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G Rose Apr 18
You gaze at me with half-lidded eyes,
stoic, bored, indifferent,
so frigid that my lips tremble at the sight
and turn blue to the touch.
Kasti Mar 14
I'll hold your hand (even while the world watches) in my hand; feeling the warmth at our fingertips. Your eyes (being the deepest sea I've ever seen) make me forget the futility and uselessness of it all. I never thought I'd find a reason to go on (passively watching the tides of life crash by my feet) but your presence provides the reason to continue. I want to spend my life with you, clumsily dance days away, badly singing along to songs, and holding you as close as my heart is to me each night, maintaining the pleasant warmth and comfort between the two of us despite the frigid wind beating at our backs. I'll hold your hand [even as the world (as they would hate our happiness) watches]. As you, your company, give me the strength to tread on. If only I would simply allow my fingertips to graze yours.
Summer school gave too much time to think
I was
no fool                        
and here
my favor
was one
that overcame
a voice
of salacious
mold and
might throttle
my goad
and too
berserk with
her bare
in this
fold with
Carroll Stream

that extreme
today in
Carol Stream
there was
the cold
went to
bed with
a sweater
just to
wake a
buddy in
Claremont weather
that a
whiplash tomorrow
made best
picture in
ole  LA
Suburban Chicago
Frigid fire and scorching cold
blue from such happiness -
one's youth found in the old,
clinging onto letting go, such paradoxes.
Liam C Calhoun Jul 2016
Tapping scabs smolder my face; predictable
And prophecy, like owning a, “dead man’s hand,”
Parallel the pistol at your back.
It all began when the pen’s been dropped,
Somewhere untouchable; beyond claw,
Sooner the excuse as I’d long forgotten, “run.”
When drink’s not enough and, “escape’s,” the
Only to embrace oblivion, so it is and
So wrought, a solid right-hook.

Executed in pandemonium and
Scrambled eggs upstairs,
I scratch a different sort of stubborn
Come a morning in between graffiti,
An anxiety born an impatience for an already evening
And, “newborn,” as I look for the
Baby’s skin beneath battered lash;
But I’d killed that boy long ago.

It’s when I find the green in between cracks,
Concrete pervades and poisoned memories of mother,
Return; they’re scratched upon the stone,
Carved under cheek, knotted in lumber and heart.
I’ve hammered the point upon slab
And before and before and after;
Indenting the first letter to my name, remember me,
Whilst continuing to procure this numb
Nearing necropolis.

The fight’s last night, but the blister’s
Every day, every hour and every minute;
Eternity, as I trace my cheek with *******,
Once with a ring, and the other
A broken knuckle, swollen in a
Twenty-second attempt to never let go;
One more second or so and so,
Ticking, “21,” I fold, letting ropes conjure false hope
And only after the hands have grown frigid.

So much the longer after my heart had
And so much the better.
Traversing edges,
gliding o’er sledges
undulating ridges,
crossing broken bridges:
One could sense-
the Zephyr’s nudge;
glacier’s gelid grudge-
Frigid frail feet, fail to budge,
the mirage of hope, forever will trudge
traces of existence, begin to smudge.
A mini poem on 'Avalanches' – your arch nemesis in the Arctic.
Brittle Bird Jan 2015
when you told me how you broke
my mouth and my eyes were sewn
at first I just thought
you might be made of stone
when you told me that
you were stepping off your throne
I thought we bound our ropes
until your safety cover was blown
I guess you just
didn’t want to be alone
I thought you might drop me
after your secret was shown
we kept on talking
late nights on the phone
**you made me repeat your name
until I forgot my own
I have no idea what this is about, but it came to me, so... here. Take it.
Cameron Williams Nov 2014
A frigid night--
the frosty air.
I shiver in the wake..

My fragile, numb fingers
attempt to touch my face.

I'm frozen....

The crisp, biting wind
gusts violently toward me..

I exhale a visible breath
and trudge onward
over the frozen lake.
Kyle Kulseth Nov 2014
This wind keeps snapping at our feet
through shoes unravelling.
Gales are hungry.
          Night's abandoned,
               streets have emptied.
Still, we own them--just keep talking.
           Winter's wailing.
           **** the old days.
Clutching coats closed,
                         tread nostalgia
past these sidewalk intersections.
Claimed by rambling conversations,
               we're only
our worst mistakes
                our way be-
             -neath stoplights
lit by good memories.

          I've got this notion tonight
          that we'll find our way
         ­ into the warmth found behind
          our locked front doorways.
Ways we've found to always hide
our faces from the cold outside
          have been running dry all night.
So drink down the cold street light
          and we'll make a blur of those green-white street signs.

This cold's still clawing at your face
through scarf unraveling.
Chapped lips smiling.
          Nights like this have
               kept on piling.
Winter owns us. Just keep walking.
           Winter's crying,
           "**** the old days!"
Frostbit footsteps
           slip nostalgia
past these frowning checkpoint questions.
Retouch same old observations.
                we're only
the same missteps
             friends like us
                are melting
into old habits

          I've got this notion tonight
          that we'll take this route
          one more familiar cold flight
          from here to daybreak.
Say, "let fly those bomb bay doors!"
We've bombed these frozen streets before,
                    and I've got a couple more
          so keep moving 'til we find our front doors.
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