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Tori Schall Aug 21
Zebras have their stripes
And lions have their pride,
Bears have their strength but
Cattle wait to die.
Doesn’t anyone see it?
Every slaughter, every ****,
For in that we are united.
Going round and round,
Hardly moving
In a world of mindless entertainment.
Jerking the wheel just to make that turn,
Killing fear with thrill.
Lonely days filled with strangers
Moaning in the night,
Nothing underneath the covers,
Only leaving by daylight.
Perhaps it was warranted, but
Questions go unanswered.
Revolting sights and
Sickening sounds,
Turn your stomach upside down.
Underneath it all, the
Vanity only leads to insanity.
When humans breed infection,
X-rays “cure” the problem.
Yet the cattle breed and die.
abecedarian Sep 2017
he said/begged,
make love to me just like a woman!

kiss me toe to head, linger on my neck,
trace my waist, begin at my lips, pause at my hips,
quibbles intersperse, quips and licks on eyelids,
nibble me, near me, close and closer yet
unto the glorious victorious near death experience...

whisper me sweet everythings
before during after and over again,
when you must pause to exhale, blow all their warmth
upon thy fingers and bring that warmth inside

me with tongue and eyes,
take me slow then again,
even slower, for thy pleasure,
than execute summary judgement upon me

falsely accept, then deny, deny, deny
my every appeal to
oh my god
for anyone's mercy!

adjudge me then guilty yet again,
and to the tower take me
to drown in mine own lashing lamentations,
thy incontrovertible evidence,
mine own uncensored revelations
execute me twice,
slowly, goodly with lengthy and lovely measures

she said,  and so I shall, eventually,
do what you beseech, what you most excellently seek

but you may recall, somewhat earlier, I called out
so you must start my dear by following
all the precise driving instructions you just stated,
and bring your GPS^, and, oh yes,
I'm waiting...

too wit and sod this!
he gruffingly huffingly, hurrumphingly, replied,
all hell and damnation,
treat me like a woman just once pity-please!"

can't can't can't -
she be-witchingly cackled!

then sang to me the lyrical words of a
Nobel Prize winner!

You fake just like a woman
Yes you do, you make love like a woman
Yes you do, and then you ache just like a woman
But you break just like a little boy
^GPS is a permanently attached male guidance system.
The P does nots stand for Positioning.
ISIS Juggernaut


Logan Robertson

Xenophobe-a person having a dislike of or prejudice against people from other countries

Zygodactylous- In birds, applied to feet in which two toes point forwards, and two to the rear. How this concept applies to the poem is that ISIS can strike from every direction, swoop down at any time, with eyes and a network lurking from every tree branch so to speak. Sad.

Sad was this last Easter Sunday in Sri Lanka, 253 innocent victims, as mankind watches in horror. These birds of a feather flock together, and their flock is getting bigger, and I wish that it would fall and end.
Madhumita Apr 19
All the times you felt invisible
because you thought nobody
cared about you.  

Do you wonder if you have
ever made someone in your life
feel the same way?

Gave up asking
how they were doing,
if they were really okay,
just because you always got the same answer.  

Kept silent in the face of silence.
Let them push you away.
Made little effort to
nudge the truth
out of their reticence.

Pain can make you
quite blind;
rather oblivious to the
same feelings in others.

Tunnel vision of the soul.
NaPoWriMo Day 19
Poetry form: Abecedarian
Sketcher Nov 2018
Many different perceptions in this poem.
Tyler Smiley Sep 2018
Air flowing through my lungs after forcing myself to run five miles.
Bottles of champagne.
Coffee shops owned by locals.
Eating disorder.
Food freedom, praying;
God, make me whole again.
Hellos, from the boy who holds my heart.
Intimacy without ever having to undress.
Jelly, smeared on homemade
kneaded dough made by my grandmother.
Laundry that I will never do, but my
mom always will.
Nights when the fireflies are abundant.
Ocean swims just as the sun is breaking.
Pinky promises.
Quietness of Sunday mornings.
Singing my favorite songs with the windows down.
Thin. Too thin.
Umbrellas not doing their job of keeping me dry.
Vanilla ice cream dripping onto my thighs
while the sun burns my back. I was too afraid to eat it, so I just watched it melt.
XI at night. I hate the darkness,
yearn for the morning sun instead.
Zoloft in tiny bottles.
Jessica Cross Jun 2018
August raised us up, buoyed like kites,
Backlit against the cloudless sky;
Children, though we’d deny that we were,
Delighted in the freedom summer still afforded.
Every dandelion seedling was a wish
For one more sun-filled hour, one more blessed day.

Grass-stained shorts, laying bare-backed in the dirt,
Hair tangled, half-naked on the ground,
I ran my hands over your sun-warmed skin
(Just kissing, just kissing)
Kindred spirits, hoping only for this to last.

Last summer, I thought I was in love,
My heart so full, it felt like I was dying;
Now, your lips against my throat,
Open mouthed and breathless -
Please, please let this time be real.

Queen of hearts, you called me once, when
Regret was still a spectre we’d yet to meet.
Violet skies heralded us like royalty,
Windows lit like low-hanging stars on the horizon.

Xanadu was far from our minds, but we’d never been closer.

Youth yearning even for what it holds; our fingers like the teeth of
Zippers, unwilling to be wrenched apart.
Kevin J Taylor Jun 2017
A poet's breast within me beats
Beats heart and something I call soul that leaps
Charges, races, racing, finds its feet
Drags me, joyful, joy-filled, from my seat!

Elevating common prose
For pleasures sake, each poet knows,
Gains by use of tools as those
He would at length I’m sure disclose

If payment were perhaps an ear
Just for a moment lent to hear
Keenly offered verse— or beer,
Loved by poets too, I fear.

Most often those who are unwise
Negate the poet’s enterprise
Out of their need to criticize
(Perhaps within their misery lies)

Quite certain they must find a fault
Regardless of the somersaults
Some poets do to try and halt
Those who, in the name of help, assault.

Unless you’ve written words as these—  
Verses made and meant to please
With just a little work to tease
Xenia* coaxed from a’s and z’s

Your day lacks all that razzmatazz—as
Zest for verse—and all that jazz.

*Xenia—gifts given to a guest or stranger.
This is an Abecedarian. First letter of each line follows the alphabet. Fun to do.

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.)
Paul Hansford May 2016
Here are some subjects of which I have written
in blank verse, or free, or in rhyme.
I've tabulated twenty-six or so,
but might think of more, given time.

Arts and music show our humanity,
but Birds and Beasts also have passions.
Celebrations of joy, or Death and grief,
Events of all kinds inspire Emotions.

F tells of Friends and Family;
G and H, Garden and Home;
and I is Inspiration,
sometimes slow to come.

Jokes and humour entertain us,
or may have the power to move;
and K could be the Key to all secrets
of Language, Life and Love.

Metamorphosis and Magic can change our lives,
and the Natural world can surprise.
Objects of all kinds may inspire,
and Places we visit can open our eyes.

Quirky poems may be Quaint,
though Religion is generally serious.
Scenery and landscape surround us,
but Time is deeply mysterious.

Unfortunately my index doesn't include
any subjects beginning with U;
but I do have Verse-forms of various kinds,
Villanelle, sonnet, décima, haiku ...

Weather and seasons influence us,
and pastiches (by X) may be fun.
Youth and age come to us all in time,
and Z shows a poem's a fantasy one.

As you see, I've forced into an alphabet
some subjects I've treated in verse,
and if this is not one of my best poems,
at least I can console myself by thinking that if I had maybe written it differently
        it could have been an awful lot worse.
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
an edge, the Double facet
becomes a gEometry--
but each petAl ends in
    But if it enDs
but love is at an End--of roses
              cementiNg the grooved
                       colD, precise, touching
               columnS of air--The edge
Crisp, worked to deFeat
     cuts without cuttIng
                            edGe and the
                           figUred in majolica--
        from it--neitheR hanging
    From the petal's Edge a line starts
    glazed with A rose
                              infiniteLy fine, infinitely
                                      It Is at the edge of the
itself in metal or porcelaiN--
    makes copper roses
           nor pushing--
         penetrates space
                       petal that love waits
             plucked, moist, half-raised
              rigid penetrates
      Sharper, neater, more cutting
so that to engage roses
  Somewhere the sense
               steel roses--
            that being of steel
          the broken plate
The fragility of the flower
           the Milky Way
The place between the petal’s
        The rose carried weight of love
       The rose is obsolete
        the start is begun
whither? It ends—
without contact--lifting
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