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Brian Yule Dec 2020
Each purposed smear narrates
The poised faked fire of tears recent abated
Daubed pigments interlacing to store traces
Of gut-deep betrayals worn on lying skin
The never-before retraced in stain & tint
The sour taste of imagined sins
Rose-tainted views feign caught hate
M Solav Dec 2019
Incapable d'agir. De quoi parlent-ils tous?
Est-ce encore un livre, la perte de ses pages?
Où que l'on creuse, là n'est pas la source;
Déduira-t-on ainsi qu'elle est introuvable?

Écoutant les murmures au travers du ciment
Encore qui mugissent des propos absurdes;
Puis d'une jointure, l’on cognera dedans:
« Encore et toujours vide, l'écho ridicule. »

Criant au secours, qu'on leur vienne en aide;
Celui de tout perdre, connait-on le sacrifice?
C'est donnant ainsi tout qu'enfin l'on nous cède
Le vrai pour et contre l'artifice.

Incapable d'agir. Que racontent-ils donc?
Lorsqu'ouvrir la bouche est un pas de trop,
À la course ils se ruent vers les fronts:
« Cette inertie qui maintient en sursaut. »

En ouverture vers le vide, voici le message
Des parois décousues d'un fort abyssal:
« Écouter le silence, le silence qui n'entend rien. »
Écrit en janvier 2016.

— Droits d'auteur © M. Solav —
Cette oeuvre ne peut être utilisée ni en partie ni dans son intégrité sans l'accord préalable de l'auteur. Veuillez s'il vous plaît contacter pour toute requête d'usage. Merci beaucoup.
Ash Aug 2019
My fingers tap against the keyboard. The stars linger above my cross-legged, country trance spilling across the indigo campfire sky. Jasmine ransacks my senses dazing my context of the red, wooden bridge, and my head tilts upward both in flowering pleasure and earnest reverence. The stars become you. We bathe in naked sunlight. The heavens fall to earth, and I capture its ecstasy  in bodiless waking moments.
Derrick Jones Dec 2018
No one can bear
With poise and grace
The truth laid bare
Before their face

So stories reign
In highest court
Defying reason
And wise retort

Myths filter light
So eyes can see
The truth too bright
For you and me

Slanted truth is better
Than blindness, after all
But when falsity’s untethered
Soon cometh the fall
For more poetry and essays, follow my blog on Medium at
Thanks for reading!
Piper Diggory May 2018
Mr Smith had never thought about

The fake flowers on the drawers.
That beauty which makes death feel ignored,
But looks unripe in any vase
And isn’t right for wedding cars -

Their petals never sought to solve
His seven word soliloquy.
There’s no rose bed on recovery
When after all, she loves him not.

He knows it from their scrutiny,
That untimely unchapped litany
That blush of plush longevity
Adored; while he withers.

Mr Smith’s preferred were pansies,
For ‘their faces crumpled under sunlight’,
He’d shuffle stems like decks; green necks
To warm and sweeten death.

The pansies were his calendar -
Life measured against death
Kept his watches ticking;
The thirsty amber skins were pages comprised

Of how he hated plastic petals
With a pale and putrid pith,
Their purpleness was slothful
And their pulchritude a myth

Of mocking murmurs mumbling
Memories -
As insipid as the very falseness
Binding up their limbs -
Of the August day in ‘54
When the fake flowers on the drawers
Were white against her whiter brow -
As perfect then, as they are now.
one I wrote thanks to the advice of a very dear friend and a knock-out lyricist
jayant om Feb 2018
She and I were strangers before.
We had the same pains of deception from the close ones.
we artifice the close ones too,  
one day, we met at crossroads,
don't know how and when
we become friends
one night, during our late night chats
our tormented hearts oozed out the grieves stored
tears rolled out like the rains.
we cried a lot
wept for hours in silence
now we are more CLOSER than the said lovebirds
we share the pain
not love.
Xallan Oct 2017
Lies, lies
Beautiful lies
Slide down the throat and
Tickle the eyes
Tommy Randell Dec 2016
So, sat in a field drawing on a feeling of space
Until it’s time for the hordes of tourists to force me back
To the corridors of earth and daub called house
Where cobalt is a rhyme for orange and the things on the wall
Are windows onto embarrassment
Sometimes called 'An Artist’s Work' or 'The Picture Zoo!'

So, sat in the field, though it is still Summer
And I may as well invent pictures from words
As gravity from apples, believing the boat coming through the piers
Hugging the inside line, has Indigo from the Indies
Perspectives from the latitudes - being that distance and space
Are important - As Sir Isaac Newton told us why!

So, now throwing the horizon around, in theory
And on paper testing out such geometries and rhymes
As tourists leave room for in a field beside the sea
Until suddenly the boredom of not caring for it all kicks in
And the Black Hole ******* and stretching out my brain these years
Collapses into Light leaving something picturesque, an aesthetic?

So, the triangle, the circle, and the square become fancies
Of adjectives, nouns, and verbs, at once a metaphor of what I mean
And then a simple sketch of a moment, an impression
That time is passing and the field is where a record of it is made
That a poem of words becomes an artifice of chicanery
An intaglio where the space between the words is what matters!

Tommy Randell - 10th December 2016
Are we artists or poets? Things made by men are an artifice, a deception of reality. The sentences uttered, just so. An Art-Poem then ...
TD Aug 2015
We poets through eyes--through fingers
through ink--seal fates to freshly see
innocence--in savagery, honor in artifice.

— The End —