Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kim 23h
Is it where you come from that matters?
Is it your history, your line of descent?
Do they really know you, they chatter
Would they sit down with your friends
Where do you come from they ask
What is your story they say
Will you do away with your mask
Let them know you if they may

What went before doesn’t matter
Only the present counts
It’s a fresh start you barter
For your past in the ground
But when it comes down to it
They still want to know
Where did you come from
Where will you go

You choose your own fate
Your life is in your hands
Your future’s for you to make
You’re not bound to the land
Let them know you by your deeds
By your words and by your song
Do they need to trace your feet
To know where you belong?

What is a reputation -
But a binding rope
No leeway to stumble
For it’s a slippery *****
If the days gone by are to colour
Every speech and action
Where is the scope to discover?
Aren’t our lives but a fraction -
Of what they could be
If we believed we were free
To set forth and make waves
Or float along with the sea

But then again you may say -
Do people really change?
Can they let go of the hate -
Washed clean by the rain?
And can we trust someone who lays
No claim to yesterday -
For whom nothing can vouch
But the words of their mouth?
If one is constantly changing -
Then where does one stand?
How can the others trust you -
How can they shake your hand?
Is trust merely an illusion
We conjure up for ourselves -
To alleviate the confusion
To put reason on the shelf?
One day we all must choose
When there is much to lose
Whether to cling to the family tree
Or take flight and be free

Those you grow up with are forever
They’re the ones you never leave
Where you came from is your start
The first page of your story
But it can’t tie you down
It can’t hold you back
You mustn’t be afraid
For in the attack
They may have the armour of the known
And the weapons of their forebears
But you will have freedom
And an army of your brothers
Your brothers in thought
And ideals and humanity
Your sisters with whom you fought
The winds of disparity

So I suppose what I’m saying is
The only story worth telling
Is the one that unfolds
In the final reckoning
This is an old one, posted here a few years ago. Made a slight edit. Thought it was more relevant than ever so decided to repost.
sustained drama
selectively alluring
leaving us
choking on
broken bits of
dreams and
memories …

Time to awaken
from sleep!
Strip away oxgoads
that constrain us,
that restrain us,
that bind us to past errors
preventing our success

Allow us to roam
across fields,
vast and varied,
expansive fields of
endeavor that speak
to humanity’s
greatest needs,
Hearts that can beat stronger
Lungs that can breath freely
Minds that can grasp …

The truth!

Mark Toney © 2021
9/13/2021 - Poetry form: Free Verse - Mark Toney © 2021
We deserve an answer,
We are not just prancers

In your dance.
We have the right

To have a chance,
And equal might.

No, we are not the dancers
For perverted glancers.

We too have free-will
Not solely for your thrill.

We too are people
And our pains are real.

We hurt, we cry, we feel.
So I am fighting with the quill!

We are all your equals!
Listen up you creep-os!

Stop strangling me
With marionette strings!
No other human here on this earth should be thought of as merely existing to satisfy your needs.  To be human is to have autonomy.
Here is a carrot
we made it from sticks

eat it

eat the stick carrot
or by gosh
we’ll hit you with
this stick

which is not made of carrots

here’s a survey about how you feel
which we also made from sticks
it doesn’t matter if it’s glass or gold
we won’t look at it anyway

eat the stick carrot
and try not to look over there
where they’ll give you actual carrots
and sticks are frowned upon

you’ve gone
Mose Sep 5
How can all the cities be filled but yet the world feel so alone?

Sometimes the desolate feelings swallow me whole. The other times I'm reminded of the vapid space between me and the feelings of meaningful connections I miss. It sometimes makes you feel unlovable - a desperate cry for recognition. To be felt in a way that says, I see you clearly. Text messages unanswered lead to late night sobs trying to remember I can't be the only one missing humanity and feeling less than here. Depression creeps over in the next room to let me know I am not alone in this. Social media has a twisted way of reminding me the world still turns even though mine has stopped spinning. Some days I just want to say I am here, maybe just existing but I am here. Ready to tell you I miss you. Ready to hold your hand; any hand that reaches back out between me and spaces of my heart that feel like an oblivion. Ready to do life in a way that says I'm happy to be here, to be with you. To be in a moment that feels like I am finally once living again. To be in a space that says your presence is felt. To be loved for the sake of just loving. I once read quote that said 60% of Americans report  feelings of loneliness... For just a second I feel a slight relief in the pressure. That I am sharing something with someone for just a moment. That selfish gratefulness is all that hangs between me and nose.

I am not alone in this even though the cities are filled and once again my apartment is empty.
Steve Page Sep 4
I think on what is true and just and honourable
I think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
I consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and I praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

I think on what is true
I think of God’s voice, his true promise,
his true plumbline, directing the eye down
to the centre, a reliable reference,
an alignment to righteousness.
I see the weight, suspended
and I wait as it finds the true vertical axis
pointing to the centre of gravity
as if that was its true purpose all along
- not to gravitate us down, but to re-direct us
to a true line upon which we can centre ourselves.

I think on what is true.

I think on what is honourable, noble.
I think of honour lists and of inherited nobility,
I think of integrity, living up to the responsibility
of my privilege and authority
and of using it responsibly, with generosity,
recognising opportunities to live
nobly, dependably
ethically, reliably,
faithful to the One who entrusted me
with so much extraordinary bounty.

I think on what is honourable.

I think on what is just and right
I think about the courage to live fully in the light,
to stand up for what we know to be the right
to admit to ourselves when we don’t get it right
to give heart-felt apology, to find a way to re-unite,

to fight injustice alongside those who can’t
to go the extra mile when our heads say don’t.
Not doing what they’d do to you
if the tables were turned,
but doing what you’d have them do
if the circumstances were reversed

and when the right of it still isn’t clear
to wait and figure it out, take the longer route
rather than the obvious, shorter cut
and if, even then, you can’t be sure
err on the side of the generous cut
because we know that the Cross wasn’t fair
but it was right and it was just.

I think on what is right.

I think on what is pure
I think about the sudden clarity of a cold mountain stream
bubbling up from its spring,
running through and digging down irrespective of obstacles
flowing over all rocky hurdles
with pure, unadulterated intent
to get at last to the sea
where its creator intended it to be.

I think on what is pure.

I think on what is lovely
I think of the surface-beauty that catches my eye
but then of the beauty that only shows itself in the depths
- in patience, in the willingness
to put ill-feeling to rest
and to embrace forgiveness
and thereby release a smile that meets
that generous high-beauty in full gratefulness.

I think on what is lovely.

I think on what is admirable, commendable
and of good reputation, and I think how
how God views me is more important
than the admiration offered by others.
I think that what is commendable
is in the eye of the beholder
and that my beholder sees the heart
and so I entrust my reputation to the One who sees better.

I think on what is admirable.

I think on what is excellent
and I think past Bill and Ted to something
of diamond quality,
of designed symmetry,
of clarity, of weight

or perhaps of a line in a poem or a song,
something that takes away my breath.
But then I see the sun through trees,
shining on breakfasting friends
and on my laughter

and I think that this is God’s most excellent.

I think on what is praiseworthy
I think of the ovation given to a practiced orchestra
and pitch perfect soloists
and then I think
of a five-year-old niece
mastering her first recorder
and getting to that tricky last note of
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
and I think, for our God,
this effort, this success is by far
most praiseworthy.

We think on what is true and just and honourable
we think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
we consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and we praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

and I think that perhaps we too
are a little lovely and that we too
are partially admirable
and I think perhaps we too
are not a little praiseworthy

and so when I think on these things,
I think on you,
on us,
and I praise our God all the more.

Think on these things.
Philippians 4:8
"...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things."
Eslam Dabank Sep 2
Sleep, little one with white wind casters,  
      Fold your wings, calm your impulses as thus,
Float in your serenity, under the pilasters,
      Leave all reality behind; evil and the muss.

Exhausted pigeon with indelible commotion,
      You shall never sob again in this brutal space,
You shall never again feel a gloomy emotion,
      All will be gone but heavenly restful grace.

On your wing, I see dew forming a home,  
      For the petite dust and surface it covers,
And a star is calling it, tickling its dome,
      They gyrate together, as newly-wed lovers.

Moonlight pats on the your velvet wings,
      Comforting a troubled despondent soul,
With its golden rays and strings it sings,
      an assuring lullaby; illuminating a dark hole.

If only dew of abnormal enormity saved -
      Rescued you from filthy descendant creatures.
If only it was your haven from the depraved,
      But mercy is aberrant; even in the preachers.

Little drained pigeon escaped from atrocity,
      Cherry red blood glazes its delicate feathers,
And ash on white canvases unmasks animosity,
      With them they tried to restrain amity; tethers.

In the future of mine, I see an afternoon,
       Where the sky, the ocean collide in despair,
And twirl in a round dance, creating a festoon,
       For the Earth to wear, on its weedy green hair.

A crucifixion it is, for the earth and the moon.
       And in awe, I sat on dusty sagged car to stare,
as the blues clogged time in eternal croon,
       And cracked the order, and humanity’s prayer.

Dear little pigeon, you shall never witness this,
       This; the production of corruption conceived,
And this blade petting your neck, is my final bliss,
        As promised: heavenly restful grace is received.
Mica Kluge Aug 29
“”Hope” is a thing with feathers...”
Only, I don’t think it is.
See, feathers mean it’s a flighty thing
And belie its true belligerence.
Hope may yet have feathers,
But forget not the claws.
Hope is a thing with brambles;
Hope has a tendency to stick in crops.
This little burr adheres to the underside,
Never noted unless poked.
It clings tightly in the smallest gap
And can’t be ignored once evoked.
Now, I grant you, Hope may seem rather rare,
But lay on your stomach at night; you’ll find that it’s there.
I haven’t written in a long time. It’s for a lot of reasons. Sometimes, I just don’t feel like I’m good enough. Sometimes, I lack inspiration. Poetry, as it was once said, “is the spontaneous overflow of human emotion.” And that’s what this was. I’m terrible at meter. I have to break out a dictionary to know how many syllables a word has. But following a conversation this morning regarding covid and human nature, this erupted from me in the space of 5 minutes. I haven’t changed it; I haven’t edited it. To the world, to the politicians, to those I love, this is the only message I have about the pandemic. Take it as you will. And thank you, as ever, to the extraordinary Emily Dickinson.
The masquerade keeps filling up a pool
Feeding on a fairy tale
People keep drowning
Feeding on a nightmare
The masquerade keeps claiming
Until the day comes where the pool breaks
Until the night comes where people learn how to swim
In waves of nature
In chambers of humanity
Next page