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a river bed lies profoundly dry

out in the remote west

showing no visible signs

of any trickle's zest


each day bringing the same

emptiness of refrain

thirsty river banks are feeling

such a sustained pain


the wanted gift of moisture

being absent far too long

a river's course slowly dying

to feel a dampness of song


soon the summer's scorch shall

be again upon the river's trace

in its despairing hour it will beg

for rain's life giving grace
Ashley Kaye Jun 2019
I feel as if Life
has run me dry.
Its vast Opportunity,
my Inaction,
consumed
the last oasis

Now they, dry bones
Brittle hulls of beetles
scuttle amid sameness
We starve
for color
not dripping in red.


Nothing much thrives
In these hills
Natural word poem the 3rd. June 2019
Still Crazy Jun 2019
drrry spells

~for the r in all of us~

a normanative condition, a kitchen condiment, an un-relished
I’m-in-a-pickle relish, when there in no hot **** dogged doggedly poem perspiration in the fridge or anywhere to be found; nothing but a top sliced bun, ah, plain buns, old stale dog ones is all ya got left for dinner, during one of them there drrry spells that
no blonde tanned unweathered weatherperson ever
forecast correctly

Normanative? Oh yeah.

the tyranny of the white, white bread, the white, whittle ya down screen, couture-cold water from tap direct, neck bent, jugged to try and fail to wash down that lumpen ball of dog fur brain drain clog that’s backing up the paper words, in a stomach churning brine holding you back from reaching the top of the Mt. Everest,

rite Normanative?

Normanative.Oh yeah. Son of Norma and Normally.
It’s in the bibell, look it up!

she-he is my pooka, (nope, uh-uh, look it up) a six foot tall rabbit,
climbing up my brain stem, strategically strangling my words like
a flea killer collar round my neck, one that actually visually works,
my flea bit words fall to the floor, to live with the dust mites descendants of the ole south, drafts and rejection letters, all whose blessed memory may never die etc. etc.

that was the condition of my normanative condition when I dropped in (yup, look it up),

Norman sarcastically asking, how’s the weather up there,
any rain in that-northern-brain, down here it’s as dry as an southern old dog porch panting in Jewlie, breathiny out summer hottie poems, write out like it’s crazy going out of style, oh yeah, forgot
you don’t speak dawg that well.

so I don’t know nothing about your drry spells, just climb into
the hottest hot tub, staying all the summer months if necessary,
reading old poems about busted hearts, old dogs, unrealized loves that can’t be forgot, promises kept that one never made, other curses,
battlefields of yore, sweatin’ out the toxins till r
sends along a new one, rocking my toenails to my disbelieving eyes,
for I’m a mentally patient person,
whose never seen a drrry spell so long, that was not worth
wading thru, waiting for, till something busted out and
another thunderstorm of a literary good one, errr come along

like I said, I’m a mental patient man, still crazy after all these years...
(yup, that too, you could look it up if ya made this far)
AnxiousOcean May 2019
Pain makes people wage a storm.
Most would release the beast in any form
without hesitation, without fear;
without minding the damage,
they wouldn't even mind the effect they manage.

As they release their storm,
they thought they could also release their pain;
but little do they know,
that they actually pass on the pain.
Instead of having it ended,
it continues to grow;
resurrecting, from one to another soul.

But mine is different--pain makes me silent.
There's this huge hole within my soul
which I couldn't even detect.
There's this heavy atmosphere
that prevents me from breathing.
I would like to wage a storm, but I couldn't.
I would like to release my pain, but I couldn't.
All that I could do is feel it.
Endure it.
Suffer from it.

Silence is all that I could offer the world;
not a storm, not a beast, or anything
that would cause some damage to others,
but silence that only brings damage to myself.

At least I wouldn't be able to hurt others;
the pain would just end within me.
Or so I thought it would end.
i couldn't use any rhyme this time. this is more like my raw thoughts without any drop of creativity. yeah well I just need to release something, sorry.
Shea Apr 2019
The birds fall from the sky.
My eyes are dry.
The buildings collapse on top of me.
My eyes are dry.
I realize I cannot cry.
My eyes remain dry.
I let out a sigh.
Still, my eyes are dry.
I realize you're going to die.
My eyes want to, but they cannot cry.
How is everyone doing today?
Esther L Krenzin Mar 2019
Why is it so hard to breathe
with feet planted on dry land?
What chains itself tight in
our throats?
Can you flee until your limbs
snap?
Can you run from the raindrops
before they fall?
Maybe one day the sun will shine
on a candid smile
Maybe on day we won't feel as if we
are tossed about in dark waters
And maybe, one day, we will feel at home
on dry land.

-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
This earth is such a foreign yet familiar place.
Salmabanu Hatim Apr 2019
flowers dry
leaves fall of
an amazing potpourri.
14/4/2019.
You age.Your beauty and strength diminishes and children leave you.
But you still count grandmother aunt friend advisor ( frame, home wreaths, hangings).
annh Apr 2019
I wash my hands,
And wring them dry,
Watching my worries,
Disappear with the grey water,
Down the plughole of life.
‘You can’t wring your hands and roll up your sleeves at the same time.’
- Patricia Schroeder
Jenna Apr 2019
eyes devour tasteless words
sprung up from the depths
conniving little snitches
Her nails twist and twitch
dripping in, with disgust
sipping on the attics secrets
                   it leaks
      and
                   it reeks
She sits like a falling queen
bordered with flaking fake gold
the lips crumbling dry
She had no tone left
caked in old skin
many Women scream 'poor Her'
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