Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Yazad Tafti Sep 23
look at me
keep looking
i didn't say to look away
look right
now look left
now look inside that tim hortons at the person in the flannel jacket eating chili with buttered bread (love chili)
now look back at me
look at my shoes
now look into my eyes
you just checked me out
look as deep as when eyeing the unmixed sugar in the bottom of your coffee mug, too far to get your fingers on....
keep reaching....fixed at the bottom
look away.....
just know
i'm still looking at you
;) :))
Please, sorry little fluffy bunny.
It's not it fault.
It just has very long ears and got confused in ears.
John Glenn Sep 6
there I was, closing my eyes
hearing what they couldn't see
voices as cold as the night
she was an old woman yesterday
a young girl today,
an old maniacal man tomorrow
apparitions and entities
with whispers so loud
images fetter me with dread
and as I try to cup my hands
unto my ears, the ears of a madman,
and stretch my blanket
over my cold feet and curled up body,
kick, and scream, and wail,
and cry for help
in the dark of night,
I am silenced by such fears
I've seen the nasty places
not with the eyes
but through my ears
I am not schizophrenic but God knows how horrible it must be to be one.
Chris Neilson Aug 11
Viewing beauty through your eyes
hearing melody via your ears
feeling comfort from your touch
tasting success with your work
scenting your candles via Yankee

You stop my life turning manky
from my troubles you never shirk
you love me so very much
you dry my sorrowful bitter tears
you build bridges for my sighs
Format: see what I did here?
Nat Lipstadt Aug 7
for you, of you: you’ve been between my ears

close enough to being on my mind,
almost the same thing,
though that’s unfairly inequitable, we both agree,
for when in an ear one opines, too oft it escapes
out the other side, only a tree ring mark left,
someone was here, present

as for the Confucius confusion in

ok, who’s writing this poem to whom,

cause it’s never clear between us
who is
asking the questions,
since the answers come
demanded and undemanding,
fomenting newer questions and follow through,
before, as well as,
‘please sir, may I have some more?’

the mutualizing game tasking begin-began-begun,
for this, our lovely crazy teasing of our-thing, ago began,
don’t recall who or how intimated-initiated
this oil drilling exploration,
who is the annointer and who is the annointed,
who seeds the plants, picks the fruit, and who
gets paid with cloves of poems, by the bushel

you say I’ve been on your mind,
which we now have both pointed out
is somewhat extraordinary since,
the sight lines are drawn through
long distance cloudscapes that travel
through underground cables,
making everything said,
fallow and rich-ending, deeply frustrating,
impossible to see the outcome

clouds usually imaginary, (not like now),
making visibility normative poor,
unlike the real ones I’m flying at the moment through,
ensconced in front row seat 1F, heading northwest passage,
passing by so ridiculously close to where
you are minding the soil,
as I am
mining your soul’s soil, tilling it between the ears,
of you, by me, for us, and the excited sadness
makes me happy and yes, inequitably, again,

because your breadcrumbs and dark Swiss chocolate bars are
scattered and defaced, bitten and chewed, lovingly licked melting,
we who cover our tracks too well;
but what I do have, makes me ravenous,
having read all your poems,
in random order and then one more time,

I see your history, near escapes and resurrections,
in fine grained moody minutiae punctuated by huge gaps in between,
that we must cream fill with clouds of wondrous loving curiosity,
a torture so exquisite, only the gods could have invented it like
Sunday Night Football,
and crazy sayings,
like I love you too...

been on my mind and I imagine you
hot and sweaty,
bent over, aching tired, from
picking weeds (gotcha),
when sudden one of us stands up straight, back aching,
screaming out loud
this is crazy, and follows up with
a *** Darius type proclamation,
who’s writing this poem to whom
issued to the upwards-skywards,
but addressed to ourselves,
the poets

as we search clouds by the thousands,
is that you in that cloud, in that poem,
I look down thinking that, that must be,
the plot of green and dusted light brown ground
where she has gone into hidey-hole hiding,
disappearing for months at a time,
before arising for the sticking of me
in the sticking place,
wounding me fresh with brand new poems
scandalous and imaginous,
and our imaginations are both
too skilled

so here I close, overwritten, overridden, too long,
overshot my imaginary bounds, so one
pulls down the shade over the oval window
through which too many great stories have commenced,
and ended

the thick cumulus shouting
as we look up
as we look down,
saying “enough, you crazy people,
your poems tell too much,”

perhaps, find me in that
next bite of herbs buttered,
and then ask (of course)

who’s writing this poem to whom?

then breathe out, exhaling me a
breath-poem up above, to where I’m hiding
just as I, am sending one to you,
earth falling from thirty thousand feet,
coming to rest on your mind,
in between your ears,


somewhere in the sky, clueless, heading north by northwest
Ylzm Aug 5
so easy to fake the eye
a smile, a wave, a word
but we see not with eyes
nor hear with ears
we see with soul
liars denigrate the soul
into nonsense to silence it
that we believe only
the show put up for us to see
c May 16
I’m waiting
For a three word echo
But all I hear
Is radio silence
And my ears are ringing
Like the heavy air
Before a thunderstorm
Seanathon May 12
With a song in my ears
And a smile on my face
This is the small window of change
For me
Where I can be charming and unafraid
Truly comfortable
In this informal space alive

The power of music.
Seanathon May 7
When the only whisper
Left in loved ears
Is wind
Then all will fall and flow over itself again
The final whisper is wind
In your ears.
Next page