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Keith Mitchell Oct 2018
Imagining
Georgia O’Keeffe
Goddess
In her own right
Melting away
In a gas guzzler
Meditative escape pod
Disguised as a thermal barrier
Your mind is out there
You pay attention
Everything is Alien
Luna appears
Radiating Bull horns
Like a crescent moon
Balancing on the horizon
Magically moving along
The plane of the ecliptic
Maybe for a millisecond
Crab Nebula
Sneezed the brilliance
That caused the most beautiful
Reflection
That is you
Only the very lucky
Get to see
Black feather floating
Like a random propitious sign
From the heavens
I ******* love you
For showing me
Every forever is a
Second to enjoy
One Love

8/10/2018
Wrote this to inspire the painting in the back ground.
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.
AJ Jun 2016
It’s too late to go back,
My love,
To when you said time
Would stand still,
When the sun sat behind
The trees at dawn,
When the leaves fell
For the autumn
And drank the dew
Off the sappy grass meadows
That rolled out beyond your toes.

It’s too late to go back
To when you said
Always,
Always is, always will,
And now it once was,
Red moons and black petals
In distant sight.

It’s nighttime now.
Although your face sits in the sky
Like the moon, twinkling gray
Somewhere beyond the stars,
The day is much too young
To wash away the dust
Or guard your eyes against
The lips of a dying love
Like a raw cut waiting
To scab, to mold over the memories
Lining the blood you tried to stanch.

But it’s too late now,
Too late to lie in the trees
Red with sweet clay
Sometime in the mourning light,
Too late to count minutes
As they’ve wrinkled past years,
Too late to tell yourself
That you can still stitch together
The broken seams below the patches
Of the skin you’ve shed.

Time bought you long ago,
My love,
And sold you
To the wardens
Of burgeoning eternity.
Their horns wail loud
And only you can hear their sound.
Poetic T May 2016
These kids did run around playful in chat,
the stories they told when bedtime called
and eyes meant closed shut.

Nannie came in, my littlest ones, eyes
are for closure for dreams to fill your
mind, now rest my smallest kids.

Morning my little ones now breakfast time
greets, drink your milk and chew you
greens the most important meal indeed.

Now go brush your hair no knots need
be seen, my little kids presentable and
clean. Now out and play stay close to me.

Inquisitive young ones, seeing things never
once seen. always wondering from sight till
nannie does call and running their seen.

"Sweet dreams my kids now I hope you brushed
your horns and cleaned your teeth,


So smart are these kids of mine, nannie smiles
as each one she kisses as eyes slumber to sleep.
I'm such a proud mummy who does love her kids.
Bed time story of a mummy goat [nannie] her babies [kids]
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
He reached for the rose, but forgot about the thorns
He reached for the beast, but forgot about the horns
He reached for the future, but forgot about the past
He reached for the journey, but forgot about the quest
He reached for the sun, but forgot about the burn
He reached for the knowledge, but forgot what he'd learned
That light without darkness simply can not exist
Like the possessed without an exorcist
One without the other would have no value
With is you cannot argue
Appreciation is showed for the marching band by how many horns are honked while cars drive by on the nearby road
Or almost stepping on small baby Toads on the walk to your car
In the middle of the night
Sleep deprived
It's okay, we wouldn't want it any other way
Joe Bradley Mar 2015
Nestled
in a gyroscope
of allotment, haybail and heath
is the scenery of
my solemn country.
The skyrise, hollows. the
dripping
fat of the land.

The cities have boomed
and they're beautiful.
Like open roses they're
garlands of wire,
pylons and street-lights.
A thorny crown
on a girl in a nightclub. They're
blistering
they drink, kiss and drink.

And all the while
we live with whispers
splashed like
blood in a gutter.
As murmurs
pumped
through the strip-lit veins
of an office block.
Its a life where
prayers
are mist on train windows.

When we walk
we check our
reflection in car windows
and we're beautiful
we run
our hands
through our hair
knowing
we were babies born with
horns for this.

When we ride
its over
railroad boneyards,
the sleepers are
metal teeth locked in
asymmetrical laughter
at everything
at everyone
at nothing.

The skies are a
psychosis of sunlight, clouds,
vapour trails,
it's heaven
and
we're bent at the alter,
our shadow on
the crypt
has horns.
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