Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A Simillacrum Oct 2018
It's looking like
history books
and web pages
tell what once was
as an instructional
or, how to
for the future,
as every trend
spins on the same
blueberry,
and what once was
shall be, again.

I used to think
I might not have
the best grip on ****
because of that Cindy, and
her gaslit basement.
But my eyes are valid.
I'm not slitting throats,
I'm just taking notes
on this tragic situation.
Joker and The Fool.

I'm part of some kind
of severely ****** up system,
whether I wish it or not.
I better learn to smile.
So watch me. Here:

^_^

Everything's bound
to a simple rule.
Everything dies,
and everything is alive
with some participation.

I can't shake it from my mind.
        Why should I?

All of my ancestors made the mistakes
I can't help
       but bear repeating.

Why shouldn't I?
Brian McDonagh Jun 2018
There I am,
The first light pole,
Waiting for my ride.
I wave to a few,
And receive consolation
For a life struggle.

There I am,
The second light pole,
Under the shade of a green canopy of leaves.
I receive a greeting of consolation
By a friendly whack of a paper bulletin
Ruffled up into a conic shape.

There I am,
On a rock,
And my ride is here.
Thought of this write while literally waiting to be picked up from church today.  Enjoy!  Also the setting is a parking lot where I thought of this idea as well lol :P
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
See my spiral for how she rendered it*  



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXXXVI)


Ya.  Lean upon the porch rail as night's dense
Black--does it twinkle with ah, stars? nor hail
The mirk none pass through, just my brother.  Pale
As Au Revoir where all else sleep from hence,
Lo, how--what ist?  Hark!  For the train calls thence,
Its whistle breaking this cold silence' tale,
And think now, of how I'll lose all ist? frail
Against the metal lacework, sans defense.
Turn back indoors to clean the mess we'd stir
In babysitting.  Wooden tracks a crew
Of Brio traincars clattered oer in tour
Half like what deeply rumbles past, aye to
A fault, my brother saying "a real train--" Were
I numb too long oer Mum?  Or swear I knew?

01Apr17b
As it was, she's almost 4 so I thought that question of her dad too odd, but whatever, mebbe Tia understands after all.
Carl Halling Apr 2017
How I try to count my blessings,
They do little to ease my saudade,
Look to the past
For some consolation,
But the past remains resistant,
O woe, where is hope?
I feel so old, and so alone…

Twenty years to destroy an existence,
Is all it took,
To steal my contentment,
Look to the past for a glimmer of peace,
To the past for a little release.
O woe, where is hope?
I feel so old, and so alone…

On one level, I feel so blessed,
Cleave to life with all my strength,
There’s so much to be thankful about,
‘Til I sink back into deepest night,
O woe, where is hope?
I feel so old, and so alone…
'To Ease My Saudade' was written a few days ago as a song lyric, and at the time it reflected how I felt; but as of today, 9 April 2017, I don't identify with it so strongly.
Tyler Owen Cox Feb 2017
Welcome home
From the porch you could see
As you sit next to me
And the jittery dog
One side of the sky with clouds waterlogged
The other with cold beams of Light
Spilling through from a great height
Energy through the air
Going to and coming from nowhere

Welcome home
To this great valley
Where the wind goes through your hair
Like familiar fingers
Tensing along your scalp
Where the slopes are steep
To keep you from leaving
Where the bones of your past
Hold the ground up from falling to the Earth's core
Where the winds of your future
Feel like chilly ghosts
Sapping you of heat
Where the quietness of your current self
Echoes through the people you love most

I see you lying on the grass
Naked and vulnerable
Let me lay my hand upon you
To cover you from this storm
Shake no more in this treeless valley
Between the insurmountable slopes
First poem
Christian Bixler Feb 2017
Among the trash
wanton strewn
a golden flower.
Christian Bixler Feb 2017
Along the lake
refuse floats at waters edge;
yet still birds sing.
There is much so, for which we may weep; yet there remains still light.
Alienpoet Oct 2016
Princess 6

In the aching heart of tormented years
he holds a picture
Like scarification of a her face tattooed in his mind
Autumn leaves turn to summer rain
If he could draw her he would with sunshine
and a rainbow halo but all he has are charcoal
Black like his soul without her
If he could turn the page on his story
He'd move on
But sometimes love is desolation
and there is no consolation.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
Oh well.


(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXXVIII)


Earl Grey and biscuit for a proper sense
Of yonder ist?  where blue skies fringe clouds' veil
Known as white racks that keener eye'd wax pale
Through as how orange paints bits and pieces hence
Whiles yellow flutters to the sidewalks whence
Tis trod whilst fills aught cracks in sheer betrayl;
La, bony limbs cast 'gainst these heavns look frail,
How vines run riot in deep reds' intents.
Hot soup for dinner, I wear plaid now fer
Ah kicks, a kilt to boot, as if being new
Might salve the galling void I can't endure,
Yet must.  Talk of espresso gadgets to
Think ya, the French Press grand.  And tea.  What's poor
Is blindness cuz the LORD's our life, ne brew.

19Oct16b
We've always patted the suffering on the head, proffering a steamy cuppa for consolation haven't we?  and...nevermind me.
Next page