Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Clelia Albano Sep 2018
My tears draw the
aerial view of a thick
wood, where the hands
of a ghost, carved an
easel whose flavour
brims my mouth with
crimson and purple.
Inspiration.
My tears draw the
shattered background
of a blurred photo of
green patches hanging
on an empty road.
Grief.
My tears draw branches
of olive trees kissing the
foam of the sea of sigh and
whispers.
Melancholy.
My tears draw palm lines.
They read long life
and well being.
Betrayal.
My tears draw the shape
of his eyes, wide open on
my consistency, as vibrant
as a melody of an arcane
chant, the fingerprints of
his protective gestures,
the circle of fire of his
embrace.
Love.
After I learned of Rose-Lynn Fisher project of visual investigation of the tears I was powerfully inspired… the result, in fact, was stunning. Through the microscope she discovered that for each emotion tears give a different image…
Ariel Sep 2018
The human suffering is my life's project
How could I ever turn my back on it

All the images of loss I had painted
On my own cold concrete Berlin wall
Paintbrush dipped into a catalog color
"Dark ocean of despair"
Smearing it cautiously on the rough surface
Protecting the still innocent from the ricochets

Oh the number of books that I had written
About another restless soul stuck in limbo
Circling the globe on a boat called "Oblivion"
I shoot them into my not so public library in the sky
Riding on the back of a spark flying from my sympathetic heart
Only to allow their sad glow to forever illuminate the top of my head

An archive of movies stored in a chamber of my heart
Categorized into natural human disasters
All written and directed by me
Starring every soul that ever exposed itself to mine
On a hot sticky night with a glass of wine
In a dusty desert wearing dark green uniform
On the grassy banks of a beautiful European canal
Their silent cries for help are the soundtrack of my life
The shot of an unfallen tear I could never cut out

The pain of a life lived internally,
A bag of beautiful intentions bursting at the seams
Are the substance of the blanket I cover myself with
When I try to fall asleep
Who would I be without it?
Colm Sep 2018
When I see you

My eyes turn to the side
Just past the wrinkles

To the corners of the world
Where the greatest hope still resides
Besides that of eternity

And you, you…

You seem to me
Like a picture of a jubilee

As a lightning strike
Before my eyes
You change the way I view the night

And the days so short
Which pass us by

Though your heart of Autumn
Often beats
There is always summertime in me

And the will to be
Alive

Yes, the mere sight of you
And the mind I see

Always makes me feel
Alive
Alone but I'm glad you're not. With a wink and a smile. I strive endlessly.

Best when read to the tune of - https://youtu.be/Y-Es0N3yOjs
Alienpoet Sep 2018
An artist with eyes wide open
sees art spoken
the silence between words and phrases
Illuminates the ideas
within.

They live out thousands of lives
in the confines of one
a commentator, a spectator
yet living and being
and seeing all
no matter how small.

breathing in the darkness and light
meditating on intricacies
Like that of a flower
held by a *****
eternity shivers
Possessed by their grasp
caught between pain and rapture
the pen stains the page with ink
Blessed be the imagination in which they sink
and swim
these poets that are skin
and soul
eyes that travel and unravel
mysteries that we shall never see
places and faces between you and me

The depth of field
and focus of which
can never be seen
the poet is dreamer.
nick armbrister Aug 2018
The dream the dream the dream! I write like Liz Hand. The dark underbelly of the city. Not just people dying. All of it. Every city has one. All are the same. The dark 3am beat. Put my poem in your book. My dream of it. An artist painting an artist painting an artist  painting an artist...


The big young potentially dangerous Russian stood in front of me. He thought what he had to say is important. He gave my soldier friend a note. Read it he said, it's says what they thinks about me. I nearly fight Ivan. He thinks I'm a banker and rich. I say Bro, I fly planes and write books. Dead it!, he tells my pal. My poem is about it because it's real.
nick armbrister Aug 2018
I dream of my computer systems. The programs I use at work whir and zip thru my brain as I sleep. Turning my synapses into circuits. Hard wiring me into the system. Am I being upgraded with new software? Part of the system to do my job while I sleep. So I'm part of a never ending 24 hour system. Online 247 taking orders and working away. An unending task to make my fat cat boss rich. Even in my dreams I process customer orders and watch the profits go up up up. I only see a penny of this in my minimum wage job. Thank my Pagan Goddess it's a dream. I'm gonna quit my job, trash my computer and live on a mountain...
nick armbrister Aug 2018
My dreams are there but I can't remember them. They're fragmented like my life. In bits and pieces all in random order. A good job I can't remember them. How to make sense of this? Do I ignore it or try to work it out? Making sense when there is none. What would I think and feel if I could just put one dream in order? Would I be more complete or less? My head is a strange place at the best of times. Right now things are everywhere. Especially my dreams. Step into my head to see...
Next page