Shanath

Jul 2018

Pagan Paul

.
Far and away,
above and beyond,
a lonely girl sings to herself in the dark.

Far and away,
above and beyond,
she is answered only by a black dogs bark.

© Pagan Paul (20/07/18)

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#poetry #loneliness #isolation #far #away #blackdog #depression

Jul 2018

Logun Alexander Johnson

Problems

Like problems, When hammering nails,
You either hit the nail on the head,
Or your thumb.

This poem is to show how my last two poems, I "hit my thumb" and they didn't do as good as I was hoping. As always, don't forget to tell me what you think in the comments below.

#secret #character #time #remembered

Jul 2018

Fullfreddo

Fifth Poem: Why I Shave My Head

~

in sympathy, in honor, in horror
with those whose heads are shaved
against their free will

and to uncover
my nakedness before you,
as prisoner, as victim, as poet,
nothing must come between us
even this:

and yet,
the prickly stubble head resprouts
soon enough,
spring floral efforts
an annual reminder,
that even undisguised and exposed,
my bald palate plate,
is just another nether hiding place

~

May 2015

#why #i #shave #my #head #fullfreddo

Jul 2018

Pagan Paul

Wordsmith Blues

.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.

© Pagan Paul (2017/18)

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#poetry #poet #wordsmith #blue #wistful #reminiscence

Jul 2018

Graff1980

Untitled

Summertime
drive to work,
car running,
hot engine gunning,
I keep moving
making sweat
roll down my neck.

All this heat
seems to sharpen
my senses,
intensifying
once dormant
emotions,
that make me cry.

Cinnamon and raison
memories resurface,
tasty pastry affections
from my grandmother
who made such delightful
treats,
and tucked them away
in her Tupperware tray.

A blue and white
small plastic pool
we used to stay cool
punctured by twigs
draining into
cracks of
the sidewalk
that worked its way
from our back door
to small the side streets
in the public housing.

Baby brother
on the back of my bike
as we ride
to the library,
baby brother and me
going to the movies.
Time keeps moving
at an uncomfortable
accelerated pace.
Moments are replaced
then changed
or erased by times
cruel intent.

The loss of pets,
the loss of grandpa,
the loss of grandma,
the loss of my presumed
innocence
is scorching.

Until, the season’s
rambunctiousness
slowly softens
to more bearable temperatures.