Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jordan Gee May 29
I grew up along a gravel road
in a refitted freight house once owned by a slate mining outfit
my backyard was a rolling sprawl of giant scrap-heaps made
of spent
or unusable slate
some slabs were as big as a tool shed;
mossy promontories jabbing and jutting like dull honey- badger quills
poking out of the hills
as they sprawled in their
heaps and their heaves
and their gullies.
it was a regular shangri la for a couple young boys born in the early to mid 80s
our own private wilderness;
adolescent paradise.
sometimes I would look up from my backyard to
the tops of those slate hills and
I would see my friend Joe.
he  was older than i was and I looked up to him and
I craned my neck
looking up to him then
standing at the summit of a slate hill,
hands on his hips
perched and
hiding behind his silhouette-
the Northampton County Sun setting on behind him
blood orange scarlet and
purple gray blue were the colors of those feelings back then.
time ticked on
the way time does.
my parents got a divorce and I moved across town
there were no slate hills in that backyard
and the slate company chain linked all the hills that remained
and so there stood
a fence between me
and the wonderland I once knew.
Joe died unexpectedly some years later in  
some obscure forest of
one of the Virginias
together we nurtured some regrets suspended in between our
childhood and those
terminal woods.
together we held some memories like beads strung along a strand of silk
translucent pearls like drops of dew
out there somewhere on the
eternal web of the akasha
unknown to even Indra
unknown to all but us.
couldn’t hold on any longer
had to let it go.  

my brother gave me a pencil cactus
it seemed to flourish in my care
I had been neglecting my own needs for years
not sure I knew what my needs even were
but that cactus needed water and light
and this much i knew
and this much i provided.
it turned a red color down near the bottom of the stalk -
looked it up on google;
some kind of pencil cactus rite of passage.
after the reddening
it becomes then the stick of fire.
we were kicking up dust
over all the trails
fading on behind us
we acted like it was eyes forward only…
towns I used to know, sinking without blinking
absorbed in the horizon on behind me.
I acted like I couldn’t take my eyes off the rear view.
we pulled up and parked on
me and my stick of fire.
we landed in a
townhouse -
plenty of legroom
even had central air.
I put the cactus under a window
on the second story
didn’t think about the air vent on the floor
blowin all that dry air
and my stick of fire
withered and wrinkled up
and it shrank and shriveled
I couldn’t bring it back
and i tried
but i
had to let it go.

a giant scooped me in his hands
he was massive
40 feet tall
the war horns blew in the distance when he walked.
cocked back his hand and tossed me
through the air
on over the horizon
i was surfing the high skies
on thermals and the slip
streams of vultures
and peregrine falcons-
all of us then dive bombing
all the skinwalkers
like a 2 dimensional love spiral made of
peaks and valleys
and deep trenches swimming in the waters of the
mystic arts….
I held the sun in my hand for exactly one moment
but i blinked and turned
back into a clanging cymbal
a vessel of divine prophecy
going on babbling in tongues.
now a raptor eats my liver every day at noon.
I heard the sun rising in my hands for only just a moment
it was warm and held me in a present bulb of space
I breathed it in
and held it
before I had to let it go.

the architecture of
the Wyoming Valley downtowns
are like frozen songs
crumbling into puddles in a *** hole.
the steam engines and the breakers
are empty skeletons
and dry leaves.
weasels and other vermin making homes inside of holes
the soul was laid off in the vacancy
conflagrations once able to burn down entire cities
at the top of golden arche, and
now the place smells like the smothered ashes of a
ember .
I yearn for a smooth good-bye
you go ahead and talk and then i’ll go-
yet i ****** up another one
open throats and
wire barb in the
I had high hopes
but I had to let it go.

I had high expectations of an early grave
“here lies such and such”
stiff in the long stillness like a possum caught inside a headlight
what a relief that would of been in the brimstone of my twenties
but the roosters kept on crowing
the morning sun kept rising
death away
the big sleep was a false hope
had to let it go.

By Jordan Gee
Had to let it go
lk ode Aug 2020
the soundtrack of san francisco
is pale gold and lush green
car horns
Styles Jun 2020
I would outrun the wind
to catch a glimpse of you;
                                      my Love.
onlylovepoetry Jun 2020
that fog horn blows,
worries my mind, lord knows, we don’t need,
more obstacles in this tired world, so the horn
trying, to be blowing fog away, without success

the sound’s remainder air-lingers like foam bubbles
ridden down to coffee cup bottom, resisting, protesting,
refusing to expire, useless/nonetheless, says no dying

sole boat outlined, bout mile out, must be anchored, it’s
unmoved by fog danger or noise, fishing is my informed
best guess, but fish ain’t stoopid, swimming another way

the fog horn wakes the woman who looks askance
cause there is neither coffee or a newly christened
poem upon her nightstand, an explanation is sought

“stand by me,” I sing, “be unafraid my darling, stand now,
stand by me,” poet said “been guarding our bed, this long
foggy night, agin interlopers, bad dreams and sea troubles”

shied ‘em away, knowing that when a man loves a woman,
she can lean on him, cause he’s load bearing, her safety is
always first, poem second, coffee coming, with sun rising

she bemused, funny you’re, kooky like the poems you’ve up-
written all night, up all life long, all stored up in my nightstand,
you’re sweet, like  Tennessee whiskey, ignore my scowling my own
poet-mr. coffeeman-sea guardian, you’re alright with me
Dylan McFadden May 2020
Behold the dreadful Horns of Red
The Beasts who trample o’er the dead
Who roar and gore and raise their heads
In challenge to the One who bled –

The One who willfully was pierced
Whose will is strong, whose love is fierce
Who crushes Altars men revere
That they may see through their veneer

Bhill Mar 2020
Angel Moroni watches over his fold
He holds on to a horn said to be made of gold
He stands on top waiting the moment to arrive
When it finally comes the horn takes a dive

The earth was tired and decided to shake
The Angel looked down during what was a quake
What he saw was surprising and actually quite weird
All the people were gathering things it appeard

Why do they need all that paper in rolls
Why do they need all those bottles, who knows
The horn was broken when it hit the earth
It was bent in half, now what's it worth

Someone grabbed it right up and ran like the wind
He was chased and caught as this was a sin
He would have liked to play that horn
He held it so long and now he must mourn

What to do, what to do, is all he could think
The world has gone nuts and he needs a drink...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 79
In today's climate, this I found to be extremely well-timed and very funny. I hope most of you agree.
annh Jun 2019
moon-soaked renegade
Morpheus riding shotgun
the ivory and the horn
‘Such dreams as issue where the ivory gleams Fly without fate, and turn our hopes to scorn. But dreams which issue through the burnished horn, What man soe'er beholds them on his bed, These work with virtue and of truth are born.’
- Homer
Isaac Aug 2018
Poetry does not
toot her own horn.

She knows that's what
invites scorn.

It was for honour that
she was born.

Those who have it
she will adorn.
Written 7 August 2018
Louisa Coller Jun 2018
Just like Lucifer you fell down,
painting horns attached to your crown,
breaking my heart in a small town,
before heading to the showdown.

Your wings have never looked so sharp,
I tip-toe away from the scarp,
Frantically looking around,
before heading to the showdown.

I was good and I gave my best,
you kept staring, hurting my chest ,
my new friend's homes in a ghost town,
before heading to the showdown.

I dropped my weapons at the fight,
Can't we finally make this right?
the devil comes with a count down,
before heading to the showdown.
Sometimes you can watch the destruction of good people. It’s not always fun.  Sometimes when we learn bad things about someone we love we become disgusted, emotional and over-the-top.

I think that we all make mistakes. I think people should be forgiving, but I do know, there is a fine line of ‘mistakes’ and ‘forgiveness’ when you know that person won’t listen to you.
It’s tragic because sometimes you just have to wait for them to realise on their own accord or you watch as others pick at that until they’re completely mentally destroyed because they refuse to acknowledge their faults and get help.

I always offer the best I can and sometimes that’s not enough. I can’t do anything about that.

I wanted to follow the themes of a devil for this poem as I felt it fitting almost with Christianity and the bible overall with the story of Lucifer. He was the best, did the best he could and then just one day turned on everyone and fell out of the sky. It was almost terrifyingly accurate to many people in life – one moment they are someone adored, the next moment you find out they’ve been doing a lot of horrid things behind closed doors.

I decided to pick “before heading to the showdown” as a repetitive line in this poem as I felt that when you are someone who has done wrong, you panic and anticipate for the moment someone discovers what you did, sometimes people get that feeling simply from how anxious they are and overall, sometimes, good people get it when realising they have to confront the truth before them. A showdown is an overall metaphor for the ‘big callout’, the revealing of what that person has done and their fight for their life.

A lot of people admittedly forget when someone does something illegal, they will always have a defendant of some kind to defend what they did, no matter how bad. Making it an even showdown.

Sometimes people also attempt to ‘callout’ while being in the wrong, having the whole thing twist around and focused on them instead.

For this poem, I tried to write using Kyrielle, it was definitely interesting, a little difficult admittedly, but it was quite easy to get used to as you go along.
Next page