Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
This here is my home,
metal sides of cold.
Death drips,
from the roof and mold.

This here is my home,
I run away far with my car.
To find myself parked,
staring through the dark.

This here is my home,
the walls mutter judgement,
charred with abandonment.

This here is my home,
It's gone now,
Burnt to the ground.

This here was my home.
Mark Wanless Feb 19
the generation of knowledge
a task an event a time period
birthed in ignorance
no future thought just now
over and over creation here
the window of memory closed
on the thousands who first
built fire understanding nothing
except burnt fingers smokey eyes
Ken Pepiton Feb 12
What is a daemon?
In computing, a daemon (pronounced DEE-muhn) is a program that runs continuously as a background process and wakes up to handle periodic service requests, which often come from remote processes.
Did no one ever tell you, child,
never swear for no excuse,
plead guilty,
confess you was beguiled,
indeed. By some when
back then you had kin, what
made time to preform
the secret baby making.

Once upon a time,
we were always orphans,
from first whipper snappers used
to scrape tar from industrial chimneys.

Songs of Innocense in a new age,
learning old religions decay to mythos,

whence new religions tie memorium,
whence each season we return to recall

our broken spirits, how so and so sang,
lala live for today, la la live for today,

some same stories we recall, links,
URLs, to old sessions recording history,

close your eyes and drift away, listening,
much as winds seem to do, returning
on their circuits from collection
to collection, paid attention tokens, believed
to soften the hull on the gospel seed sown
to a cultivated faith, planted to propagate,

the idea of a secret code Truth uses in spirit form,
the Truth of truths, which, if known, even once,
makes the captive free,

mentally, happy as one can imagine,
under unchanging immutable terminii enforcing

Order, called for, order in the court
of geeky oddball poetic discerners of like or love or not,

Thought traditions trades across epochs forming news,
too much to think about while considering sidereal extents.

Desiderata, poetic license, madejathank, Christian Nation,

Conquistadores were still heroes in 1954,
when the generation first born in the United Nations
victory forever standardization of historical information,
- Boomers stepping aside, survivors come to remember
- first were we to be graded by machines for marks
- made in Number two pencils rounded to one swipe
- width, right answers, only, only, one swipe between
- the lines, esoteric practice for precision aim.

to be overseen by servants of the victorious economy,
as pieces resorting to old formerly used rules of conduct,

smell the wind the strange idea carries,
worth weight, pushing power, pumping umph,

known cost of use, userer's fee, faith, the story held true,

with the evidence in the box, the bag, the sacred bundle,
all but forgotten, faith becomes the evidence of things unseen,

children are told
to hold these truths, those being taught you,
as you line up
in patterns
of proven paid attention, facing the flag

child, you should remember, wordless, for lack of a phraze,
thinking What? What am I pledging, what is pledging, I swear

I mean, I swanee, by golly, gosh ****, shucks, I ghucking did not know.
Feeling chthonically frisky on a warm day after a long storm, called an atmospheric river these days.
Lit this slash pile one week ago,
a small pile as far as slashing and burning goes
Since then it’s melted,
rained, and snowed
Unusual and erratic behavior for January
and February in this country
Country that the Salish would’ve known
to move out of before winter set in.
Shouldn’t be anything other
than frozen and buried in snow
but nothing acts now in the way
it used to, and no one can predict
what’s coming, yet we keep reporting
our guesswork like we know something,
still playing make-believe with our
ideas about control, specifically about
how we’d like to be in it—
maybe because we like the idea of
stability so much and wish we had it
despite our tireless irony.

And here is this little steam-***,
this natural wonder of vitality and perseverance,
issuing one more quiet reminder
of how little we know of our actions
or the cycles they’ve started.
Narrated this poem. You can listen to the reading here:
Psychosa Jan 23
I feel the fire begin to rise within
the belly of the beast.
I fear that the fire will consume me,
so I dim away its flame.

I go through the world,
a shell of being,
with a whiteness in my eyes,
but no longer seeing.

The flame comes to the surface,
but now I know
it is not my demise.
The fire is what makes me alive.
So I spread my wings,
and rise.
Tom Lefort Jan 12
Strike a match in the dark,
Watch your childhood spark to life.
In a momentary flicker of the past
Relive the scent of bonfire nights;
Where sulphur rockets are heaven bound,
And the orange glow of fire lit faces
Come congoured from the dark of time.
But burns short the magic in that light,
It dwindles fast like youth itself,
Each memory blown away like smoke.
But for just one moment that magic shone
And in those seconds a child came home.

Tom Lefort 2024
Feeling bold, I walked into the garden

- where i saw the fireflies, the light posts, the moon shining down

- the moon gave a direction, the lights upped the way, fireflies spiraled through me in the wind

- seeing a bridge illuminated, two koi directly under it had been circling each other in a dance

- i walked across, and through my footsteps, did the rain droplets in that pond ripple time

- the fireflies fell first, the light posts shorted out, the moon left orbit


Fading. The koi were disappearing, my footsteps slowed to a halt before the coming darkness. And before I forgot what they looked like - they all merged and flashed.

Bursting white, hot, light,

+ bleeding gold, the sun broke the sky
Fox Jan 7
I am black lace kissed with stardust
You are brilliant, well loved, faded tie-dye
Leaving the smell of campfires, afternoon naps
fresh showers, and sleepy smiles in your wake  
Bonfire flames licking the space between our skin
Heart beat rhythms drive the music
To sway against our heartstrings
Summer rain runs down us steaming
Feel your heat getting closer
warming my bones
melting my center
A shiver runs through me
So in tune, I pulse for you
Aching with the distance
That seems to always separate
Our good timing
I never knew quite how cold I was until I met you.
My Dear Poet Jan 6
Let me burn evermore
In a way I have never burned

Till the ashes
of my passions
cover the darkest night

Let us all learn to burn
till we yearn for light
and fight for sight
no more
Mark Wanless Nov 2023
it is hard to think
of mind when your hair is on
fire put out the fire
Next page