The big green hill that overlooks the water
has never been grazed, never been touched
except for when my mind gets hazed
and the world stands still.
So when life seems to become gray,
I lull to the place where I can get my color back.
So as far as the moon when the brightness gleams,
I run for the hill and make no note on my pace.
Lying in the sunshine, moonlight, or under the clouds,
I know I can always count on that big green hill.
For when the world darkens and my life runs out of time,
I go to the place where I can make the time stand still.

originally written 4/10/17

His color is yellow; a faded yellow.
He wanted to win over everyone
who would promise his acceptance.
He wanted fame, fortune, foolish gold.
The poor boy; riddled with disdain.
So he lied to his rainbow friends
and kissed every woman he obsessed,
only to fade away in the background.
He rotted next to his yellow daisies;
awaiting his departure into the sun.

originally written 3/23/17

The slow autumn presses
at the window,
as geese give a melancholy voice
to leaving
their dark v-shape
splitting a cloudless sky

the sun spreads
a quiet space
of tangerine orange
and rosy pink
as it slips below the horizon

when darkness closes in,
stars shiver
in the distance
ghosts perhaps since
some have died

the moon’s shimmer follows
the river’s winding path
until
complacent river in lament
mingles with powerful sea

ending and beginning
combined in poignant
harmony

Just a bit out of season! :-)

Raven dwelled in melancholy
As if melancholy were an art
But melancholy was within Raven
From the very start

Raven sang
But not many people knew
For Raven only ever sang
To just an auspicious few

The words from Raven's songs
Smeared ink upon my thighs
Old scars, fresh scabs
Now pure and baptized

Raven left her cage right open
And in flew my broken feathers
That was when we learned
We worked pretty well together

First poem up. Let's see how this goes

I saw a dog today.
It was running on the baseball field.
The clouds were puffy
Like in Toy Story.
The rust red of the distant buildings bridged the surreal gap
between the serene blue sky and candy green grass.
He was well built,
Tawny
Pointed ears,
Lolling tongue.
There was an effortless curve to his tail
And a sprightly spring to his step.
But he wasn’t exhibiting his strength,
He was rolling on his back,
Twisting with sheer ecstasy.
While I feel the grass tickle the back of my legs
He doesn’t let anyone in the world stop him.
I almost cried.
Or maybe I did cry.
In my shade
I felt as though he were so far away,
Shimmering in a sunny mirage.

Lori 7d

in position. headache long day upright.
proceed to second dimension. fall flat
in bed. immediate flattening effect.


with a one finger touch this floatie
travels a mile. caress the water with
open hands. see the separation.

cup the water fingers close together
gather water on palms. chicken wing
arms. feel the ease of intertwining.

in arrow precision position. floating
is momentum. rudder faster kicking.
hips rotating. horizontal gazing.


pushing arms back intensely. a little toe
push. an arm flex in this routine you let
me a centimeter in. you left me hanging.

still pushing on your momentum, your
smiles made me float. i forget hand eye
coordination. to breath out of this ocean.

in precisely 0 degrees. align eyes.
reached first dimension with success.
flatlander. one dimensional. head down.


seeking a river of slumber. your tender
waves shakes a song. backwards stroke
through the night. your arm slashing tides.

on my back. you pat. floating in dreams.
nocturnal writer immediate flatliner once
headaches push through ice bergs.

in shores falling short of water. ice cold.
unflattening the flatlander. see growth
in two dimensions. see giant in three dee.


my Titanic tears break. flatlining for you.

nocturnal prompt. aims to portray a nighttime melancholic and yet tender sound. i have no idea how to do this right. only know that i'm writing this at night and feeling nocturnal, melancholic to whisper tender words to you my dear.
George Salazar Apr 16

I wade into the sea of flesh
That is you.
My fingers like rain,
Your skin like the parched earth.
Longing for the great flood
That killed Noah's brothers
Sisters and mothers all.
This bedroom will be your Golgotha
And baby
This is the part where I nail you.

Happy easter
Jorge Palileo Apr 14

Read back old pages, my life's book
Fond memories on every nook
All seemed too neat, except one crease
A missing tile, one final piece

Blanket of stars shroud rolling hills
I lay spread-eagled, cooling heels
Bethinking my lady; how fair
Building grand castles in the air

I dream us be, like white on rice
Will fate bid so that we should splice?
When days grow dim and full of blot,
I'll be your "Johnny-on-the-spot"

Night sky glimmered and I wonder;
"Are you nearby? How far yonder?"
"Are you beholding the same stars?"
"Are you concealing the same scars?"

Part of days past? But when, who knows?
Future, perhaps? Looming and grows?
How many times, I'll count the moon?
My heart's aching to meet you soon

Louise Apr 13

Sung epics from afar
Half-shouted prayers nearby
Cat's meows by the window
and familiar howls by my bedside
Jesus christ, won't you
hear my cries?
Shut all these noises,
hush all these voices.
I want none of these songs
for these won't pacify me.
I want none of the prayers
for these won't save me.
But please thank your father
for introducing Joy Division,
The Cure and Morrissey to me,
for me.
They're the best substitute to noose,
knives and pills.

Sofia Amery Apr 13

i always knew
that i was
born
to have someone,
something,
there
to wrap
their arms around me.

i knew this because
of the shape
of my hips
(that i always
hated ever so
much)
whispered to me
in the mirror each time
that arms would
fit very nicely,
snugly,
around them.

so every dawn,
every night,
in every darkness,
in every light,
arms would reach out
with all of their might
and hold me tight,
tight,
tight.

sometimes
it was the arms of the smoke
from when my parents rolled up
the plants that grew
in our back yard.
they made dying flames
dance upon the ends,
then put them to the lips
that held words
that betrayed me;
the same lips
that kissed me goodnight.

sometimes
it was the arms of the ink
that fell from the
pen
like a waterfall,
so beautiful,
but so full of anger
and pain.
it stained the paper
with the words
that stained my mind,
my well-being,
my soul,
my future.

sometimes
it was the arms of my own damned mind
that killed me inside
so much so
that the heart i used to
wear on my sleeve
became stone cold.
it made me become surprised
that i had a pulse
anymore.

sometimes
it was the arms of the stars,
the ones that lit up the sky
and the ones that lit up my eyes
when someone told me
they loved me.
it was the ones
that died out
when that same
person
tried to
change me,
and my social anxiety let them.

sometimes
it was my own arms
when i put myself down
for complaining to myself
about how terrible of a life i had
and realizing
how jacked up this world is
because many others had it worse.
it was my own arms
because my pop always told me
that, in order to survive,
your skin needs to be thick
but you can't be thick, too.
so it was my own arms
when i refused to tell a soul
about my cracking, broken home
and picked up my head and
kept
on
breathing.

and now,
my friend,
i'm sorry that
it's come to the end
of the smoke
of the ink
of the stars
of the mind

of me.

the smoke lied in the crematory,
and the ink lies on my will.
the stars will shine
on the night of my funeral
if the smog from my ma's car
doesn't cover them up.
my mind lies all around me,
and, as for myself,
i am gone.

it is the arms of the same wood
i used to sit atop on sunny days
in my old front yard
on pecan street
that i lay in,
peacefully,
now.
it's the arms of that olive tree
that i scratched my name into
that i lay in,
peacefully,
now.
it's the arms my hips
longed for
when i scarred them
time and time again
that i lay in,
peacefully,
now.

but i wish that i could lay
in the arms of
my folks
one last time
before all of the
terrible things
they brought upon me

had to be laid to rest just like me.

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