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Paul Butters Oct 2017
Alliteration and assonance
Are what we need to make words dance.
Pretty poetic practices percolate the page,
As apples happily meet our approval and appreciation.
Words have music
As surely as the sun
Gives light.
And all these things
Are older than the hills.

Paul Butters
First 2 lines were writen 10\10\2013, so I just carried on......
Julia Aug 2017
My knuckles look like coke and roses
The winter bit them hard; they cracked
I **** on them; they bleed their noses
I fear they are forever chapped

My knuckles look like milk and lipstick
Dressed in cream and Vaseline
I'm oiled up so says the dipstick
With pink supreme silk gasoline

My knuckles look like wine and diamonds
I deck them out most everyday
They never mind the crime and violence
I keep them moist with Tanqueray

My knuckles look like snow and crowbar
They finally just had enough
I tried to run; I didn't go far
My knuckles, unlike me, are rough
I got into a fight with the curb on which I cry.
Cate Jan 2017
Whispering eternally into the void
Hoping internally
It can turn the black
churning bile of thoughts
into incandescent showers,
specific epiphany.

Lately, I've been laden
with the epitome of anomaly.
Loner labotomy,
living in self devised autonomy
A private economy of thoughts,
exchanging deranged for sane

Only to flip back again
Turn around, full swing
Indignant incantations ring,
Echoing down the corridors

This skeletal paradigm
Of rusted pipes
I've unwittingly installed
above once placid pools,
A wellspring for many muses.

Caught in a rift of dimension
Words begin to leak
Without direct intention
And with little attention for the details
My thoughts quickly become words
That derail more than just a conversation.
My hesitation to engage
Is a fair wage for holding my silence
But the precarious musings of my mind
Must tumble out to spite me.

I tried cutting out my tongue to save face
But a poet who can't speak is a disgrace.

Jim Marchel Sep 2016
You are the moon that is moored in the sky
And the moonshine that shimmers against Atlantis' cloak
So vivid, yet so pale
And I begin to wonder if you're alright
Up there, all alone atop the world.

Is it better to be carefully propped on a celestial pedestal for all men to indulge,
Or to be chaotically plunged
Into a sea of solitude and peace?

You are much wiser and older, my dear;
Is it true that
Beauty lies
In the eye
Of the beholder?
I have been told that beauty cannot be trusted...but I've yet to even find it in this world.
Cate Sep 2016
Strawberry sun
hot on swaying hips

a shimmer of skin,
sultry beacon of temptation.

Days smear in sweat
and grass stains.

Twilight carries dusty toes
a few steps further.

Legs dangling, lonely
top of rusted tower,

Moon whispering
“come and kiss me”.

Languid laughter lilts
lining ancient constellations

Space(s) [is] filled
By our separation.

Cicadas croon,
Biding elusive slumber,

dawn’s yellow tendrils grasp eyelashes,
rays morph into rivers of light.

Time, the illusion of a tether;
A notion of perpetual motion

Adrift an absent-minded sea,
Hazy, evasive sleep

Our ropes will fray
in wisps and waves of heat.

fun piece I wrote for a competition
Paul Butters Aug 2016
Assonance was ensconced in my bonce once.
It puts me in the mood for a muse.
Love those cool peaceful pools under a Moon in June.
Or to croon about dunes and oasis blooms.
Such a lovely tune,
It’ll make you swoon.

Enjoy my runes,
No matter how crude.
I can be a goon
Or even a loon.
Sometimes a fool.
Poems strewn with clichés
For want of a better phrase.

Words hewn before noon,
To give you a boon.

Bad days may loom,
Injustices done.
Cruelty that’s is fuel for a duel and may ruin a life.
We may be doomed.

But I must stay upbeat,
Give you a treat
And make you fall at my feet.
Quite a feat!

Every dog has his day,
Another cliché you’ll say.
But I don’t get any pay,
So soon be on my way.

Love to play with words,
Writing songs for the birds.
These words are a tool
For making me cool.

We’re back to those pools:
They are shimmering jewels.

Paul Butters
Playing with words....
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
Salty tears
Slither like snakes in summer
Meandering moments of madness mused

Ratchet heart and rabid tongue retorts
Flimflam fluke fisticuffs fought

A mirrored mirage manically manifest
A parade of psychosis fevered pitch

Easy the embryo erased eternal
Gods grace given gone

Sanguine souls stand sequestered
A pitiful penitent they plead

A song of Solomon heralds
Cherubs on chariots
Carrying chalices crafted of gold

Seeks repentance refrained from sin

All souls suffer life myriad interpretations
And all
Must answer
Scarlet Niamh Jan 2016
In the midst of my wakening,
what is this quintessence of ash
that haunts my soul?

What is sanity,
which quivers not need before your eyes,
whether you do not exist in reality,
only fiction in my assonance.

What wonder is the reasoning of man,
how simple in splendour. The clarity
of wakefulness which I perceive to be
sanity is only the same clarity with
which I dream or breathe, only the same
clarity which madmen believe to be reality.

If deception and error are my clarity
then nothing is my reality, for all lie
to protect themselves from the nightmare of old,
His power not enough to protect your mind
from the evil inside of your bones, the fire inside
of your soul. Which likens to the hellfire I find
in the dampening nights of relentless cries;
the corruption of your mind is clarity - a
clarity in your twisted reality.
~~ Insanity is the wonder of my reality. ~~
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