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Snehith Kumbla Dec 2017
The island writes
To the shore,
Don't build a bridge...
I want to be a stranger
To the world's end.
From my poem series "letters"
anon Nov 2017
this poem
has a title
so that all who read it
that this poem has a meaning

because without something to reference
a name
or a title
things are left behind

just like me
in all the years
i tried to remain



untitled people
like me
are given no
second glances
first chances
social advances


left behind
like a poem
a name
Emma Brigham Oct 2017
Small and quiet, fluorescent,
the room holds anonymous faces.
People waiting for flu medicine,
hopes and fears and minor concerns about rashes
that we thought would go away.
Frequent urination
a tremor in your left hand.
A business man closes his eyes and kneads his brow.
He sits tensely in a blue upholstered chair
and smiles at me when he catches me looking.
Ruffling pages in magazines
like a moth's wings.
No mayo, rye bread, a nurse says.
Tapping her lavender acrylics
to music just low enough not to recognize.
Mind on shuffle, dreams achieved and
failed dreams of medical school,
little ones tripping and laughing out of double doors,
lining up to be whisked away in Suburbans or Geos,
carrot sticks uneaten at the bottom of a backpack.
A doctor sets a clipboard in front of her
and words are hastily typed into a computer.
And I wait for her to call my name.
Don’t leave your home.
Don’t cross thresholds and borders.
The boats are bottomless.
Even if the sea does not swallow you
and you find dry land,
your heart will be broken.

You thought the softness
of your flesh would protect you.
You’ll be lost in the crowd of foreigners.
You’ll be no one, a number
in their eyes, cool with mistrust.
Your high cheekbones won’t remind
anyone of your grandmother’s
and your name stripped of its meaning,
pebbles on the tongues of strangers.

You’ll lose your ground.
Grammar of the new language will riddle
your bones, hipbones and spine
won’t align to sit on earth.
You’ll long for the scent of jasmine and bread.
You’ll miss the gold fish in the garden.
You’ll forget the names of trees and flowers.
You’ll lose the key to your house.

There is no refuge, no sanctuary.
The boats are bottomless, vessels
to extermination center of the sea.
Stay where you are,
where you know the color of the hills
in winter, spring, summer and fall.
Esther Kamkar lives in northern California. Of her poetry, she writes: “What was is over with and what is, the poems tell us.” See more at
Journey of Days Mar 2017
this analogous dance step we have happening
looks beautiful from above
we dip, parry, swirl and turn
creating marbled patterns across the battered and weathered landscape of other people’s lives

a progression for two voices
written together, but, we'll never meet
the same tonic
do you sing your part or play
I play, the other to create the chord,
a harmony, not seeing the instruments each other plays

we could be friends you know
share our story, the ones that looks so alike
at best we simply yell across the divide
warning each other about the things that are thrown at us from the sides
events and types that divert our paths and cause us to dance our river, cutting through the dirt

the bomb that went off in my life is coming to you next
you can see it from where you stand
helpless to stop it, unable to run ahead, we know it is going to hit….now
I feel your pain, understand, riding the the shockwaves tumbling through the aftermath
just like you did for me last week.

lives in parallel
destined never to meet
observing each across a plane
knowing the path each other treads
destined never to meet

online you meet people you will never meet

share stories so painfully similar that you know you dance the same dance

if you lived next door, you would be friends

perhaps even laugh a bit more and find a new path across happier landscapes
Äŧül Jan 2017
Lost in the vast bog of stories,
It dies a slow unsung death,
May it meet its personality,
Only impersonality shrouds it now,
Under the flutter of wings,
Shall not get all it deserves,
It'll remain majorly ignored in the clutter of words,
Not because it's poorly projected, but,
E**ntirely because it's not written in my destiny.
Secondary acrostic LIMOUSINE poem.
Though my eBook novel has the best story,
It will remain unread because of my destiny.
My destiny is dictated by the planet Mars,
And it has so far marred my happiness.

If anyone is interested in my eBook novel titled 7 Seconds, they may go to its Amazon page for purchasing it.
Find it on:
And help me bear my medical costs.
My HP Poem #1379
©Atul Kaushal
courtney jean Jun 2016
Autonomous you don't wanna miss
Synonymous with anonymous
Alcoholics drinking like the glass is bottomless
Lost confidence and gained higher consciousness
Now doing opposite to avoid consequence
Pertinent providence prominence
Profits from the pompousness of old profits of our fifth
They were out prophets then
Now it's promises
Back to provenance of our populous
No predominance
More contentedness with our documents with what's cognizance
And the monument of spiritual opulence
Wheather hypothesis
Or is what it is
To remain in the violence
Or turn optimist
All your perogative
Wish you well
Wish you rocket to the fourth dimension ****
But most of all wish you to close your eyes to hear what it says
Cause that you don't wanna miss
It could be your bliss
Reminisce but remember they're remnants
Resentment you keep in your sentence
Is your penance
What you recieve is your resemblance
No regrets for pass but remembrance
Your true presence is endless
Practicing temperance
Life is tremendous
too good not to post, I don't take credit
Aaron Bee Mar 2016
I want to
scream so hard
that an aperture
swallows my whole
Me and my history,
my own body and conscious
To be totally
immersed into
complete nothing.
No one knowing or
ever knowing .
My eyes desire to roll back,
tongue flipping to be
Gaye Sep 2015
When you’re off the shore there is an empty recap,
The mind who fell from the moon
And thoughts that struck the deepest of the depths
With memories and stories and a whole lot of emotions
Streams a new location for this resonating soul.
When the rooms get smaller and the boundaries –
Make no sense, there is the field you spoke about
We can go back, sip some tea and talk endless
Till the morning breeze kisses the red spot of your sky.
We were total strangers until the first lazy scribbles
But you spoke of bamboos and the music that flowed
With similarities and glee coupled with few lines of poetry
That you made me realize, life is worth living.
I know your son, your mom, your wife, your dad
I know your little girlfriend and your dear little diary
And I know the person who is ageless and nameless,
I know my friend, you are someone unusual.
When it rains, I know you’re coming to talk about-
Ganges, journeys and cravings and feel so excited
When you get the touch, that somebody is there
Destined to share the same feeling and the exact thrill
Of every moment and cherish memories.
Let us go back to the days- you the song and I the poet
And our days that we never shared
But we will someday meet at your ranch
Talk endless without the distress of judgement
And walk a little longer and paint red, red and white,
You can drive me home and I can drive you to endless letters.
Meteo Aug 2015
While riding the bus today
I saw a man sitting in front of me,
as subtly as possible, attempt to pinch a mosquito
off the top of the head of the woman sitting next to him.

Without drawing any attention to himself,
as this woman was staring out the window,
he was insistent in his anonymity.

I looked over to the girl sitting next to me and smiled.
Though she had noticed this interaction before us, she didn't look back to me but instead smiled to herself.
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