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Glenn Currier Jun 18
Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.

Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.

They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.

Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.
This is a light poem begun by letting my imagination roam until I got this image of the wagon pulled by two old horses. I started writing and it just became what it is. Dedicated to my best buddy, Joe, who loves books even more than fishing. He was my pahdnah on Texas lakes way back when. One of his favorite authors is legendary Texas novelist, Larry McMurtry who also owned a bookstore in his hometown of Archer City, Texas.
Mitch P Jul 2021
Look
Through the window
watching paintbrush skies
fade into a starlit night
moving over us
hurdling forward
carrying our suitcases of reflections
- worries, frustrations, relief.

Look
without seeing
Because I'm imagining a memory
- frightfully similar
to predicting the future.
Cornering the world,
I'm turning away
from paintbrush skies.

Look
back and forth between
my canvas and my muse
within and without my mind
Moving with broad strokes
that shrink into the detail
Never quite sure  if I'm seeing
what's really ahead
or in my head.
Betty Oct 2020
A sky of painted rain from custard yellow clouds, fell beyond my gallery window glass.

The grass a silken thread of cinnamon fire, vermillion and orange tea brewed strong and hot, which ran to choppy rivers damson plum and vintage flowing wine, stretched far beyond my own imagining
to boiling seas of unknown hue.

Did a morning ever dawn which held such colour and such light, If so it isn’t one I ever knew!
I wondered what it would be like to wake up in an abstract painting
Jenny Moran Nov 2019
I canʼt erase the feeling of your lips
Trailing their way up and down my thighs
The way your teeth dig into my hips
The playful smirk while staring in your eyes

My mind still constantly thinks of you
The way you feel pressed against my back
I know Iʼm really not supposed to
But I miss your fingertips dancing around my neck

I donʼt know how you have such a hold on me
I canʼt even control my own thoughts
Itʼs getting harder for me to even see
The if thens and the what nots

Your eyes, they take me to a place
I really think they do.  
No, I think we need some space,
Baby, that's all you.

You laugh, you scream, you cry.
Embarrassed I'm seeing you this way,
You're beautiful with tears in your eyes.
I don't know what else to say.
I’ve been battling all of my emotions through poetry recently, so here are a few :)
Blake Oct 2019
If we take that one step,
which swallows both our pride and worry of embarrassment,
That one step of me grabbing your arm while you passed,
or you clutching at mine as my face is painted on the pavement,
would everything be resolved?
or would only more hateful words be spoken?
Years later I still cant be sure of our end.
REM moments
are where dreams begin
under the eye-lids
the activity pulses
with movement
all that's seen
is quite extraordinary
you're climbing an unconquerable mountain
and the ascent is so effortless
nothing hampering
what you've always
had in mind
this vision so live like
all your night imaginings
materialize

men and women
over the ages
have bought their dreams
to fruition
the first step
originated
in nocturnal reverie
as they strove forward
on successes golden road

yep them dreamers
of the REM set
achieving much
through accessing the mind's
phantasmagorical corridors
Josh Feb 2018
I've been here before.
I've breathed this air.
Let it take
as long
as it is going to take
and breathe.

I've tasted it before,
this air,
cinnamon and grass
ale pulled from the cask
old plasters pulled off at last
and broken scabs,
and there is salt and there is sugar
in my tears.

A giant circle,
each head laid on the next shoulder.
We are together.
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