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Nicole Apr 4
I'm not a pawn in your chess game,
I'm not the person who takes the blame,
I'm not a person who can use for fame,
You act like i'm an embarrassment of shame.

But I realise my worth now,
The leader of the pack: a crowd,
The turning revolution of endow,
The piece in your game who steals the king's crown.

I'm not a piece in your chess game,
Instead, I'm you addiction which you will try to reclaim,
Whilst I light my furious flames.
Filomena Mar 4
When on a modern battlefield,
You shouldn't wield a wooden shield.
Sometimes I find that less is more, when I try to write a metaphor.
(Same idea as last poem but less elaborate.)
(Subtitle: Spoonerism 1)
Filomena Mar 4
On this one bit I will not yield:
When on a modern battlefield
Where not one thought can be concealed
As hidden things can be revealed

You Shouldn't Wield a Wooden Shield
Simple idea worked out over a few days.
Thomas W Case Feb 27
Chess in the
afternoon sun.
Jazz floats over
the silky couch.
Backs ache, while
hearts break.
Bishop takes knight,
and France falls again.

The masks are all
broken under the
cerulean blue skies,
while she eats berries,
and smiles in her
pink polka dot dress.
The pawns are all smug,
and queenie's on the rag.
Italy surrenders, and from
the grave, Charlie Parker
still hammers home
those soft amber notes.
I can smell her heat, and
I think they play
Jazz in hell.
She moves him ‘round the chess board,
dodging bishops, pawns and rooks.
She coaxes him from square to square
without a second look.

The white knight cannot catch him.
Piece by piece, the foe now yields.
Her king is safe; the game is done.
The queen controls the field.
Shakytrumpet Dec 2020
All alone in my room,
Without anyone that cares
So I sit in solemn silence,
Amongst my world of squares.

I feel like I'm in control,
As I spiral further down,
Clenching my pieces tightly,
Begging to be found,
Knowing it's hopeless,
I lay my king on the ground.
Lately I've been staying till late at night just playing chess, it's a nice distraction from the silence. No one is here, admittedly that sounds like a stupid thing to complain about at 1 in the morning but I just mean in general
Jessica Dec 2020
I can’t recall
The gentle touch of a loving hand
Meanwhile
The pawn stands tall
While in the mind of the opponent
It falls
Watching the snow grace it’s fingers
Across the chartered earth
Not unlike a jilted lover calling
In a memory once sacred
The winter plays the Queens’ Gambit
And time
Does not play at all
I would like to say
I’ve known love
But I still
Can’t recall
Dante Rocío Dec 2020
You could desperate hear me start weeping
Ruckus started to crying to crack tangerine
holds one still upright auburn
as an immortal's loneliness fogged or condemned
stays a Sahara burnt hot tambourine
a hangover led Arabian
a broken record
some shattered the bathroom bar.


I wonder for my brother's dowry
on beds too kempt to be called beds
and doorframes and lamps set never high enough to hit again,
to stand to kneel to lock to lash to hold to my brother's body
now felt to me like the female sold fragile to the greater cities with
a vote,
he clearly left his Argentina behind no matter
how she paled, ended struck.


No longer a child or sister to pass as
to take guests in alone
to stand our married couple's cries an unmuteable radio
can't go back to playrooms for imparallel dignities' sake
that made all the noise at night worth it to deal with
I, don't want to play the rook
if no horse of yours' beside.


Now once the scarcity of your voice,
if even morbid,
is to be greeted by me alone,
Adam and Eve we have unable to see,
just for the empty halls of your decision just for me to hit,
your turned leaf hidden agenda of relief,
I recognise my faiths of the old of your endless
mornings supposedly killed by snoring and your
vividness to my thoughts a foreign concept,
to note you resurrected out of mind and out of sight
the congruence picks me out and slaps me that
our cocoon and safe designed for you
was nothing short of a coma web in your eyes
to begin with instead.

...

I look out to my brother's dowry
to hold stubborn, fainted in my nook the head of my brother's body
to sit on his old air this house keeps like a sari gem
he will never long for
again.
A correlation of steamed mirrors, Arabian calls in yearning and melodious drabbling that overlap it endlessly, a skin in an onus shed aside to a corner once you can't feign yourself into a child's play, and the sibling you've often taken for granted till they go even if they do return at times for not so long. And suddenly you're the only one to think they might have been never truly free or themselves in the place you called home for them.
Acknowledgement, recognition, apology and broken renewal.
Dedication to the protagonist of this poem.
...
Dinamus Dec 2020
Black and White
Raise the banner, sound the sirens
Wrong and right
This is war, this won't end in silence
teddy Nov 2020
do you want to play chess?
I would, but it's 11 pm
The connection is bad
ok
i like it when you win
i don't let you win, i don't try my hardest but
even if i did, you'd win
Ok
I like it when you win
purposeful capitals
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