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Andrea Lee Bolt Apr 2021
"I'll be right here"
my dear friend said to me
a tap of his finger
set my mangled heart free

He never came back
Because he never left

-The boy in the red sweater
I'm a super nerd and it comes out in my poetry a lot! Like to think as characters who I loved and helped shaped the person we are.
Johnny Mar 2021
Yellow stars, blue stars, brown

Looking through the window

Are you looking up at me
or are you looking down?

Smiling? Or with a frown?

Are you a distant memory?
Or am I new in town?

Many questions from my end

I will wait for the answers

If it means I can be your friend
Question from a child that no adult can answer
Ken Pepiton Jul 2020
In my magic library I find old Carl Jung,
read by voice
I may imagine my own,
reading in a polished Oxford accent, with the
or made an uh at every opportunity,
and no e ever unspoken {save after lone stretched vowles stretching}
each word forming as from a bubble of thought, with one
tangentle anchor point,
stretching down from that thought cloud emerging from the bubbles
in your magmatic earthly being,
at the heart of you
where your fire
I speak, with authority, I hear me say,
I shall know I know
as much or more
of such thoughts
as these
Memories, Dreams, Reflections.
Old man visions loosed into ever, like
the preacher making many books,
vain, but enjoyable,
all the same,
mediating between me and the others,
out there, free in the sea
of opinions, bound only by fear of death,

to lives of quiet desparation, to ti esti in
separation from secret knowledge unearnible,
in one mortal life's longest
state of steady
on the point
of being.
at all
or having any part in this production,
blooming, ******
of my heart, oh, hell no, hello

we come with words formed in defeat,
defeat repeats the message
as follows
d'toes knows ken yond some kinda ying
yang warworths lisp ship cult prize thang.
Shib-o-let slow belly lethargy,
feel it in your big
toe, touch a stone and turn the cool side up

A papal bullishit bell curve

clang, gong.... wrong... good guess, give'er another go

****** right, too right, mate, take th'prize
reality position superimposed over life as imagined

before the internet, but after TV... the inbetween time

seedtime, not harvest. Seed sown, unknown seed sown,
for better living, through science.

Side track: Bayer is famous for...
Xyclon B.
Right. The game of knowing going on as we wander, wondering
waht subtle subtility what keen sence of sharpness,

pointing a way, see... that pixel, upper left quadrant, in the per
edgy bit out of focus, can you

blink? Give us a clue, are we ludicrous by nature?
Are we only here to play,
to enjoy the grace of knowing God shat on all our filthy rags

and laughed as we danced around the fire,
lost in re
very very ify verity of varieties un en visioned until the release

The Alamogordo bit of my myth with you in it.

Initial response of any heroic application is denial.
No real hero wishes to be a real hero,
the day to day existence in a virtual eden, is fine.

When we get down to where jewels form latices far funner
than the jungle gym
or monkey bars of my youth, a prewar preparation,
proven to myself,
I can do this, grip and swing, and reach and grip and swing,

command the callouses to form, command the cells to signal,

more blood, more O, too. Oh, you,
wisdom coos, in that sweet way she does when we leave
those sure
bonds of earth and take a stake in heaven's will being done
in wisdom's main domain.

whole heart or no heart, the hero code,
probabble babble babble on and on an in fun

item left to fuggetchewwitcher doubus ****** haecceity

Score. Thats the point of anything piercing everything.
It looks different from out here.
Ah, Jung, if we ever met, I would laugh and call you a figment in my quantum foam.
Amba Jun 2020
the hand that took a hold
on the shape
to stimulate
the other’s growth

is more able to cherish
than the one that
took a hold
on the shape to
keep the fleshly desires in place

like E.T. phone home

thank you woman of God
to **** the alienation within space
and bring us back to sense

you loved best
you allowed me
and us
to grow
i look to the night sky
for answers
i am so far removed
from where i stand
detached from this time and place
i don't belong
i send a thought
a message
to anyone that may be passing by this galaxy
on their way home
take me with you
seen lots of moving things in the skies lately
Remember the name
they'll be considered the same.
Two centuries apart but
both just as smart
at playing the poetry game
I am ANu poet
the poem is me.
I may not be Poe
but I'll be et alli.
Playing with words like a little kid.  I even tried to read it backwards.  But I will be et alli in the literary world....I know it.  why?  Read MAN in the Stratosphere
Jack P May 2018
/ picked an iris from the garden / took a hacksaw to the petals / when i could have just picked them apart /

\ which garden? \ only one of its kind \ a blemish in the desert, a stubborn breakout of petulant colour \ under schrodinger's sun \ model's smiles so ugly betwixt the natural verdure \ i tell them this \ to save myself from perceived slights \ and she does, indeed, look slight \

/ the word "help" drawn in the sand / the rusting handle of the shovel burning hands / as i hack at stems swaying nonchalant / in the stinging wind /

\ from left \ to right / then left \ then right / before bleeding out on the flat palm of the tool -

\ a wren \ tar-black \ perches on a nearby tree \ shakes the dust off a wing \ and casts a shadow across our little oasis \ before opening its beak to song \ dragging more people into the dark will not help you find the light switch \ and other assorted platitudes \

/ so the model walks out into the desert / i follow / dragging her garden along / it's wrapped around my ankles / oh the irony in losing blood to the vines tightening / dragging across hot sand / and eventually it's all too heavy / so i collapse / breathing in the arid ground / skin turns as red as a bull's nightmare landscape / yet she continues to walk / as if nothing happened / is it the heat that leaves me melting away? / or the guilt? / in any case / i got caught in the trap i set for her / eyes close / and she is leaving...

                                                                ­                   leaving...

                                                    ­                                  leaving...
                                                                ­                                   left.
begrudging other people of their happiness will not make you any happier i think. bu t i am no philosopher
In the silent cold of the desert night
cacti share a lonely trance
they stretch their stubby, prickly arms
the glow incites this awkward dance

they rest their ship on a vacant dune
shield their eyes from brilliant glare
the light that burns from distant moon
is more than they can bear

they have come to plant their rabid seed
that will race across the desert plane
to hunt the sleepers on which they feed
the seed now sewn, they await the rain
I believe that fire was still a mystery
when the hunt was interrupted by the visitors
knowing that the creatures were startled by their presence
these visitors could passively drop the gold dust
into the creek from which they drank
and as expected, the dumbfounded four
with mouths agape
watched in disbelief without twitching a muscle
though it is not ascertained
that disbelief was a function of the thought
process that they were at this time

it was not lost on these creatures
our forefathers
that these odd newcomers were far superior
than the mastodon they were tracking with rocks

the 3 visitors gave a glance to their soon-to-be hybrid offspring
and were off
the ability to convey their experience when they returned to their caves
fell futile
there were as yet no grunts to properly describe what they had witnessed

the DNA structure leading to the ceiling
of the evolutionary scale was no longer a towering, folding beast
but rather a mere stepladder
fire was discovered
tools, arrows, weaponry
and monuments that we have yet to explain how
were constructed
while the last true human
but a young child when the visitors came
who had observed from afar
drank only from a pond that they had not touched

he passed like a story from the ancients
forgotten in time
Oldie - revised
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