Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Andrew Fort May 2022
The river is quiet
with velvety darkness.
The moon leaves her perch,
the clouds as her garment.

A trail of dreams,
lucent with meaning,
battered, not broken,
follows, careening.

He rowed through the bayou,
  Searching for the stars;
But the branches of the cypresses
  Had captured them in jars.
His little iron lantern,
  Flick’ring kernel of light,
Won’t discern though it burns
  Gold as sylvite.

You saw him there,
  A statue of wax;
You took your hammer
  And shattered the glass.
Though, like a bird,
  He’d molted his cloak,
You remembered the password—
  To which he awoke.

You did not know (for how could you?)
  That I was all alone.
But still you deigned to look at me
  And bind my broken bone.

My anxious wings had taken flight;
  The perch bore not a trace—
You taught me how to not recoil
  When human hands embrace.

You didn’t know what you had done.
You didn’t know what you had done.
You couldn’t have known what you had done.
  But thank you anyway.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Can’t you see your gold?
Can’t you see you’re gold?

The constellations still evade—
  I’ll climb the tree.
Keep ascending; no dismay
  (This I decree!)
I’ll catch a star, I swear, some way—
  On wings of chim-choo-rees.
But if I die before that day,
  Will you take one home for me?

. . . . .

There in that desert,
Hot as the stars,
I played my harp
And you the guitar

And with the smell
Of creosote
On the cool wind
You shed your coat.

Wending through the branches,
  Aloft in the sky,
Laughing and joking
  All through the night,
You found your love,
  To my great delight—
And when you pair embrace,
  I can’t help but sigh.

Let me bear that spear
  Thrown by your dad.
(“Don't worry or fear;
  The blood’s not so bad!”)
No!—could you have been saved
  Had I been there in time?—
For I’d rather brave
  That dagger in your spine!

Jonathan, my dearest friend,
  Won’t you lift your eyes?
Though you bleed and from there grieve,
  The seed of God’s inside.

I see your fear, though not so clear,
  For you take care to guard.
But you will neither raze nor pierce
  Your son where you’ve been scarred.

You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You can’t imagine how you’ve grown.
  But you have. You have.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Will you see your gold?
Will you see you’re gold?

. . . . .

The grass may wilt and flowers fade,
  But He steadfast remains.
And though carved ice resigns to melt,
  It runs into the lake.

For what are we but jars of dust?—
  Made that we may bear
The image of Him who painted us,
  Who deigns to hear our prayer.

We do not know where we will go.
We do not know where we will go.
We can’t begin to fathom where we’ll go.
  But—know it’s not in vain.

. . . . .

When moths at last consume my clothes,
  Will you remember?
Where stone-faced, dusty night arose,
  Will you remember?
When light endures its final throes,
  Will you remember?
Should I be lost within this grove,
  Will you remember?

When street-doors shut and grinding slows,
  We will remember.
Though hunters maim and shades enclose,
  We will remember.
All praise to God—the veil’s deposed;
  We can remember.
Because from death the Son arose,
  We can remember
  He will remember.

When, from my grave, the cypress grows,
  You will remember.
And when you sleep 'neath mountain snow,
  I will remember.
The epilogue eternal goes—
  “We shall remember!”
Forevermore we shall compose,
  cleansed by the ember.

      Oh, Jonathan—
      May your heart enfold
            (And should I be told?):
      Do you see your gold?
      Do you see—you’re gold?
Á Liam,
mon ami—
mon frère.
“A friend loves at all times,
and a brother is born for adversity.”
Proverbs 17:17
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2020
Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford)

“seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones
and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford

you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds,
more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over,
my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by
many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them,
and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait

this poem planned, title chosen, well before you
exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers,
(surprise!} but the content you also now provided,
@ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine
sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time

who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^
not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds
though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible,
for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed,
celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure

over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins,
yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally,
the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed,
like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne,
my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases

your phrase,
eden’s weeds,
hit my irises,
insisting it deserved,
instant cognition,
two words,
demanding special education,
accolade recognition,
perhaps if I
stick around,
for a few more poems,
I’ll learn to write
as beautiful as you.
Rocksteadylety Mar 2020
An artist with mad composition
A confused disposition
Double the list of failed repetitions
With pencil in hand, I looked at you.
I began.

And drew
pictures of what your insides might look like. Black and green, Strokes of yellow and tangerine
Like LA skies
I saw you in a dream
Now you’re right before my eyes
And I close. with pencil in hand
I began,
And drew
pictures of possible futures if you decided to hang
And drew
pictures of me with neatly ******* hands
Behind my back
With pencil in hand I drew your eyes looking at
If the divine did lead me
Double the reason
To have you in me
I had a muse I can use, with pencil in hand
I began
And drew
peaceful days with you by my side
And drew wild *** parties, ****** and chicken thighs
And drew you with me
And drew pictures of what that could mean
doesn’t matter to me
So long I see you in peace
So long I have with me
A pencil in hand, some paper
And so I began
Kaz May 2018
Roses are Red and Violets are Blue!
Why keep craving for that someone new

Is it his smile?
Well I smile too

Is it his eyes?
But I've got two

Its not me, No! its You!
You was Bae and I was Boo

my heart marched forward
While yours withdrew, subdued by the view of Andrew

Now my nightmares are alive
and my fears came true

Of how she left me
For a **** Tattoo
tylervk Dec 2017
If angels were given to govern men,
                                                            ­              neither
                         external nor internal controls
    would be necessary
                        control the Governed
                        control private interests
                                                       ­                   over
   public rights
In republican government,
                        legislative authority necessarily
                                                     ­                     predominates,
on extraordinary occasions,
it might be
                        perfidiously abused
power surrendered by the people
to the administration,
                        unjust views of the major
                        interests of the minor
turned against
                                                                ­         both parties
society itself
                        will     be     broken
many parts,
                        ­class of citizen,
                        rights of individuals
                        the     minority
will be in danger of
                                                                ­         the majority
the best security—
rights of every class,
                        will be diminished
Justice is the end of;
                                                             ­             civil society
Inspired by Tracy K. Smith's cut-up Declaration
Have you felt the pain in my city yet ?
Winds on a surge,
Houses and minds overturned,
Life's taking an unwanted turn.
You can't be surprised,
This hurricane has no soul.

These roads leading to your path of destiny
Been cracked by too much debris on main street
The president isn't gonna do too much about it,
He's too comfortable laid back in his seat.
How can america come together in a nation wide crisis
When we can't come united to solve the real everyday problem ?
These power lines and houses been falling
Flood levels in Florida and Texas are rising
Didn't this world learn about broken hearts in New Orleans ?
Keeping your life in order
As the ones that love build on pain to peace
Only if you see through the rain, life's tears, a world's need.
Have you felt the pain in my city ?

Just hoping while reading this you will atleast have a clearer view of this world and how what we do affects everybody around us and this environment. We all want peace, but we have to go through the storm to recognize it first. Inspired by the recent events
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Once upon a time we had the hymnal propped by the kitchen sink so's I could learn; years later Mum would sing along with me, and now...I like never but once in a blue moon dare to sing aloud, for missing her to tears.


What's happened to--me?  Rainy hours detail
Thet eye with silver's touch while green lawns fence
The minutes fog obscures by vague suspense
With softest carpets rolled out to avail,
And I'm not erm, my own in sheer betrayl;
Erst naked trees lost to mists' whitish sense
Of yonder, I could shiver, and do hence,
Cuz in a blink I'm his upon that scale.
One comment like my wont five days ere, poor
As what?  now he distracts aught hours 'til through
Suggestion I am giggling, sober, tour
His deepest sorrows, and maunt say he'd woo?!
Of course, I'm better searching violets, fer
All that.  Let purple wink low, saying we knew.

Hyacinths, violets are classically known along with purple as signifying sorrow, the former I've seen rendered as "hyacinth/ai/ai--" like wailing.  And I love them, to be certain, or is that to say the least?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017 early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did.


Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence
More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail
Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale
Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence
Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense
Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail,
These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale
Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence?
O me!  The blacktop sports thin puddles fer
A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to
Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk.  Were
It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who
Shall--what?  I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor
As saying is, and recall Mum:  all we knew.

Taking for granted so much, scares the fun we had over dinner and after tonight, me and my brothers...
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Hi.  waves with a happy smile


"Your Jenny."  And these blank skies thinly pale,
The baby leaves 'non shiver to winds' sense
Of sheer caprice, their soft chartreuse lit thence
As if translucent while birds wing oer, hail
With voices my heart knows from June's detail,
Like summer's breath flirts 'cross green lawns more dense
And ruffled carpets, daffodils bright hence
In deepest yellows smiling to avail.
Oh, Andrew!  Song of Songs talks of what fer
Effect seems mine, though we're but friends--yet ooh!
That's how she knows him, yes.  Warmth's waltzing tour
With singing lightly on the air and dew
What twinkles in morn's eye is ours as twere,
Whiles I want violets as I wait for you.

Problem with not liking to wait is how much of the Scriptures show that is our ultimate downfall, so far as I can see.
Next page