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Mike A Eyslee Feb 20
Every morning a beaming carmine penetrates my brain
unbeknownst to their perilous call
a smiling bird and a white heal all.

Violates me at my eyes
from green chasing lies
from wicked placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the stalker of stalkers that haunt my pre dream routine.

Every evening a lustrous crimson punctures my lungs
unbeknownst to their unsafe swath
a quiet bird and a paper moth.

Vexes me at my eyes
from yellow following lies
from haughty placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the lurker of lurkers that submerge my pre dream routine.

Every night a hazy velvet pierces my heart
unbeknownst to their loving provider
a dead bird and a snow drop spider.

Visits me at my eyes
from red moving lies
from stoic placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
the finest sliver of silence you can imagine.
inspired by "All in green went my love riding" by e e cummings for the structure and "Design" by Robert Frost as evident by the allusions.
Mike A Eyslee Jan 31
Since feeling is first, and syntax is lies,
To enscribe you, my darling little jay,
I would have to ask, "Is there any way?"
Not of mimsy guise and anything-dyes,

But of nоnce-nonsense and everything-sighs,
Keep these thoughts pastiche on a wayward bay,
And perhaps leave them, removed on display,
Entirely altogether?

You are this fool's  ". . ."
". . ." as  '. . .' but  ". . ."
Lea ve me ". . ." on, a . . .

A skip!         for,
". . .   &      . . ."    "can"t; f o r get
(love ". . .") and you,
". . ."
inspired by some cummings (as evident by the spacing and the obvious allusion to his work, "since feeling is first"). also, "Jabberwocky" for the nоnce word. sonnets are annoying to write.
Fallert May 2018
While crying in the moonlight,
The tears of icy cold.
Snow fallen lies surround me,
Trading rice for dirtied gold.

They know I have a weakness,
Achilles’ tendons found.
Fighting in my own Antietam,
Ignore the bloodied ground.

As one things ends another comes,
Start as I end another shift.
Feel so small in your surroundings,
Mammoths in the continental drift.

Buried in the secrets,
Not everybody knows.
Climbing Mount Everest in the winter,
Snow shoots back just as it goes.

Grasping hands I always miss,
Warming fingers turning blue.
True, I could not help me,
But I won’t make the same mistake with you.
Dana Skorvankova Nov 2017
Each night is good for reliving
the inside wrath over again
just as each day is good for
dying without pain

I'd look for it at all the same old places
but again, I've got stars in my sight.
FIRST words always come so fast and easy, but they're the last ones that make all the difference.
serpentinium May 2016
why was rome
built on bones?
hundreds of dead
caught by arrows or
blind cuts of steel
crowd the rivers,
the roads, the very
air and it is so so hard
to breathe–
every corner is a reminder
of public executions, outdoor
gallows, diving into shallow seas,
exsanguination in the roads till
red rivulets made new paths in
tempered cobblestone;
caesar was not the first man to
bring about pax *** bellum
to train armies to battle their own
hearts and find nothing there at all–
caesar falls,
rei republica falls,
rome falls
.
.
the dead do not become lazarus
i listened to an audiobook detailing julius caesar's life
serpentinium May 2016
it is often in the face
of adversity that people
flourish, pushing past
cement and brick to bloom

or so you are told–
the lion you find is not
filled with honey,
and only sand scrapes your tongue

its ribs do not yield at your touch,
they do not fall apart
in ivory waves as you
crawl into its thoracic cavity

no, it is but a decaying relic of god;
a carcass left in the dirt
and you can’t help but wonder
how such a thing ever roared

you are no samson, but you
let your hair grow out anyway
and hope to coax strength
from the maw of the forgotten beast
On a foggy dark London day
Strode Mr Prufrock, Alfred J.
He made many an allusion
About ****** confusion
Now he’s dead like Phlebas…ok?
Similar to Wendy Cope's Waste Land limericks.
Keats may’ve died of consumption
And Dante in his personal hell
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Or so I’ve heard them tell

Shakespeare’s mortal coil had shuffled
And Byron could a-rove no more
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Of that much they are sure

All of Auden’s clocks had stopped
Dickinson felt death in her brain
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Though it’s heavy as a ball and chain

Blake had entered Jerusalem
For Carroll, Wonderland beckoned
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Yet I wish I could any second

Miss Rossetti’s winter was bleak
Thomas raged into that good night
But no one ever died of a broken heart
At least not without a good fight
I've left it quite vague but I intended the final line to read as a triumph over pain rather than a surrender to it.

— The End —