Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Megan Hammer Aug 5
Turning the clock back, searching the face of this man
And he sees me - stands in the lobby
Frowning and sad
Ask me your questions, tell me your name once again

He’s taking a group to the lakes
And he’s holding some whiskey by the picnic table
Hit me
He throws back his head and laughs

Standing beside the river
Where our hands touch the edge of Montmartre
Back to a beach where I’m quietly waiting
On the rumors of summer, on you to come meet me

Lay out a blanket, bring something to feed the birds
He watches them fly back to our place
Where I fall asleep as he reads in bed
As he closes his eyes, dreaming of a church on the mountain

Come back, I’m dreaming of a flight back from London
Where you stand at the gate like the first time
Take me to the basement
To the old hotel room I’m still in

Answer my questions, I’ll say your name once again
Frowning and sad
Because I can’t turn the clock back
Searching for the face of this man
Al Petroleum.

Fazing in n out.
The flicker.
The whisper.
She's here.
You took too much man.
You took too much.
Who said that.


Garrett Johnson.
For Bob Weir and Bob Dylan.
If there is
a way
to happiness
I will do whatever it takes
to get there.
Over mountains and lakes,
oceans and trails,
I will get to happiness
no matter what
it takes.
It's somewhere out there...
Salmabanu Hatim Nov 2018
Hey **!
Oh my ghosh! What a day this is.
Lightning  streaks across the sky,
The clouds clap and roar,
Little lakes bubble with joy,
The rivers rumble gaily down the mountains.
Not to mention,
The trees stand with limbs akimbo,
Drenching from leaves to roots
in the lovely rain,
The birds cuddle in their nests,
All sing tra la la la.........................
For its raining, raining,raining.
Megan Apr 2018
I tried to take a picture
Of everyday I was with you
I tried to take a picture
Of all the happiness you bring

I tried to take a picture
Of the flowers that you sent
The ones that were red
With that very strong scent

I tried to take a picture
Of the day that shined so bright
The way the sun radiated yellow
Giving us its light

I tried to take a picture
Of the nights by the lake
Where we sat in the blackened dark
Smoking getting baked

I tried to take a picture
Of the smile on my face
But I turned the camera around
To hide the clear but staining tears that raced

I tried to take a picture
Of the love around me,dear
But an uncompromising flash burnout
Causes me fear

I tried to take a picture
Of the happiness you bring
But what I captured
Was the truth and its sting
hannah Dec 2017
these lakes hold nothing more than the emptiness of my own two hands;
      than the silent fall of my breath.
because the birds are awake and the sky is still an empty canvas
              that I didn’t finish, that I chose not to because these fingers would not keep still, because they were too focused on tracing you,
    and trying to twine you back together again,

and the sun does not speak to us, not like we speak to it,
    It does not open its sad, dull mouth to try and herd together our aching, empty words,
It does not speak in tune, it does not speak at all.
and the moon does not look at us, not like we look at it,
It does not try to study the placing of our bones, or our wide open arms and how they got that way,
It does not wonder why we sing to it, why we sing to it with our hoarse throats and heavy eyes.

these lakes write in cursive. These lakes write in ripples
from our lips, whistling over them, delicate, trying not to disturb.
these lakes know us. These lakes do not forget -
can’t forget, because we have fixed our naked backs into their stomachs, floating,
trying to write our way into the sonnet,
trying to be a part of something other than our own selves.

But the birds cry from grief, and all the water tries to do, is drown us.

So we both walk home alone, bare feet parading over torn ground, shoes grasped between our bleeding hands.

It’s better off this way.
It’s always been better of this way.
I've been in a writing mood today :)
Sorin Lascu Nov 2017
Standing by a crystal lake,
With the surface as still as time,
I gazed into the reflection's soul,
The same time it stared into mine.

As the moon fell down the sky,
As slow as an autumn leaf,
It crept its way into the painting,
Making the two of us feel complete.

A gush of wind suddenly came,
Revealing the fragility of our bond,
Leaving the both of us,
Simple vagabonds.

Conceding, I walk away,
On a path only by me explored,
Whether our fates will ever cross again,
Nor you or I will ever know.

The wind is gushing again,
Disturbing the serenity of willows,
They sing, and sing again,
About the love they just witnessed.
Aaron LaLux Oct 2017
Woke up,
at Lake Balaton,
wrote up,
some words like Babylon,
or rather,
a rant on like the Tower of Babel,
chant down,
Babylon we build up and gather,

or rather,
we collect then scatter,
collect the thoughts,
then write them in patterns,

sort of,
like what prose is,
bitter sweet,
like what a rose is,

smells good,
but has thorns,
stormy seas,
but calm shores,

snore,
no,
sleep,
yes,
wake,
up,
re-,
freshed,

at a resort on a vineyard,
overlooking Lake Balaton,
with a girl who is gorgeous,
that let’s her ball of yarn unravel some,

she says she’s my “substitute,
in other words a replacement,
for the other girl I was going to bring,
with me on this 24 hour vacation,

and at first this sounds like an insult to her,
like she’s just here because the other one couldn’t make it,
but really if she can so easily replace the first girl,
then that means that the first girl was actually basic,

and was easily replaced with,
the new one,
see the first is so last night,
and this new one is so new dawn,

I’m on,
a level seldom reached,
like a secret state of enlightenment,
the type that’s so sacred it’s rarely preached,

enlightenment,
secret,
oh there he goes again with that Illuminati talk,
Jesus,

Jesus,
has nothing to do with this,
the new one is on the balcony dancing,
in the sunshine’s rays she’s beautiful,

the old one is gone now,
has no place in my life at all,
except for on the shelve of Past Memories,
that hangs on the Mind Museum’s wall,

although,

I had had an intense dream about the old one,
I’d dreamt about her Illuminati tattoo,
and we’d made love some of the best love made over,
as if I was Adam and she was the Forbidden Fruit,

ooh,

what’s the truth,
what’s perspective,
what’s the proof,
than any of this ever existed,

what are we doing here,
and how much longer will we be,
why are so many slaves to their own projected fears,
while so few are liberated with love and set truly free?

And this all comes to me like a never ending dream,
as I write this words which come to me in a conscious stream,
as my new love dances outside on this resort’s balcony,
overlooking Lake Balaton which is so big it looks more like the Caspian Sea,

see,

I woke up,
at Lake Balaton,
wrote up,
some words like Babylon,
or rather,
a rant on like the Tower of Babel,
chant down,
Babylon we build up and gather,

or rather,
we collect then scatter,
collect the thoughts,
then write them in patterns…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

author of the largest collection of poetry in the world.
marta effe Sep 2017
We cruise rattlesnake bends.

Once in, you
find phantom lakes;
I - a full moon
over mountains of clay.

Sitting at the wooden table
the sun rises to my right
and the mountains become blue
under a grapefruit-shake sky.

My hands are *****. My lips
dry.
Next page