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Knit Personality Dec 2018
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
    The flying cloud, the frosty light:
    Ring out the news tonight's the night
Santa and reindeer tiny fly.

Ring out, wild bells, for Yuletides gone;
    Ring out, wild bells, for Christmas Eve;
    I wear my Christmas on my sleeve;
Ring out, wild bells, and jingle on.

Knit Personality Dec 2018
The Christmas Spirit roams the earth,
Visiting every haunt and hearth.
And, looming where the love light gleams,
And where the kettle gently steams,
Is seen as a twinkle in an eye
Or heard as sleigh bells high upsky.
And every Scrooge receives his due,
And every saint and saviour too,
Before the errant spirit go
Return to dust and polar snow.

Sara Kellie Dec 2018
Ding **** ding.
Could you make any more?
The noise you're creating,
now my ears are sore.

You have a brass neck.
Who's pulling your strings,
and now every Sunday
a crowd turns up and sings.

So, ding **** ding.
Now, la la la
because you're a bell-end.
Yes, that's what you are!

Poetry by Kaydee.
Oh sometimes it just comes out like that.
poemsforthedead Oct 2018
i suppose i can wield my words.
i can use them to make someone fall in love
with themselves.
as i compare their laughter to a ****** of fairy bells
and the way their breath fogs up the air on a chilly winter morning.
i can use my words to make someone fall in love
with the world.
as i show them how beautiful trees are,
how blue can be seen in so many ways, by so many people.
but for some reason,
i can't use my words to make someone fall in love
with me.
i can't seem to mold them the way i want to,
to express my emotions in a way they want to hear.
i cannot explain to them how i get buffaloes and rhinoceroses
rumbling in my stomach,
every time they smile at me.  
i cannot explain why i wish i could fall through the cosmos
with them.
hand in hand,
figures tumbling,
up and down and sideways and wayside.
i wish i could show not tell how
in love i am with them.
i can wield my words
but i cannot use them to caress
the face of someone
i love.
Thank you so much to anyone who took the time to read another **** poem about love.
Nik Bland Sep 2018
I heard the bells
From where I laid
And they kept eyes wide as they loudly said
That there were things the heart forbade
I prayed they spoke not of you

I heard the bells
They rang for me
The hand I held falling with the leaves
As noctuous tones rang to the sea
And told me unwanted truths

I heard the bells
Shook them away
Howled at the night, mourned in the day
Spurting hatred to drown out what they say
What mind pushed away, but heart knew

I heard the bells
Each damning tone
That spoke and said you are not home
In the of one whose heart you own
And I was haunted by the tears that followed
Gale L Mccoy Mar 2018
im so far down
i have nothing to say
no words to be found
i hear bells
and i see the ticking clock
but i am so far down
i reach for nothing
for there is nothing there
instead i listen to the chimes
and watch the clock tick down
Martin Narrod Feb 2018
Without sinking through the spheres. Hymns betting, still hands crisp under the wings. The wind slumbering, stays in the dark spaces. Eleven invisible pages, over. Any other name- Lux Arabesque, Uuqui Haratas, Preset: 117, and the foil.

The mirrored valley’s strangest flora, sifts the decorated thriving trails. Then it can all become an infinite weave in this world where lazy whistling sand dunes beyond, claim the rights to a juried Spring. Then somehow it may recant this glorious history we’ve only barely known. The potent eyes starved by madness, waxes seas and radio fields, slimming the loops that rip into  hinges and dispel a tryst.

Toward Earth’s serene prelude, this pageantry of standard masks make ascending towers just and stately. Then come the planets we’ve always loved: Mars, Neptune, and Jupiter too. Barefoot and staggering through the modern coolness of a colossal spring, aching mental itching grows. Until the fruits have fallen into the cloven shadows. Until buried stones alit with day consecrate these omens and conceive such lucid strings to break these quiet thieves into song.

Then the diary belies this affair. The steins upset the tales where pungent fleshy working minds coalesce. Observe the horses play in their endings, upon the wild mountain rivers where felling human eyes wander amidst these cleaved and sun-drenched desert mounds.

Pt. II

In origins uplifting diets foretell the escaped  seams of darkness whose lofty tongues of nature’s prose lift the veiled hours’ wraith. Never pressing bells nor raked by shivers, it occurs swiftly should the marbled rushing master call. Above the sound of narrow whispers, comes the wishing hands to shout.
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