Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ryn Mar 2020
tears that run like a raging river...
carving into the skin and flesh.
herald the birth -
a gorge that eats into my heart.

see its wound...
look past its depth
and acknowledge the damage -
a beautiful destruction
that only speaks of
the unforgiving nature
of such salt laden streams.

laments that echo cries
of unbridled pain and hurt.
yet soothing like a hymn -
a sung and hummed
profession of loaded promises
and careless whispers.

a hurt that has latched,
etched permanent
and dissatisfied onto the heart...
a pain that knows no peace
because it’s known
limitless love.
Amber Dec 2017
Again I am walking to my favorite spot.
An open gorge that has eaten peoples pain for centuries.

I sit and pick a forget-me-not
And remind myself that today, I am not here for my agonies.

I am here today for meditation,
I am here today for thought.
I see the universes beautiful creation
And find what my soul besought.

A water fall
And smoothly cut rock.

This gorge; a big bowl with walls.
It's beauty hits at my heart with a knock.

Right now
I will be happy.

Right now
I will be calm.

And from my soul I'll pull my thoughts
Where they will perish
Into mother nature's earthen ***.
Martin Narrod Sep 2017
Stolen warmth gone for now,  followed by melancholic uneventful sounds. When I walk, I walk away from seeing. Everything I thought I might've been. This skin trying to fly away from me, like a misplaced shadow searching for a body to shrug off its grief. Bending, arcing, aching thumbs that have too much memory to allow them any fun. The old time might have agreed, with the girl lost for at least three weeks. Sugar and a can of milk condensed, heated up over campfire coals in the woods near Libereć.

Twice I'm too scared to talk. After a boxing match with a raging bull. Staleness lingers over these sweating hips, where half a moon quaffs down Verdi's Requiems. I told you I'm hiding in the jungle now. Through these cufflinks I speak through a startled jowl. First that dying tone, the startling sound of a fading D Minor song. The mines of the forest grieve, until the hours born sell the rights to sleep. Taken and away from grief, where wiggling children's fingers are seen. Only to find the child was not a realty.
Let your hands make amends to me, whether you're here for the pistachio ice cream or vanilla almond dream. Princess pleas for a pauper's being.

Looks like the child bit off half it's tongue, to ignore all inquiries into where its gone. Minute games and clauses of flesh, I tie her up using her own belt.  Chasing The Rockies for a festive blue, then I gorge myself while she enrolled me too. Quiet bandits filled with starlight.
eleanor prince Dec 2016
as one stage empties
slow shuffle exit
another curtain will

waiting for that spark
an instant in time
silent explosion

stylus on rock face
outline of past forms
a mountain's sudden

as eagle marks
still moments
above a darkened

brooding dawn
fights clouds'

and man's spirit
lifts high and
at last


- - - - - -
Sometimes poems don't easily flow for a time.  Perhaps we are trying to have each one just perfect.  This off the cuff poem arose spontaneously and is dedicated to Kamala  from (ending 31/12/16) who has wonderful talent.  This is my welcome poem to him if he finds his way here:
Take care - you are a brilliant poet - it sits there waiting for that spark - a turn of the head, a cloud formation, a child's sudden laugh on distant wind, the roar of a river...
an eagle soaring steady, ominous, yet beautiful - as a sullen dawn over a brooding sea - ah! I feel it stir in you - it is there...
for you are a true poet, my friend, so let it fly free...!
I found this pic on Flickr to accompany this post - it's worth viewing:
SassyJ Jul 2016
I silence the whispers from my mouth
As the jaws elongate out of this life
It’s not a yawn but a mouthful whisper
The stroke of a songbird in seductive tunes
A rise of the pitched crescendo pinches
Stroking my ribs and the depths of my soul
He know me best and I put my case to rest

The king crowned with sorrow haunts me
Then he tickles me to the paradisiacal gardens
His groove holds me in the gorges of my dreams
His breath mists my breath as the weather drowns
His claws an embrace that scratches and taunts
Still I dare to doubt his flame as it scorches  
He knows me best as we dive in the oceanic beds
Zoe R Codd Feb 2015
Running through ancient Appalachia
Frolicking without a care
She had never felt more joy-
Never felt less aware.

As they followed the waterfall trail,
There was no time to spare-
Time was irrelevant,
As they were breathing in clean air.

Treetops swirling into one another,
Breeze slow and soft,
Sweeping salty tears off of her cheek-
They were lost.

Lost in their own minds,
Nothing left to exhaust.
Inspiration was the mountain peak-
Floral scents aloft.

Driving in a spiral
Down the rugged cracked road-
They pulled off to the side,
Anxieties and heart rates slowed.

There they found two cement half-
Pipes peering over the mountain side
They climbed down, sat in their grasps-
Contently contemplating their lives.

She turned to her love
To ask what he was doing.
He said “writing down ideas”

There, she saw her fate.

— The End —