Jack Moody Jun 14

my rose-colored glasses are broken on the pavement.

while walking down the street
towards a destination I deemed necessary,
I bumped into an old man who told me he met death
his hands trembled and his mind was drifting
he was terrified
I shook off the encounter and
resituated the glasses over my eyes

then, farther down the street
my shoulder glanced that of a portly young woman
she was missing teeth and her left ear was torn
she told me that she talked to god
and he had told her it was a mistake
I apologized for the encounter and continued on my way

as I came closer to my destination,
I tripped on a chip in the cement
and a hand reached down to grasp mine
it belonged to a beautiful young woman
her face glowed and she told me
that love was a broken promise
given to us for no reason
but to smile once the teeth in our mouths had rotted
I dropped my glasses for a moment but
returned them properly over my eyes,
as the sun was glaring that day

I waved goodbye and watched her walk away
and as that was happening,
I was accosted by a young man
similar in appearance to me,
perhaps only more weathered
he told me that dreams aren’t for those awake
and that they all fade away when our eyelids open
I attempted to ask what he meant
but he disappeared into the crowd behind me

I could feel that the frame of the left eyeglass was bent,
when I walked headfirst into a drunken homeless man
he wore tattered rags over his body
and clutched at a cheap bottle of vodka in his right hand
my glasses flew off my face
and landed on the street next to us
he apologized
I asked him for a drink

we sat down against a brick wall
and watched the elderly man walk past
he appeared too preoccupied to recognize me,
continuing on his way in a fit of terror

then came the portly woman
her eyes were glazed and we made eye contact
she asked me where my glasses had gone
I told her they were in the middle of the street
she told me they were better off over there

the homeless man and I sat there together,
passing the bottle back and forth
and I waited for the young woman to return
she didn’t
she had gone in the other direction

as the bottle was almost finished,
the young man,
weathered by experience,
stopped for a moment next to us
and asked if I would like those glasses back
that he had seen me wearing, but I had now left
to the mercy of traffic
I told him that I would get them later,
but thank you
he shrugged and
continued down the street

the homeless man and I
then finished the bottle
I stood up to go
and asked him where he was headed
he told me he was going to stick around
I nodded and began walking into the street
to retrieve my rose-colored glasses

as I did that,
a car came barreling towards me
the homeless man approached from behind
and pulled me away
as the glasses were crushed under the weight
of the vehicle heading so certainly
in the direction I was planning on heading

I stood for a moment
looking at the splintered, pink glass
and sat down on the pavement
underneath the shade,
hiding from the prevailing light
of the burning white sun
as the people walked past
I no longer knew where to go.

NuBlaccSoul Jun 5

PRIDE ALWAYS LIFTS HIS GAZE
AT THE HORIZON,
NEVER SEEING IN THE GRASS
- THE VIPER.

- A QUOTE FROM GAME OF THRONES
george v May 23

soft moonlit temples
rising ~ falling ~  every breath
entreating kisses
swordsmen lay bare their prowess
her temples ~ vowed lips exalt  


gv 5.2017

Form:  Tanka  5.7.5.7.7

Her hair falls, the spring rain
Over her chest, rising
Like the hills of the world
Bright in the summer of her smiling face

She sees all the world like the clouds in the sky
Feels it with fingers like beams of the sun
Her laughter comes rolling
The wind in the trees

Her heart flows, all loving
Like salt to the oceans
I feel in the water the touch of her hands
The birds say she loves me
They sing in her voices
She hushes, with nature to watch the stars rise

I’ll tell her I love her
Through the world she’ll hear me
She sleeps now, like mountains
Our love will move on

Tamal Kundu May 6

It was the missing decade
of my life that came back,
late on one clammy night.

Wearing your visage
of a foraging girl
at the foot of a tranquil Vesuvius.

Spent though I was,
for those decades still with me,
I sat awake listening to the warmth of open windows.

The decade came for me,
in figments and memories
wheezing a few questions.

This room is known to me,
as is the night,
as is the flaying heat,

and the carved words
on the creaking charpoi
by some distant uncle.

I melded with the light squeezing through
into this dark, sulphurous room
like an exile away from my maker.

The decade came to me
and sang lullabies
of princes who never were.

I have kept my vigil
until the mirror ran dry
and returned to sand.

The decade wears me now
as I am, the hunting boy
by a shimmering Ganges.

Form: Free Verse
George Maris Mar 28

Chained to these walls
I can see only the shadows
The fire gives light to these dark silhouettes
I call them by their names
Puppets, people, or books.
They're  my company and must be real.
I perceive only what I see.
Silhouettes and shadows that are real to me.
I force myself to turn
My shackles are tight
I embrace the company of  my companions
Puppets, people, and books.
I know them by no other name.

The Allegory of The Cabe
Alex Carter Dec 2016

Friendship when school ends is like the leaves of a tree:

Spring begins, trees filled with healthy green leaves,
As does friendships within the year.

Summer is the end.
You fill the leaves with hope,
You love these leaves,
You've always intended to keep contact,
But inevitably, Time does change.

And Autumn comes,
And these leaves that previously you had so dearly loved
Start to fade away.
You didn't intend on this,
You were so eager to keep in touch,
But people change, as do leaves.
The once vibrant green you had known and loved
Transform into an ugly unfamiliar brown,
As you desperately cling to these leaves,
Hoping for them to stay this beautiful green you once knew.
Soon you are just standing around these empty trees
That were once so familiar to you,
But now around you all these dead leaves.

Then it's Winter,
And these leaves slowly fade away
Behind blankets of white,
Never to be seen again.
And you just stand there, surrounded by nothingness.
Cold and alone.

Meg B Dec 2016

I once read that
there is a wrinkle in time and
ever since I've sought to
parse out the clock's seconds and
feel every whisper of wind on
my skin and
sneak glances at sunrises through
blinds and
taste snowflakes and rainstorms and
wrinkle my nose at
good and bad smells in
Time's wrinkle and
gaze at moonlight twinkle.

Breeze-Mist Oct 2016

Give a man a room
With a bed and an endless kitchen
And a door and a window
And he will live in the room
He may go outside often
But he will always come back
And maybe
In time
He'll bring back new things
And he'll add to the room

Take away the door
And he might stay in for months
Before he can't take it anymore
And climbs out the window
Never to return

Take away
The window and then door
And the man
Failing to break through the walls
Will either
Tear up the room with graffiti and flames
Or
Resign himself to a corner for weeks

Either way, he will destroy himself
If he has not way out

So it only makes sense
To give the man
A windows and a door
And to have a little faith in him
As he meets the world

NW Oct 2016

A trailed safety line hangs,
hazardous, homely.
The spider, desperately clinging to the edge
of something beautiful lays in fearful pursuit,
for the hand that feeds us, does not hesitate to bite.

Spinning thread,
a perpetual fight for protection.
Eight legs for eight webs,
“don’t bite off more than you can chew”
but you,
you were born for this purpose.
A sac surrounded by sticky silk
that serves to save,
at least until the hunger comes, in its waves.

The desire to capture a soul,
with your words.
To entangle heart strings in webs that shine,
rather than scare
and so the spider dares
to take the plunge into the radiant night,
starving to succeed,
and blinded by the fall

Into his (cob)web.
His very own masterpiece
humbling his heart,
his art,
has caught its prey.

And so you lay,
ensnared by your terrific soul
and the strangers think you are terrifying.

Creative Writing class, week 2.
Stimulus: To write an allegory/extended metaphor.
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