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Perched against the fluvial
in respite from the wind
an ex-animate, eolian tumbledown
made from bone & decay

Deep within
its unearthly womb
sits the curled elongated shape
of the perfect organism
BLT's continued challenge- to write a poem using the Merriam- Webster word of the day, eolian.
annh Sep 2019
Each day is broken
At the zero hour,
Splintering like a derelict,
On the craggy shoreline of the morn;

Flotsam abandoned,
To the oceans of yesterday,
The beach combed for treasure,
To keep for tomorrow.

When you find yourself googling ‘marine+law+salvage’ it’s time to stop poeming for the day. Have obviously been watching too much Poldark!

‘Every day we reconstruct our lives out of the salvage of our yesterdays.’
- James Sallis, Death Will Have Your Eyes
Ron Conway Mar 2019
It sits alone now
Derelect, long neglected
Empty except the transient shelter
Provided to fox and deer
And swallows cliff and barn
The roof collapsed, the shingles succumbed
To a thousand windstorms
The south side sinking
Drowning in the earth

Yet from it's bones you can see
How it would have appeared
Had a century not unfolded
Timber walls hewn by hand
Corners locked and dovetailed
The craftsman's pride disguised now
Behind the ravages of time

Reflect upon the family
Those pioneers so strong of heart
Who built and grew and loved
And carved a life beyond existence
What hardships felt and conquered
What anguish never overcome
Can we imagine now
From our comfortable perspective
The priorities within that fold
Of time and circumstance?
This is about an old settler's home on my land. I see it and think about it every day.
Rafael Melendez Aug 2018
Cut it out, remove the dead tissue from the past. Leave it there on that bed you used to sleep on with her. Burn your fingertips clean of her touch, disappear from the way she remembers you. From the tabs she kept on you.
You've tried to sympathize now that you've done your time, but sympathy from a sinner doesn't mean a thing to an angel.
You've become something without a future or a past, but hated nonetheless. You've become a derelict, waiting for a storm to tear your old walls down.
Aditi Kumar Aug 2016
If I am ever lost,
Fear not, for I am either

Lurking in the shadows where the derelict live,
In a suit of fire so the cold and desperate flock toward me.

Or on the twilight streets,
My skirt made of the first twinkling stars swishing about my knees,
Bearing silent witness to the belligerent noise.

I may also be in the meadow outside town
Flaunting the crown of butterflies that the fairies made for me,
As I played with them for as long as the moon hung in the sky.

If I am there and you do not know,
Fear not
For I did not tell you
Because I would like to escape the straightjacket of my home.
Find the beautiful in the ordinary.
SøułSurvivør Jun 2016
you stand in line
for liquid bread
with your thin dime

newspaper matress
you lick your lips
a cardboard box your crypt

so forlorn
your façade is *****

the gold was stolen
from your vaults
passersby see only faults

the picket fence
around your heath
is as broken
as your teeth

the many choices
you have made
have sunk you to
an early grave

you're self-abusive
destruction bent

your temple is a


(C) 6/17/2016
You can lend people a hand.
But they have to want to take it.
SassyJ Feb 2016
Cacophony vocal cords turned inside out
Folding back upon themselves in cruel creases
Vibrations resonating in strained harmonies
Against the dire fabric of my delirious oblivion

I stomp your echoes as they travel through light
Unleashing my fangs to sting your roaring mess
Frequencies lowered from baseline to internal signal
To form a wave at the quilted patch you weaved

Disregard all visualized fear firmly penetrating realms
Of thickening white-hot spirit a roiling boiling crucible
Inflamed fiery fleshly folds of terminated temptations
Drawing your musky draught drinking your toxic brew

Your sight announces epiphanies of me sinking deeper
A manhood you portray is my repatriation, prepare the shovel  
Ruin me I plead! Packet and send me down to my casket
You can't stitch me, I am twitching, itching, iced in sorrows

Clawing at the world, hissing, spitting my deep disdain
My every defense mumbling, crumbling into its derelict dust
Welcoming my inevitable defeat, my tattered, blood spattered
White flag flies, surrendering all to hail the conquering pain.

The flag waves in bloodied winds, you wing wading wounds
Trying to reach snowy mountainous top, the ascending sledge
We fall inverted bumping, exposing our cranium, posing in disgust
Hold this hawk talon scratch the earth, its the only hope you hold
I am open for One a week collaboration till March 2016. Interested? Leave a comment or message me. The pens are really running low... 5  more people are needed!Ladies where are you????

No 4. One a week series collaboration with Bill Hughes
Bill's word is an asylum and his expressions his sanctuary. Bill has got a huge heart and he has been superb to me and my muse. My muse greatly appreciates his support and kindness. When I nearly deleted my account Bill demanded for me to sit on the thought and not make rush decisions. He ended up deleting his old account.
Bill and Mydystopia have  remained a great support here at HP .... when I felt my voice was so faded and irrelevant they gave me strength and motivation to experiment with different sounds. I cannot thank you guys enough... always in awe.
This piece was very transmuting, when we decided to explore "melancholy" at it's best we didn't know where to begin. But we had a base eventually and words and emotions coiled. This piece took nearly 3 weeks as often I find it hard to express melancholy. But we got there eventually!!!!

To view Bill Hughes melodies please visit his site at: homepage:

Bye Melancholy.... I am playing my happy song (Land Down Under by Men at Work)
ryn Jul 2015
I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.

I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.

I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...

I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015

i'm here

invisible hand
retching in your pocket
reaching in your face
teaching all

or nothing

blue bottles buzz
round my head in circles
making me dizzy

I pick a posie of dandilions
gone to seed

I foray about
looking for the shiniest
diamonds in aluminum cans

the brass ring
must certainly be
tarnished gold

the forge bellows that is my chest
heaves in another cough
cooling my tounge
the empty wind that echos ashes
spent embers collect
in the cracks
of the


my bones which were disjointed
oh so slowly reassemble
but someone
at the factory didn't
read the

my legs are arms
my hands

i lie under a cold
in july
oh don't cry
when i die

no whitened seplechur my inheritance
my epitaph nonsense

a palm tree o'r my


(C) 6/13/2015
Stream of consciousness work
about the homeless in Los Angeles

Maybe this kind of poem should
have no final destination
This one did. But I allowed it to flow


— The End —