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Darius M Buckley Mar 2018
Roses burn with intensity,
Each peddle opening wider.
Reveal the flame within,
Let me taste the sparks you hide there.
Hands touch when words can’t explain,
Hearts beat when music can’t exclaim.
Two as one, let us come together in this garden.
The branches hardened by years of fear, now bend into my hands, Pulling me in deeper.
There’s a symphony in my bed.
The moans linger in dissonant color.
My heart beats like a drum every time I touch her.
Hours and hours, moving through time.
Moments of silence, when you were mine.
This poem was written for a short film called "5" about various aspects of the male experience. The film is a "visual poem" that brings each intimate piece to life. This is probably the most raw and revealing I've ever been in my work.
Diana Y Mar 2018
A hope, so bittersweet.
The passage of time, so palpable.
A bed sheet drapes over man's shoulders;
People die but time goes on.
Somber house
Lingering soul
"Who we are; where we go?"

Ethereal.
Louisa Coller Mar 2018
From a poet to another, here is my proposal.
Both a poem, yet offering, and I'm not joking!
Imagine your words written on screen,
well let me tell you my friends, it's not a dream.

I am offering you a 'Little Letter', to share your talent far and wide,
for today I'm starting a brand new project for all of mankind.
We write a poem for someone we knew, or something we hold dear.

Then montage flashes, an actor still, saying your words with passion.
For I ask you, hand in hand,
would you like to be a part of this?

__________

If you have read this far, congratulations!
I just wanted to say, as someone who loves poetry and starting to get into the love of filmmaking. I want to combine our two interests. I am creating a visual, slam poetry montage short film series called 'Little Letters', this series is about poems dear to you, about someone you knew or know and of course topics or objects you treasure dearly.

If you want to take part, feel free to email me at: louisacoller@outlook.com.

If not email, feel free to send me a facebook inbox: https://www.facebook.com/LouisaColler

I can't wait to start working with you amazingly talented people.
I am accepting poets to come and help write the series (you will be credited), as well as any potential actors (West Midlands location).
Laz Farrell Feb 2018
Can’t get my head round the email
“Help me get it right”
“It’s why you do what you do”
“What you do best”
“This will wipe out the opposition”
After much soul searching he took the role
A fugitive who lives with an urban family
An honest story that comments on our times
Or an expensive risk?
It’s a case in point
I could tell you stories you couldn’t print.

A deal was made
Much needed publicity
This one can’t miss
A sure fire winner
Lavishly budgeted?
Almost everything was shot at the ranch....
I Remember the poster in the foyer
“The Goal of the assassin”
“Two ****** hours”
Initially the subject of media ridicule
An eyesore trashed traded or hauled away
Luckily fast forgotten
It died a humiliating death
Jeff S Feb 2018
Wordsworth bubbled in my cellophanate bath water
yesterday, at the candled hour.

whilst horse tails whinnied from Joshua Bell—
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.

Oh, but if I had thought to Bogart the whole affair, well,
I'd be a modern Michelangelo, a downright da Vinci—

a Dostoyevsky before the dawn—

propped between the cold **** and the hot,
wet behind the ears.

Then I turn the note-the page-the scene:
Don't try this at home, they echo in the shackles of

celebrity. A drowning horse has sounded better
than their confession of our normality.
Chase Graham Jan 2018
Our love is a bad scene
of a movie,
passive lines, unsavory
characters
and this gaudy
bedroom lighting
wreck any idea
of realistic drama
and if the audience applauds
when the credits roll
only you
can take the blame.
Bread of
hearth that
wreathe my
wire bare
the byway
that always
wits our
touchstone here
and paint
her screen
that market
dream with
nature while
fantasia is
always rapture
again while
wholly political
Anne Scintilla Dec 2017
Stepping through
come along
with the light
spring paintings.

Time slips by
framed
with the vivid
saturated films.

The void you left
was filled
with the best
sad stories.

Your being
Is art.
this is the context of Un-Muse. a prologue that came to me as an epilogue, i guess life isn’t always linear.
sadgirl Dec 2017
i want to make
a movie out of your
skin, the way you
move like ivy vines,

a movie-ode
to your ode-begging
face.

if i could,
i'd enter us
into a film festival
we could be a sundance
winner, a student
film phenomenon.

i bet you it would
go something
like this,
enter a blank screen,
fade into a shot of you skin,
pan out to show your face, or
body.

all skin.
all skin.


you are beautiful for
a split second,
until my voice cracks the
silence
i tell you that we could be
no one, and nothing.
and you ask me.

for what?
so we make the movie anyways.
I dunno.
Fred Sep 2017
A picture
                 slices a sliver of time
                                the traveller rewinds
and misses a beat

We can live life
                                          or
create timelines unlived

Robot replaces all unpleasantries

A picture,
cut from the reel of reality.
Nobody to miss the time,
between the jumpcuts.
Except, when you've had
a few too many
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