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MJL Feb 2019
Roll out your white carpet
Pour me some deep-sea pile bubbly
Love to just look at you beneath the bright baby blue haze
Strut on you like big sparkly sugar stars in glassy rock candy slippers
Feel your G glamour under foot
Stretching out for a warm frosty arrival
Check it out, La La
Everyone immersed in the fantasy for one cool coral minute
Everyone gawking at the dream wave we’re riding
Snap, snap, snap it all up
By invitation only
Swim with you
Splash in you
Bask in you
Knuckles locked
Fandango style


© 2019 MJL
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things

*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")


wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?

this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.

the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!

No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.

Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.

Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,

Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.

------------------
Who Am I?
By Carl Sandburg

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
     universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of
     destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
     in the universe.
Forsyte Aug 2018
On the day I first met my diploma
We did not know what to say but I swear
The moment I reached to steal my small prize
A faint salty breeze stood quiet in the air

Restless feet find the shore and pause for moments
The stubborn clamor behind me will rest
Despite crude plans tacked on imploding walls
Instinct takes command, my body turns west

Soothing cries from below hurl their last pleas
My legs march desperately through the waves
There is no escape for those who don't charge
Away from the pleasures they've known as slaves

What was before only spoken by loved ones
Sits in bold against the pale white paper
A voice in a bubble floats toward my ears
With a language unkown it screams not to waver
...
..
.



muse me
from these
puddles
?



...
..
.
sand is
quicker
...
..
.
Kee May 2017
He doesn't know what his purpose is.
Does he even have one?
Is he a giver?
A taker?
What is it?
All he does now is wash dashes in a nasty restaurant with cheap, foamy soap that barely cleans the dishes.
Not that anyone would notice that.
He doesn't want to live this way forever,
But his bad luck is ceaseless.
There's no way that something good would happen to him.
At least not in this life.
I used four random words to create this poem. Purpose, giver, foamy, and ceaseless. Hope you like.
Kevin Feb 2017
i hear your screams
and unsung songs
above the flying tide
and in the foam
frothing free
you'll feel my earthly touch

dont push away
from the shore
with hands of grassy sand
reach out to me
with shades of blue
and striping dissonance

and when they mix
to form anew
place alone in time
you'll wonder where
the colors went and
how we learned to fly
Keen May 2016
I woke up wondering,
How are you?
Have you eaten your morning meal?
Have you wonder too how am I?

Every morning I felt empty,
Wondering how am I suppose to fix this catastrophe.
You left me hanging,
Again and again.

The somersault feeling fades away,
This would drive me insane.
You left me with no words to say,
And I know this day would came.
Maja Sabljak Jun 2015
She has a heart of cedar color
And dreams in shades of peony and lotus stems.
She leaves the smell of cyclamen and ripe apricots
Behind her,
Those who are crying in the shadows of Magnolias
Are finding a shelter within her.
Sometimes I imagine that I'm the sea foam
That is touching her ankles
And the air that envelops her lips,
Absorbing her every move,
That is reflected in the mosaic of her pupils.
Her thoughts are sleeping in the depths of my veins,
In every pore that absorbs her voice
I can hear her breathing.
I remain frozen in her existence
And in the contours of her shadow,
All of what I have seek so far
I have found in every thing on which she brushed.
After all,
I'm just a pale reflection of the stars
In her night sky,
The dying firefly in her garden
Of white poppies and wild rose hips.
Just pure desperation.
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.
I try to hard to perfect it... someone has to notice my effort.
I drown my sorrows in a  book, cramming information into my "empty" mind according society.
I am on a high from caffeine , I have to be superwoman.. save the day, save the world and stuff...

I give my all , fight to the last second but my best is not good enough anymore. In my own highway of dreams I carry coffins of rejects.....
I am tired of writing my "wrongs" that society identified..
I am tired of being perfect and tired of being tired...

I was not good enough for my mother, who chose to find acceptance in a bottle...I had a boy for a father and a judge as society..
As time stands still I engrave all the "rejects" in my gravestone ....
Here lived a soul not goo enough for society..

I stand bu the coast and shut my eyes .. the breeze hits against my face and for a moment I feel free....
I take these white pills and for a moment I am free,,, acceptable..
I swim in these intoxicating liquid and for a second I am free... acceptable to society,, Good enough....

— The End —