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Steve Aug 2021
The days roll by one by one
No sooner here than they're gone
Propelled it seems by an invisible force
Flashing by like a riderless horse.

Never lost nor out the sun
Never here but never gone
Never washed nor spun around
Never lifted off the ground

The days roll by like clouds in the sky
Slaves to the wind as they flutter and fly
Driven past by the hand of time
Through the midnight hour when all bells chime

Never lost nor out the race
Never in nor out of place
Never alter nor stray off course
Never falter from its source.
Thank You For The Days...
Tichozpytec Apr 2021
Hear the bells of Freedom sing
Promise of normalcy the ringing brings
Joyous people dance in the streets
This Sound of Joy is what the world needs
Written after the 2020 US election results
Philip Connett Apr 2021
Angel form of angel bells
Knell to the springtime of our love
Forebear to the summer heat ensue
Requite endure of somas delight
Feracious profundity verdurous express
The unct of skin and alls impress
From angels hearth of arch and tecture
I speak to you of perfecture
For if this bodies embrace wrapped in skin
Holds a heart that's true
Then let me see form of your face
And be with our love due
In the above poem the word 'arch' is pronounced as the word 'arc' following the form of the word 'architecture' thus complementing the phonetic flow of the poem's prosody:  the intention, if there is such a thing, is for the word 'arch' to carry the word associations of that particular word whilst carrying the phonetic form of the word 'arc' and thus carrying forthwith word associations of this particular word - it's all in the architecture...
Bells ringing and jingling
Not knowing what it's bringing
Slowly descending into insanity
Stop this sound, stop the inhumanity
Ears bleeding
Keep pleading
Don't let the bells be misleading
The sound is exceeding
On your knees crying
You'd rather be dying
The sound of pain
Driving you insane
It shall remain
Implanted in your brain
Francie Lynch Nov 2020
St. Joseph's Church rang out the  Angelus this morning.
You can't beat bells,
So I've been told.
Cheap pun on a Sunday Morning Coming Down.
Maria Mitea Sep 2020
When lost in giant thoughts
and mumbling lips don’t hear
how divine prayers fall
on puppets on the walls
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When darkness bends the light
and you hide from y’own eyes
and you run from y’own voice
and force the cogit shut its door,
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When lazy sky transforms
the clouds into boomerangs
and crippled stars pretend
to be white angels of your lies,
in vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When houses are cold
and candles are not burning
and tears are pervert actors
that never listen to the silver bell,
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!
Amtul Hajra Sep 2020
When you sit swinging at every blink of my eyes.
The dark circles under sing the setting moon lullabies.
Free shadows of spring sunlight, and whispers in the corridors.
” I wish to never be alone”, says the Gardener in his mother tongue.
He pulls up hope in a tin can pouring over new buds, his whistles add sweetness to my ears.
that Mynah that sits under the banyan tree, sits on it today.
And sparrows picking at raw berries, flutter as I near them.
Wet grass pins at my feet, random flowers that mysteriously grew; falling from the paradise.
Here’s to my very own forest of life & death.
For I have failed many friends, those which never came back.
Though I waited, and I wait.
The woman in my house, with rags for clothes, dead faith that lives in the cracks of her lips.
And when she walks, her bunch of keys rattle her bottle of liquor she considers hidden. Her hands that pet rotis and light stoves, escape destiny and destroy hope.
Olive shaded walls of my home, frequently fall short of peace.
The ringing of bells from the latest exhibit, the tv making up for all those who were once before.
I raise the volume from 45 to 80,
All sorts of sacred prayers surround my very being.
I devour my pancakes and drain down coffee like religion itself.
shattered chandeliers bring me patterns of floating aspirations.
Sofa’s hold me any way I Can sit, while I forge some sleep, and fool my mind.
Rested i am not.
Empty i am.
My walls are so high, i only feel free at the top.
And sometimes think I’d like to fall.
when the waters from the shore mumble to me, “don’t fall for the charades.”
I stay put and cherish all the beauty.
At least, that’s what I think it is.
A passing wind slips from my hands, parting from every inch of my spine.
I plead, “take my heart with you.”
And so,
my heart beats in my rib cage,
But never at peace or in one place.
Erian Rose May 2020
I was born a poet
before I realized
I was sneaking behind
plastered brick walls
at recess bells
transforming the world
into words
spilling ink pens dry
I was born a poet
I embraced beauty,
enfolded magic,
encased the man on the moon,
tracing bare sentences
amidst pure wonder
until their final moments
till they cried
the truths of neverland
upon the immense star clusters
I am a poet
Poetic T Apr 2020
bells shaking free dew
hymns praise an awakening

symbol of rebirth
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