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thegirlwhowrites Jan 2015
I, a woman of letters, have been waiting for you, a man of numbers. I’ve been fantasizing of the day when you would deliver at the porch of my heart your algebraic equation. The x’s and y’s merged systematically with all the symbols, forming an indelibly inked pattern that would finally make sense. I have been waiting and hoping and praying, but all I’ve got so far are your invalid equations, the confusion, the uncertainties, the unsolvable mathematical sentence that I want so desperately unscrambled. How can you not, in your genius, find the right equation, even as I now try to draft a coherent verse?

for j.e.
*013115
Third Eye Candy Sep 2012
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
              as if emeralds,   had sent tendrils up
              to suckle at the yellow breast, now,   high above     inflamed....
              over soft new
              grass  
            
              like
              strands of green gemstone,
              as delicate as humming-bird tongues
              teasing nectar
              from a titan,
              in the sky
                        
              triumphant in the void,

              a golden bead in the baffling blue !

              cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
                          of a myriad fertilities.
              as if
                        nature itself had known, one day
                       a poet would come ~
              to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
                     in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
              a path afflux
                that ambled near

              and yes !

              an
                        anonymous nomad
              with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
              would indeed
              stumble in      as if returning home
              to a mansion restored to glory
              and seraphic randomness....
              a place
              that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
              by gospels of granite and grain,  grass finch
              and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
              enticed a scholar  from his cot
              to jot ephemera
              of outlasting spark
              before dark-fall

        
              and so... there

              amid all allurement   and soft machines

              a word-smith gathered
              poesy and prose.
            
              muse-driven
              this one served
              an invisible
              sovereign
            
              one  

              of unsurpassed virility
              who charms       kaleidoscopes
              with  offhand sketches    
              rescued
              from
              a landfill
            
              a basket weaver,  
              that unravels to
              achieve pure
              forms
            
              a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
              as ampules of anagrams
              were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
              without hope
            
              a falcon   frolicked above the lowborn lilies...  
            
              with eyes  
              too keen
              to see a
              blur
              as the hand
              of god
            
              or a vole
            
              as a lifeline
              on his
              palm.
some aesthetic modifications and heartfelt snipping. like a bonsai. i like it better.
Third Eye Candy Sep 2011
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
              as if emeralds,   had sent tendrils up
              to suckle at the yellow breast, now,   high above     inflamed....
              over soft new
              grass  
            
              like
              strands of green gemstone,
              as delicate as humming-bird tongues
              teasing nectar
              from a titan,
              in the sky
                        
              triumphant in the void,

              a golden bead in the baffling blue !

              cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
                          of a myriad fertilities.
              as if
                        nature itself had known, one day
                       a poet would come ~
              to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
                     in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
              a path afflux
                that ambled near

              and yes !

              an
                        anonymous nomad
              with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
              would indeed
              stumble in      as if returning home
              to a mansion restored to glory
              and seraphic randomness....
              a place
              that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
              by gospels of granite and grain,  grass finch
              and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
              enticed a scholar  from his cot
              to jot ephemera
              of outlasting spark
              before darkfall

        
              and so... there

              amid all allurement   and soft machines

              a word-smith gathered
              poesy and prose.
            
              muse-driven
              this one served
              an invisible
              sovereign
            
              one  

              of unsurpassed virility
              who charms       kaleidoscopes
              with  offhand sketches    
              rescued
              from
              a landfill
            
              a basket weaver,  
              that unravels to
              achieve pure
              forms
            
              a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
              as ampules of anagrams
              were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
              without hope
            
              a falcon   frolicked above the lowborn lilies...  
            
              with eyes  
              too keen
              to see a
              blur
              as the hand
              of god
            
              or a vole
            
              as a lifeline
              on his
              palm.
Vale Luna  May 2017
Unscrambled
Vale Luna May 2017
I spoke the words
That were better left
Unspoken
Prying my heart open
Until it cracked in two
Leave me broken
Despondent
Dejected
Cuz of what I said to you

Words rippled through my blood
Phases fill my lungs
Sinking deeper
In this nightmare
I try to bite my tongue

I begged you to stop me
Stop my words
Stop my mouth
A heart pounding restlessly
Won't let the sound come out

I couldn't miss it
You insisted
Despite my warning
Not a token
Once I speak
There's no possible way
For me to make it unspoken

Unscramble the words
My stuttering absurd
You found out what was true
Words too messy to explain
Unscramble
“I”,
                       “love”,
                                        “with”,
     “fell in”,
                   And                                 “you”.
Based on the day I told her I was in love with her.
david badgerow Dec 2014
indigo dusk spreads across
inexhaustible country sky
torn wet clouds stretched blue at twilight
a big-chested wind comes howling off the lake
dissecting our immortal kiss
as the pink sun meets her planet-doom
leaking on my balcony like a falling curtain
blessed with an affinity for moonlight
lingering drinking pale wine
we took baths in lukewarm vanity

she is a long legged sorceress smoking a cigarette
half awake because i've got the covers again
goose bumps crowd onto her little bare *******
dewy legs sliding among mine
rousing my bones and heart alert
as the bright sun dances silent
like a new carnation dragged from bed
bringing a giant unscrambled sunrise
across my section of heaven's blue sea
but is mercifully eclipsed by the cream-skinned
breast of a purified failed angel
exploring the feather-soft mountain of my body

we drank cointreau in the early morning
against the collage of saxophones
expanding among criss-crossing body odors
and thin magic on my lipsticked neck
i'm gaining strength over my neuroses
all my fear and doubt disappears into joy
no longer huddled in paper misfortune
reintegrated with ecstasy
in the smoky labyrinth of her eyes
as her fingers light as dreams
draw complex patterns in the flesh
of my back and buttocks
like secrets written on wet paper
none of it       was            real        before          this           moment
Third Eye Candy Apr 2016
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds,   had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now,   high above     inflamed...
over soft new grass  
      
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
                        
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near

and yes !

an anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in    as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
              that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
              by gospels of granite and grain,  grass finch
              and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
              enticed a scholar  from his cot
              to jot ephemera
              of outlasting spark
              before dark-fall

and so... there
amid all allurement   and soft machines

              a word-smith gathered
              poesy and prose.
            
              muse-driven
              this one served
              an invisible
              sovereign
            
              one  

              of unsurpassed virility
              who charms       kaleidoscopes
              with  offhand sketches    
              rescued
              from
              a landfill
            
              a basket weaver,  
              that unravels to
              achieve pure
              forms
            
              a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
              as ampules of anagrams
              were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
              without hope
            
              a falcon   frolicked above the lowborn lilies...  
            
              with eyes  
              too keen
              to see a
              blur
              as the hand
              of god
            
              or a vole
            
              as a lifeline
              on his
              palm.
Leafar Mamede Sep 2014
I just put out a cigar
I grab a pen and
start writing words and
I'm listening to a song and
I'm sitting at my desk but
I'm not here and I don't
know where I am. My mind
                               has drifted and this pen
                        gained life of some sort.
                                                                   Brilliant!
                                             Just brilliant. I feel light and
              I feel some sort of gravity in the tip of my fingers. I'm not in control but I'm in control.
                                                                  Words are spilled and
                                                                  thoughts are unscrambled
                                                                  and apparent random phrases
                                                                  are made and I make a full stop.

I read it,



I think it's a *******,
But am I right?
I just don't care and keep writing words and I'm still listening to a song and I'm lying down in a warm beach with dark waters and glass instead of sand and I see the moon, so big and so bright, as I look up and I saw only a ceiling, so big and so bright as the moon, and tears running down the walls and the beat of the song continues and the pen writes at it's own rythm, faster and faster as the song moves on and as the world moves on. Wars are made and wars are ended, revolutions are made and revolutions are ended, empires rise and empires fall, words are chosen and words are discarded, but what makes it art?
HONESTY.


If I said everything
what I think about
every second,
People would think
that I'm insane.
Ashly Kocher Oct 2017
Am I really a writer or just form some words
Do you really understand me or do I just write for the birds?
Thoughts flow through my brain all jumbled and confused
I can’t help but unscrambled them and make sense of these floating words
Bubbles form above my head
Telling stories of reality that no one else said
Sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough to be on here
Sharing my stories of love, sadness and fears
So many words form into writings of my surroundings
I love sharing all of my feelings....
          Again,
Am I really a writer or
Just Wasting My
        Time....
The brothers Carmody, Jim and John
Were hooked on the keyboard wars,
While growing up, they’d never got on
It was always, ‘Mine, not yours!’
Jim would destroy his brother’s bed
John was more subtle than that,
He’d battery acid his brother’s clothes,
Burn holes in his favourite hat.

They lived just barely a mile apart
When they both left home for good,
If one ran into the other, then
They’d part in a surly mood,
So each had opened a Facebook page
To put the other one down,
Where Jim said, ‘You can’t control your rage!’
And John said Jim was a clown.

They both got married, their wives joined in
To this internecine war,
‘I hear your Betty’s seen round the town
On a bicycle built for four!’
‘Your Jillian picked up the second prize
When she won a date with you,
The ugliest guy in the neighbourhood
And that was the third prize, too.’

Jim sprayed bleach on his brother’s lawn,
John was as sly as a fox,
One night he crept to his brother’s place
Set fire to his letterbox.
The knives were out, there were no holds barred
‘Til the night of the power blackout,
They each paused over the enter key
With a message to chill them out.

‘I’m ready to bomb your citadel,
And nobody will survive!’
‘My crew is coming to do for you,
You’ll never get out alive!’
They hit the keys as the power went out
The messages couldn’t be traced,
They’d flown unguided from each P.C.
And travelled in cyberspace.

Three hundred years they would float adrift
The Carmody boys, long dead,
With thirteen generations of theirs
Not knowing what each one said.
Their words, unscrambled in outer space
Would alight on an alien shore,
Where the native Rogons got what they wished,
An excuse for planetary war!

‘They’re coming to bomb our Citadel,’
Said the Chief of the Rogons, Vork,
‘We’d better send out our nuclear fleet,
This Earth is sparring for war!’
The fleet set out on their ten year hike
On their mission through hyperspace,
The Orkon Fleet was heading on back,
They’d been to the very same place!

‘They sent a message to us as well,
Were sending a crew to attack,
They said we wouldn’t get out alive,
We couldn’t put up with that!
We blasted Earth to a thousand bits
That are floating out by the stars,
They’ll never be threatening us again…
Come on, we’ll race you to Mars!’

David Lewis Paget
Lilly Gibbons Oct 2015
It is time to rise against the stormy seas, boulder through the constant mourners, live freely among those we walk towards, worship the lost, side by side.

Not afraid of being alone but charged with an awareness of one another. Drawn pens scribbling warfare with no battalions; military tone.

Armed only with words of hope, a language not curated, sentences unused by predecessors, voice an ammunition, poetry we are.

Letters strung in simple lines, complex phrases unscrambled. A capital for importance, bold reasons pronounced, italics in love. Sonnets heard by the masses.

Tellers of tales, worshippers of characters, lost in the narrative. As giant waves crash on the seashore side by side, together we are one.
Mahima Gupta  Nov 2014
Untitled
Mahima Gupta Nov 2014
A blank piece of paper
Unscrambled letters
Metaphors flying across the room,
Hypnotised.

A bucket of white paint
Whitewashed fences
The last knock on the door,
Crestfallen.

Thirty five cygnets
Moving in the same direction
I choke on the sea salt,
Frozen.

A thousand letters from you
Anecdotes and poetry's
Words still won't suffice,
Rusted.
hxzin  May 2022
Untitled
hxzin May 2022
i'd lap up an apology like it was saccharine nectar.
i beg for my self-worth to be untied, unscrambled,
unknotted from perceptions of
strangers and eyes, that linger
and push inward, scorching my skin.
Lo i remain,
pensive and fickle
begging to be your humble, healing servant.
Please let me help you. Please let me save you.
I'll dash my own bandages from my wounds just to set yours.
Tell me where it hurts.
I tell you to not think of me, i'm not worthy of the thought.

— The End —