold
my shivering bodies
it breaks beneath me.
bubbles. . . water. . .
flooding
flooding
flooding
into my body.
again?

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
Pastures of azure
amidst agony, frozen
within a monster’s jaws.
Its frostbite fades into my
veins.
Again, within these beryl
everglades?I can never move.
not truly.
I can never see you.
You are always gone.
This air, it blisters
Into my lungs and
benumbs me.
colder… colder
growing colder.
And still, I run
And still. I run?
Through the swamp
Through the trees
Through this forest
Of shattered dreams.
Why… do I run?
It’s not for father.
It’s not for mother.
It’s not for the god?Who never bothered.
bones splinter into my feet
tattered teeth from
children’s skulls,
and broken cartilage from?ah. I see.
this body isn’t just one of
mine,
It’s one of many.
hair, as fine as a violin’s
bow.
Feelings – left behind.
Somewhere.
Keen frost sinks in
its unforgiving fangs.
I succumb to the cold.
This Great Mire
consumes me.
again. again. again. again.

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
Pastures of azure
amidst agony, frozen
within a monster’s jaws.
Its frostbite fades into my
veins.
Again, within these beryl everglades
Enough.
Enough..
Enough!
Please.
I beg of you.
Enough is enough!

High above,
The harvest moon shines.
And I see it reflected,
within your scarlet eyes.
A face I cannot see,
Another mind, presented.
Like a dream within a
dream.
Residual thoughts tremor
Through lost woods
Of muddled blue.
You offer me a tome,
Bound in black stardust.
Its words its whispers
Like a serpent’s soft sigh.

“For each word that you
read,
You will yearn,
your blood will burn.
For my knowledge
Of perception.
Hand over your heart,
If you truly wish to learn.
It matters not how you
plead,
If you oblige by this
serpent’s creed.
Your only form of
payment is to bleed.”
Fooled by your black sugar
That covers my eyes
You tricked me.
For the tome that I opened,
its pages,
Much like my own soul,
Are vacant.
And the water floods into
My lungs
Again.
Empty words dissipating
Upon the surface of the
mire.

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
A child’s ribbon, torn from
her hair.
Ah.
I knew I had left these
thoughts,
Somewhere.
A book without words.
A mind without answers.
My tears hit the
parchment,
And text froths to the
surface.
A story.
I see a story here.
Its words reflecting
within shadows of blue-green.
And now,
Only now.
Do I see what you mean.
If I must repeat
This elegy.
If my pen cannot
Produce ink
Without agony is this vice worth taking?
And are these feelings
worth understanding?

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The skies are borne
from past reflections,
I can no longer remember
who the reflection is.
I have found myself,
Alas,
My soul remains,
Frozen within
This Elegy of the Glades.
My tears,
Turned to crystals
Within the mire.

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Skies that I reside within
Now, and forever
Based on a reoccurring dream.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Earth
Worth
Darth
*  777* Goth
Whats worse both
Even Steven Universe
Will I ever find

  *Peace
/ Curse

Coming to terms with
Cancer doesn't care
Did Heaven
become
A disease ending up
Absolutely nowhere

Lotto like death
Poison mushroom
Exit button mushroom
Alarm
Claustrophobic
Thanks for space

Comic.com race
Demonic
Shrooming
Baby mushroom
cooing
Fantasy Island of
Alice in Wonderland
mushrooms to chew
Rabbit hole stew
What a mush
washy of lush
Being taken
Stroke of a brush
All our money-losing
Clouds white and brown
chairs
One mans poison Pubs is
cute baby cubs pleasure
Moving Buffy slayer City
Jungle  Jane single
Poison *** in the city

Pollution give me

My London Fog
Poisoning mushroom
The Prince the princess
being kissed by a frog
What! the magic mushroom?
for migraines
Herbal cure
medicinal
remedy taking planes

LSD healing drive
Mushroom for the brain
The Godly tribe


Trees are being
chopped down
Everything from
generation
Handed down
Laughing stock of
Computer clowns
I am not feeling the vibe

Shitake what does it take
Like a fungus

Tasting someone's poison
Mushroom soup he is
wearing his graduate cap
What a mushroom head

Ladies of Venus group
Coastal storm in my
wedding bed

Riders of the storm
Stan the evil door or
Jimmy Morrison
Nicole with her Kidman
Are you kidding me
I am assuming
The good earth
Is being devoured
Every hour I feel
like writing
Who is buying mushrooms
Slivered like a snake
Making room for Go Daddy
Poisonous suits of Grooms

Healing hand is
Godly skywriting
The silence of
the Lamb
Moms Lambchops
Steamed fresh mushrooms
Stranded with most
expensive lipstick
Money withdrawal
My Drugs like a
good book fictional

Only in my dreams
Did I ever see poison
mushrooms
Something is being
planted in my showroom

Artwork Arsenic and lace
Whole place faces of mushrooms
Homemade Butternut squash
Nose of a button mushroom
  Near the vegetable
Stand his hand
lands he started
Eating my mushroom's
Marsala mushroom
sauce
Grilled Chicken and
bacon salad overload
of mushrooms
I never promised you
a rose garden
In our College Dorm
Pool games no drugs
of mushroom

Trees and Snow White
poison apple she is cute
as a button
Throwing apples compared
To oranges who would
be glad they got stuck
with poison
mushroom
Good earth what is possible

Poison brain watching
Cable whats accountable
Midterms all nasty germs
The world is poisoning
our mind brainwashed
I left one nasty mushroom
behind I won't bite
Poison is everywhere if you let it come your way it is in our plants it is the way a person galavants how the time flew. I don't even have money to buy the most expensive shoe. I see a lot of mushroom gravy  Mom make homemade gravy every Sunday Its an Italian thing. We rarely have mushrooms  He always dresses like little boy blue this is not a fairytale we feel poisoned by so many things even watch out poison mushrooms better not be in your meal
the money is like a drug but got poisoned
Tyler C Nelson Nov 2019
as if one summer night would
   stop to kiss the cheek of winter
        winter
   my sandaled feet chill,
       awash in starlight
   the waves, like a slivered memory
       pure and silver,
       carry the faint heartbeat
      of many things come and gone
summered waters blow through
   their courses of hair
   in soft syllables to the ear
   they touch stones of fire
   alive in the eyes of the mind
how many hearts or ripples
   of moonlight have walked here?
   here, where new clouds breach
       ancient skies and stones
       of rivers of many things
           come and gone
   smooth and silver are the drops
       of time, which wash
       slivered memories
           of summer
   by the light of a cool moon
King Panda  Sep 2015
blood moon
King Panda Sep 2015
bat-tastic lung
collapse
fragrant raspberry
leaves
gas exchange gone
wrong
little sailor
slivered ocean
reverse gravitational
sinking into
blackened angler doom
new age
humanitarian
loves others
loves discovering
new
truths
loves
plummeting through spaded
blinds
insanely unappreciative
red
the new harvest
the magician blinking
the the sky
imagination finally
makes
sense
Left Foot Poet Mar 2018
cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?
I W  Jun 2013
Raunchy Surprise
I W Jun 2013
I may not do things traditionally
But I'll get them done eventually
If they're the things that are right for me
I'll be okay and set myself free.


In this life of turbulent strife
pitted and ripe with rotten tripe
a sunlight bright pains my sight
but your soothing ice cools my vice


The aid you paid is not ready made
it gives me hope I'm not just a dope
your love is more than a pity rope,
slivered and raw it gives me splinters


But luckily i'm in for a treat
more than a friend sent to mend
oh yes, you're more, my candy store
settle my sweet tooth you randy *****

unwrap the rainbow you insane *****
ride the rhythm of my *** prism
a rod shaped crystal built like a missile
cocked locked and loaded it cant miss-ya.

explodin' and remoldin' the fabric of time
an infinite blanket wraps us entwined
in a frantic romantic purely satanic
ritual of reality, the utmost sensuality.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2017
for Harlon Rivers

the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent

it is all of these and not one

he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river

transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully

as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly

his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,  
searching revisionary pathways

directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves

thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait, 
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position

in him,
my own histories, 
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication

this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others

but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers

<•>
Oct. 20, 2016

harlon is one of the best poets here
if you are new to his writing, be sure to tell him honestly what you think...

his work can be found under
https://hellopoetry.com/harlon-rivers/  
Uncover him, and discover yourself within

2013
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/444023/dear-mr-harlon-rivers/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1020738/winter-whispers/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1913140/in-the-river-of-good-company/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1855694/the-slow-death-of-a-poet/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1995383/traces-of-youa-fathers-tribute/

2014
Harlon Rivers:
http://hellopoetry.com/-harlon-rivers/
my personal call sign, Poseidon
Poseidon was very fitting with Harlon River,
due to the symbolic nature of the water in their names.
I have only read few of this gentleman's work,
But I can assure you his work is very much a gift to the audience,
And like Poseidon that gift is fire to humanity.
Dawn of  Lighten

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833151/a-walk-with-tonya-maria/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1924604/ode-to-a-brimful-poetwith-a-twist/
and of course<
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1954256/drinkin-mr-coffee-and-cheap-*****/
each time her bare front
is full with illumination
she is defined by the mystery
of infinite black behind her

and at her most enlightened
is dappled with caters and scars
ensconced in darkness
lined by an aphotic slivered edge

shadow speaks
most deeply

of the ways
in which
she moves
Yusof Asnan Jun 2016
For she too believes in happy ever after,
But after what she's been through,
Those deceits and broken trusts,
Its not wrong for her to build her walls higher.

-HIY
Auntie Hosebag Nov 2010
Stage Design/American Drama


Down front on America’s stage—
awash in a universe
of light arranged by
the ultimate technician.
Come closer.  Anticipate
spectacle.

First sun-splash
on these shores fashions
fool’s gold of surf that heaves against
foam-smoothed, lobster black,
slick rock beaches of northern Maine/
bubbles about black rubber boots of men in boats—
another day, another dime,
shivered away in ancient rime—
adrift in fog on the black
                                          glass
                                                   harbor
                                                               surface.

Grand Canyon sunrise
          EXPLODES
               copper and white/
                    orange and green/
                          blood red/
over many thousand pounds
of brash brown
        dirt—
in every direction/especially down.
       Soldierly shadows armed with swords
       of slivered sunlight hack through scrub
       like so much meat, to each day’s final
       battle at the canyon’s rim/
while a mile below the torment
called the Colorado
turns silver and gold,
black, blue, and
thundering
mud.

Louisiana bayous trickle chlorophyll caramel over twisted hickory sentinels, monumental elms and sycamores—even the alligators.  More mystery here than far-flung nebulae—and everything fighting back ***** green kudzu.

The Badlands of South Dakota, striped like the surface of a ***** peppermint planet—sizzling in the sun, bone cold in the shade—knobby tan canyons wrapped in ribbons of rust that dribble sounds one can neither recall nor reproduce.

Same phenomenon frames dawn over spongy folds of tall green cilia ocean called simply The Plains.
Kansas, Nebraska, horizons so far away thunderstorms creep along like dark, threatening slugs.
Distant night fireworks laden with punishing hail hide tornadoes and winged farmhouses in the horizontal gloom.  In the morning—those sounds again.  Critters?  Wind.  Ghosts, maybe.

Spectral mists of the Great Northwest cloak clear-cut sores on Nature’s sacred,
fragrant, deep green shores, falling steep to the creamy Pacific.
Light's a plaything here.  Big Sur
renders color to gem, sparkles
down the coast
to rusty Golden Gate and grimy LA,
where the sun goes down brown
and the rain shines
like gun metal.

Georgia soil—
homicidal redheaded cousin running loose, looking for trouble—
grows swampy hardwood groves/
leaves hung limp from humidity/
masking antebellum secrets/
offering sanctuary to voodoo practitioners and moonshiners alike.
Magic, danger, ******, and ghosts
of slaughtered slaves wander tight-packed old-growth forests.
Some say the soil is red from ancient conflict,
unanswered pleas for mercy drowned
in the drenching rains
of hurricanes
strayed north from the Gulf of Mexico.
Others claim tears of countless mothers will never leave
Civil War blood completely dry.

Northern New England foliage--
master maples drunk on fresh cider/
psychedelic finger-paint exhibitionists high on
the year’s last harvest,
intoxicated by Nature’s largess/
symphonies of scarlet, tangerine, lemon, even purple--
regal birds migrate over lakes so blue
you could chip your teeth on them,
and a diehard hemlock conducts its final green opus to a sea of primary colors.

Iowa is quiet and corn, obscuring whole towns and the lives held captive therein.  All the green on Earth is planted here; all the sun, all the sapphire sky feeding knee-high-by-July crops, bleaching spare white churches, white picket fences, white-on-white generations and all their vanilla dreams.

Linger beneath Montana’s cobalt crystal canopy to know why it’s called Big Sky.
Stark, Crazy Mountains chase stuttering clouds above treeless, tumbleweed towns,
bathed in the same blues as Wyoming, blown through a wild man’s horn.

A wink of sunlight
mirrored in unseen peaks
perhaps hundreds of miles away—
snow so white/Rocky Mountains so hard and gray—
behind a universe of wheat flatness beckoning the eye to infinity, slowly,
slowly, the Continental Divide rises
from the horizon like a monster parade balloon filling with gas on another continent.
The Flat Irons--majestic stone slabs lounging against Boulder's nearby foothills--
were cursed by ancient observers.
One peek at their precarious slopes compels you to return.
Been back three times and I’m still not sure I believe it.

Southwestern deserts’ blaze,
haze, and halo—spotlights hot,
focused on towering sandstone totems.
Deep gashes of flowering canyon, adrift in the flat and barren,
rage water, mud, and death during summer storms.
Scrub and sand, dust and desolation, land unfit for demons.
Get thee behind me, Arizona.

Endless, straight, lonely two-lanes
carve the lunar landscape of west Texas
into parcels of wasteland, miles marked by
bleached carcasses of ranch animals
and their predators, some hung
on fences as a warning
that people really do
live there.

Cities have their place,
                    their places,
                    their placement--
but my heart can’t pound to the beat of traffic
like it does to waterfall spray.

Turn your back to the fire in sufficient twilight and a mountain range sharpens into a line—
coyotes prowling, howling on the perimeter.
To spy on a wild animal lost in thought.
The sight--and sound--as swans alight or leave a hidden pond.
Northern lights and swamp gas,
everywhere the stench
of Earth.

This
is what matters—
all around us—
this alone.

Not politics,
not religion,
not countries.

Just this—
stage.
This is about the fifteenth iteration of this piece.  It keeps shifting from prose to poem and back again--or worse.  I lost control of it long ago.  Please help me rein this ***** in.  Workshop?
Lucy Tonic  Jul 2012
Mermaids
Lucy Tonic Jul 2012
Ate the slivered pancake
Drank the plastic wine
What did I expect
No one gives their body that freely
The horses have serpentine tails
While Neptune drinks his lemonade
And all the mermaids are being washed ashore
Pluto floats on like a speckled egg
And she has Solomon’s house on her head
While all the birds read our minds amidst sunbeam glass
Mercury still gets a tan
While Venus dances in her shell
Here we debate about heaven and hell
Jupiter weeps but we don’t know why
Saturn is a spaceship of time
And Mars used to be blue
While Uranus hides its bottom half
Ate the slivered pancake
Drank the plastic wine
What did I expect
No one gives their body that freely
Tom McCone Jul 2014
...and i woke up, and
my motion persists, my
trailing light- split to trail-
lines, to curl out and line
up with your perfect
skin. imperfect smile, love,
it is invisible to all eyes:
shaking and glistening, i'd
give it all, for one simple quivering
moment spent with you. just
one photograph with palms
aligned. eyes alight. alas, for all
this is but nothing. all a ploy, you're
finding affection in patterns in
static, monumental, clawing eagerly
through the dark; here, it's high
noon. and i'm stone sober, and
missing you like malfunctioning
lungs. i haul breath to roll your
syllables over my tastebuds, again
more broken
glass down the back of my
skull just to steal a thought away
from inscrutable you. oh, honey,
the things i'd do...

— The End —