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Beth Garrett Jul 6
I have been thinking about how fictional worlds thread with our realities,
how if you read a book,
watch a film,
see a play,
the subject matter and themes will unconsciously make their way into your daydreams,
I had been watching pride and prejudice,
thinking of Pemberley Estate,
the countryside,
how English hills can flood with hanging low mist,
overcast and soft,
mild, almost ethereal,
or how it may tear itself open,
on ripe summer days,
the ground verdant and full,
I see an image of us, by a lake,
perhaps an old-fashioned picnic basket,
cherries, peaches, strawberries, plums,
feeding each-other grapes,
we could dip our feet in the water,
laze and kiss and,
have all in the time in the world somehow.
I would have a book of poetry,
Sappho perhaps, Elizabeth Bishop, Emily Dickinson,
I could show you the ones I think you might like,
feed you a strawberry,
read you wild nights,
our hair and hands all tangled,
our words and thoughts entwined too,
and we forget all about the beautiful countryside, and the fruit, and the poetry,
for moments and moments.
Sorry for not posting in a long time, I was visiting my SO (I’m in a long distance relationship) so I’ve been busy for the past few weeks!!
Julian Moses May 5
Slip like a
Fish through my grasp
And I will
Tear out my hair
Strand by paper thin
Until I am left eating
Raw magnetic tape
And finding new awe
In the constellations
Beneath the firepit
I will
Button my jacket
While tasting the cool, bitter
Smoke of memories
Whanging out of my head
As I do my best to
Keep from tearing a hole in my cabin
And fleeing out into the
Bitter crisp night.
Know that
It is not for myself
That I commiserate.
You and I,
We were lost at sea too long past
Before the ashen cement had dried.
The prolonged lingering of the heart
You’ve already forgotten.
Putting up a few poems I had on the back burner. Finally been feeling the rush of creativity after it being absent for a while now.
Julian Moses May 5
Fold thyself upon the mattress
The cards upon the table
The hand it grasps
Six fingered
And encased in glass
I smoke
Memories of five years past
Numbness of the heart
Tainting the very ego
Breathing the bones
Bequeathing a new wonderment
Animate the dead,
Go and
Reach into the trove and
Ransack the physique
Ruination and
A tear in the psyche
I am gone.
Hello, HelloPoetry! I write small abstract poems when I can. Some are more abstract than others.
Julian Moses May 5
Buried 6 feet below in the loamy soil
Repressed in the grave
Coffin, confine
Sink into the dark pitch black
Resurface as memory
The night calls
The knife murmurs
Earthen tang
Blade strike
Leave the recollection
And envisage only briefly
Tracing the scars along thy face
A roadmap of thoughts
A construct of humanity
Death forevermore.
Summerbreeze Feb 13
The sun toasts the world
Like an orange creamsicle
Cold, melted vanilla drips from children’s chins
The fountain bursts sparks like fireworks
Celebrating the break to begin
Oh how it's lens saturate the sky
With candy-floss whites And sea-foam blues
Sam Dec 2018
He crawled from his van
Hair slicked back like the wind had grabbed it and never let go
"What's up man?"
His voice was shrill, and scratchy
Like a villainous rat from an animated movie
The sound of it honestly sent me into a daze
Trying to comprehend his existence
He'd carved himself a niche
Cleaning the carpets at this lackluster apartment community
I listened anxiously as he spoke to the other maintenance guy beside me
Although my time at this property was short,
I learned of Candido's way.
Emily Dec 2018
There was a fake sunflower stapled to the corner of the cabinet where you first entered; my mother had banged her head on it in her twenties, and my Babcia took the initiative to cover it up from there on. The pots, rusted, and old, and dating back forty years, collected dust atop the fridge. A creaky, old, loud fridge that smelled permanently of kielbasa and applesauce, the light flickering inside, and it stood about five feet too tall for me. Before it, sat a rug, threads pulling loose and the faded face of a Great Dane looking up at you inquisitively. I used to sit on the island, not the kind you eat breakfast at nowadays. The surface was an obstacle course of splinters and softened wood that threatened to split, and the various, torturous tools my Babcia implemented upon her doughs and meats. It smelt like cigarettes, and cider, and all-spice year round; it used to make me dizzy. With the turning of the leaves, returned the headiness of cinnamon as my Babcia boiled sticks in a *** on the corner wood-burning stove, a reminder of times past. The back door that led to the garden never hung correctly, and whined with use every time it opened, whether from the wind or one of us. Dirt, weeds, and leaves were tracked in; galoshes more of a decoration beside the door than ever used practically. I cut my finger once on the pasta maker that was ******* into the counter beside the sink; one of these industrial farmhouse sinks that never managed to **** down the bread crumbs and corn all the way. I had been playing with my cousin’s power rangers in it, much to his dismay. They never were the same after I made them go for a swim. The cookies, usually oatmeal, were kept in a cracked, porcelain rooster that sat strict and unyielding next to the window; more sunflowers there as well, this time on the curtains that were stained despite how many times they’d been washed. I was never very tall, but I was good at climbing. Even in my dresses. And with feet blackened from the garden, I would struggle onto any available surface in that kitchen, and watch as my Babcia worked, knuckles dried and cracked as her hands mercilessly kneaded dough; whether it be for breads, pies, or pretzels. She would coat the pretzel dough in cinnamon sugar and feed me tiny pieces of it, and with a sip of her hard cider to wash it down, I was spoiled rotten in that kitchen. Despite the dust, the rust, the dirt, the clutter; it was my tiny kingdom, with an overloaded dishwasher, wooden spoons that met my backside more often than I prefered, and an ever boiling kettle. I can remember the way the sun would shine through on August nights, just before dinner started at 6:30 pm, the way the evening would cast the entire room gold and green, Stevie Nick’s voice gritty and soft, and the entire house smelled of pierogies and sausage. The adults would be bustling to and fro, and I would pretend to help, when really all I was doing was stealing bits of biscuits and gravy for me and the dogs. I can remember the stillness of early morning, the wafting scent of coffee that flooded the room like steam, I can remember struggling to reach the jam, the familiar ding of the toaster, and my Grandfather’s hands, fat and calloused, pushing me up until I was settled onto the island, and the windows opened as he smoked, the blackest cup of coffee you’d ever seen in one hand, and the gray of his hair turning white in the light of the rising sun. If I closed my eyes, I am able to envision it all. Each speck of dust that danced in the air, every berry stain that became useless to try and remove due to my clumsiness, the stacks of Blues Clues applesauce that took up the bottom shelf of the fridge, and the sight of the vegetable garden just through the back door, bountiful and green and ready to harvest.
Alek Mielnikow Nov 2018
A mist blanketed the forest,
so low and dense we could barely see
through it, but we kept on digging
the hole. We had no other choice,
and there was nowhere else to go.

The onyx lake pebbly beach
intimate boat cheap beer
and jokes loud motor running

The smell of earth and petrichor
dispersed her rancid miasma.
I felt ruefully relieved, but
the hole was almost complete.
Tiny eyes peered at us through
the dark, through the leaves,
from the trees, but not a chirp
or tweet was aired. They remained
silent as we did our deed.

The wet street we came in on
truck cabin nail gun hidden
in the cooler her stupidly
wonderful laugh
awful moonlight

It was finished. We climbed out,
and I grasped her ankles. We
swung her and let go. The wind
passed through with a low groan.

Burble gracious grin
looking up at the stars
snap yelp the start of a cry
another snap of air escaping
swollen tongue
widened eyes

The putrid miasma disappeared,
buried along with everything
else. And then we left. The sun
crept out from behind the
mountains as we walked away.
The birds began their daily dance.
[on-iks, oh-niks]
1. Mineralogy . a variety of chalcedony having straight parallel bands of alternating colors.
2. black, especially a pure or jet black.
*I use it to refer to the color of onyx, which is white/silver and jet black*

[pe-trahy-kawr, ‐ker]
1. a distinctive scent, usually described as earthy, pleasant, or sweet, produced by rainfall on very dry ground.

[mahy-az-muh, mee-]
1. noxious exhalations from putrescent organic matter; poisonous effluvia or germs polluting the atmosphere.
2. a dangerous, foreboding, or deathlike influence or atmosphere.

[bur-buh l]
verb (used without object)
1. to make a bubbling sound; bubble.
2. a bubbling or gentle flow.
SC Kelley Oct 2018
How do you put such profound emotions into words?

Do you paint them onto the page like a gentle brush swooping and sliding?

Do you shout them from the stage into an audience of frightened eyes?

Do you quickly write them down with a stern ballpoint scratching into blank paper?

Do you whisper them softly into curious ears with gentle and intimate intention?

Do you scream them at your memories till your throat burns?

Or do you silently stare at the sky and think them into the abyss?

~S.C. Kelley
Ek Oct 2018
Sprinkling crystals dipped in glass
ray of prisms breeze my eye
sunshine rhythms hide in grass
floating sugar on the pie

Neon lights pass to scroll
while purple midnight breathes
jacket goosebumps stockings stole
four-wheeled lion grumbly seethes

Honey nectar slumbers my eyes
whitewashed lace tangle my face
gentle buzzings of pastel sky
as cotton candy sank with grace

Open heart box standing in the rain
cries diamonds for to call her name
the poetry train caught riding to Spain
set carnival dewdrops on red flames
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