It's summer I know,
Yet my soul is frozen cold,
Oh how juxtaposed.
Yet I've found some burning coals,
In an abandoned coal mine.

Cate Feb 21

I was going to write
of infatuation.
I wrote of death.
I seem to be hovering
forever in between,
a partial combination
a fickle being.

I was going to write
how his eyes glint
when I catch them
unexpectedly peering at me.
Now, I can only imagine
the endlessness of eternity
leering at me evilly
Taunting  my carelessness.

I was going to reminisce
small jokes that soothe anxiousness.
Now, consumed
by the inevitable
sweeping me away into nothingness.

I was going to question
“does he dream of me as I do?”
Now I wonder
what my dreams will dissolve into.
Fleeting moments pass rapidly
Gaseous, unaccounted for and ghastly.


Mysidian Bard Dec 2016

I come from a place
Where reality's a dream
We sleepwalk awake
Silent are the screams

Uncertainty is certain
Lies are absolute
Destruction just creates
The vital and minute

Consciously unaware
Of our intended mistakes
Reminded to forget
That giving only takes

I come from a place
Where eyes never see
Through the mists of illusion
Surrounding you and me

Yv S Jul 2016

i tried to learn how to write poetry,
can't get the words to fit right, can't
make it sound like this is natural,
can't get across how you look to me,
a holy image and a saintly light,
you are a blur, a fire in the forest night.

you are liquid gold and mercury,
burn my wedding ring if i dropped it,
(an accident, of course)
and in heart and soul you are heavy,
solid gold and diamond strong,
light as a feather, birdsong.

words aren't easy, neither are you,
you need less but i need every single one,
and it is not enough. my anchor,
you are absent yet ever-present, hovering
weight, glorious and kind angel --
i will try for as long as i am able.

i still can't get a hang of this poetry, babe.

I'm a thinker over,
               your head.

Instead, I over bend
the words you said.

I'm over left,
                  not over right,
bearing barely low be,
      your shoulder's might,
beating in with love's theft,
 your love holder's key,
                                            bereft of me.

I'm the out single,
             in the
nearly naked night,
stated under
mystical, myriads
of light moon,
      an out far sight,
a soul retreat,
a delicious delight--
       Savory insight.

I'm a statement
                over or under
                          on up your paper,
        ever which I choose to taper.
I'm the dreamer,
                         the meaning-shaper.

                          I'm the hill over,
                          the undying unrest.

I'm the success of a pillar,
                            the apex of the best.
                                    Sorry, I digress.

I'm top over,
high above
a treetop,
swinging to and fro.
when I stop,
only time will know.

                                   I'm the flow over,
                                   water on up,
                                         Cliffs of Dover.

I'm an upper picker,
beat up booming,
at the town down
where guitar
strumming strings--
Ah, love the sound
mixed with tambourines!
Music blooming!

I away drive
          my desire and longings,
steering alive,
           a way path
for a section to inter
                for the juxtaposition
                     of words transposed
freely in poetic emancipation.

Sounding  so much sweeter than
                         those words when
                               spoken in plain
                                          old prose,
                               do you suppose?

6-21-16 (C)

I've been fascinated with blended and compound words, how just reversing them changes meaning entirely. Of course as a poet, I like you, love wordplay, so please read this poem as such, one wherein words are reversed and meaning is diverse.

Thank you for reading! :)
Mydriasis May 2016

It is the last day of May,
Summer's now in full swing
and I've come to realize many things.

I think, for once, I'd rather leave them
unwritten. There's little I can say
now that'll reconcile memory.

Poetry is freedom in expression, a lack of which is in-keeping with the mood I am. What's this then? Where silence says more than a poem.

Refusing to lend oneself to expression instead affirms an equal and opposite impression. Oh memory, once again, playing games with me.

Being, in
Breeze-Mist Mar 2016

we hate
we love
we wage war
we make peace
we commit murder
we save lives
we ignore issues
we find answers to our problems
we commit genocide
we save nations
we feel
we go numb
we enslave others
we free each other
we lie blatantly
we reveal the truth
we sneak around
we march right in
we run in fear
we stand up and fight
we are thoughtless
we're analytical
we are intelligent
we're emotional
we can all hurt
and we can all heal.
we are humanity.

Nico Reznick Mar 2016

"Compassionate Conservatism"
"friendly fire":
Euphemistic oxymorons
capable of
destroying hospitals.

Ignatius Hosiana Mar 2016

The painter and her brush
the Duck and her thrush
the Heart and her crush
the River and her rush

the poet and his Pen
the lion and his Den
the Cock and his Hen
the Driver and his Van

the potter and her clay
the Cloud and her grey
the Eagle and her Prey
the Sun and her Ray

the Hound and his Hunter
the question and his answer
the ship and his anchor
the joker and his banter

the night and her pitch
the light and her switch
the eye and her twitch
the lie and her itch

the ring and his finger
the bell and his ringer
the future and his dreamer
the gamble and his gamer

Even closer than those
We were as close
as the Suit and his laws
we were hinges and doors

jdotingham Mar 2016

I need to find the thoughts which lie
                    My throat
Yet behind <My eyes>

Next page