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Gary Brocks Aug 2018
Last night into the room she crept,
awhilst I lay in bed and slept.
My dreams there caught on sleep’s broad reef
she breached sleep’s net, the blanket thief.

Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks

My wife woke me by wrapping herself in our blanket.
I couldn't sleep, so I decided to try to capture a bit of William Blake's voice.
Perry Feb 2018
i know it’s hard to believe, love
you are so precious to me
i would give up everything for you
i’d give up my eyes
even if it meant
i’d never be able to see you
i’d give up my lips
even if it meant
they’d never touch yours
i’d give up summer days
and chocolate spread
and soft kisses
and warm baths
and sunrises
and milk and cookies
i’d give you everything
if only to make you smile
beth stclair Sep 2017
drowning, drowning under,
these voices loud as thunder,
the dragon and the tiger,
the hermit and the miser,
twist the paths of fate.

the devil was my brother,
he took me to the river
where the waters flow forever,
beside the laughing heather,
a river full of hate.

the dragon said; "i'll burn you."
the tiger said; “i’ll maul you.”
the hermit said; “i live on my own.”
the miser said; “i won’t give you a loan.”

the devil was my brother,
he threw me in the river
where the waters flow forever,
beside the laughing heather.

drowning, drowning under,
these voices loud as thunder,
i watched the laughing heather,
while the river flowed forever
and my soul was filled with hate.

  i shouted to my brother;
“devil be ******.”
“i am ******,” he replied,
“like the river of hate
  and my sister need best understand

the **** that flows forever,
beside the laughing heather.”
“but i am your sister,” i cried.
“i am the devil,” he softly replied.
Guido Orifice Dec 2016
To behold the daybreak!
-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself from Leaves of Grass

In days like this one,
when rain drops so light
& everything dips
into weeping grey
my sanity longs for memories.

My sanity longs
like impulsive recalling
of plummeting sadness
in greying day
sashaying mournful recollects
from sunrise to daybreak.

Remembering vanishes
in the joyful marrow of life.

There, forgetting lives.

Tell me the last time
bliss comforts your soul.

It is a transient tick
too stiff to evoke.

What about the last time
pain feigns your saneness.

Memories turned into bullets
slitting shrapnel
warping into my soul.

Happiness lasts for a second.
Sadness, a lifetime.

Tell me how to get rid
the hurting clout of ache
existing as a blunt fragment
benign yet reminisced.

Daybreak pours so hard
and my sanity like a waning light
crawls back in a miasmatic cave
along the river known
to be a home of a witch
& her cursing narrative
of throwing silver saucers
making her a spotless shadow
through vestal times
never again a thriving spirit.

Forget Blake. Forget Whitman.

Only in daybreak
where everything
churns into life,
my sanity shrinking back
into surreal gaps.

Here & there,
my sanity longs for memories.
Knit Personality Aug 2016
Sleep, Sleep, tender, mild,
Meaty, sweet & juicy child.
Sleep, Sleep: Sleep a sleep
Soft as is an infant sheep.

Sweet Babe, restful Lump,
Rest thy limbs & belly plump,
Jellied arms & legs & ****:
Every tender, juicy cut.

Savory, salted thou shalt be,
Season'd most deliciously.
Sleep, Sleep: Disease will both
Spoil thy meat & spoil the broth.

Scarlet McCall Jun 2016
Rich-hued scene hung on the wall
cannot compare with brilliant Fall.
The architect’s skyscraper
lasts less time than Iceland’s vapor.
The sculptor’s try at human form
is cold and still to nature’s born.
Steel and glass reflect sun’s heat
that loam absorbs and gives to wheat.
There is no waste in nature’s plan;
waste is much of what’s made by Man.

I strolled in the park the other day
and saw a sculpture made of clay.
It almost blocked the hardy elm
that has stood as the park’s helm.
The humid air and dark green leaves
are caressed by summer’s breeze.
The shifting sunlight passes through
to make a brilliant pattern new.
The soft green grass is softer than
the benches that have been made by Men.
The insects' humming choir portends
that there’s still time to make amends.
The squirrel chasing here and there
will keep the heart and mind from care.
At world's end some will find again
the Garden from which once came Men.
ebony rosa white May 2016
he walks in awe, and would curse my interest in night
of clear silence and sighs
at promiscuous men's obsession with purity
within his aspect and his eyes
he looks down to my ******* and I ask him why
to which he replies and typically denies

he caresses those who adore **** and then calls them '******' when they are no less
had they been tighter.. but he likes lace?
his hands ****** my raven tress
as he says I am not like the rest
he whispers that he will handle me best
but if I was not pure I know I would be in another place

I ****** his cheek and admire his brow
yet why does this man objectify me as eloquent
so soft? don't reply to my letter. so calm? you haven't met me properly, have you?
deceived by my smile but I am not deceived by yours, o' 'gent'
if only more had visited below
but then again, my heart would still be innocent!
I know Byron's poem 'She Walks In Beauty' can suggest various meanings, but this is my poetic reaction towards how women were admired by promiscuous men because they were pure, but those who weren't were frowned upon.
Trevor Blevins May 2016
Should well have known that I was truly asleep,
Sat next to you,
And you next to my hallucinations of false maturity,
With both of us by chance reading Blake,
And me understanding that both of us were then looking for some romanticized outlook on life.

And the fact that I was so taken back by your taste,

More so how beautiful you were,
Clad in white and for once sitting still.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.

And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
      Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
   The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
    A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
    But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
     On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.

     I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
      I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
    Though I remain incomplete.
The void here represents the thoughts of poetry, I am addicted to the words, the words of my predecessors
Whom were also haunted by words.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
There is but one inside each of us,
The magnificent irony that is you,
The gift of emotion and darkness,
Light and the solemn silence.

In each there is a word never spoken,
The lord of his or her pen ******,
Like a library of dreams
Disclosed to the insensible mind.

In vain with each passing day
The infinite ache of the lifespan
Becomes an accessible garden
And fountains of immersive memory.

And to die is but to awaken,
We toil in the philosophy of words,
Without strength or direction
Writing sorrowful verse.

Haiku, sonnet, free verse,
Stars, skies, oceans, meadows,
All are symbolic to the perceptions
In the void of the eye's twilight views.

Painfully we probe the depth
And fathom the darkness,
Heaven becomes a metaphor,
**** seems too real, the Power....

Long before me or you,
The dead poets took the dark
And shown them in the light
In his or her fading dusk.

The gallery of poems,
Impalpably dreaded like life,
And we are the dead whom write
Of life in the setting sun.

Power, which had written this poem,
Disfiguring the poet, perpetually dark,
The word speaks through us,
The curse is to observe as it all passes away.
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