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Phantom Poet Mar 2020
I am in Netherlands,
Through my university course,
Has allowed me to travel across the lands,
Of the beautiful Europe,
Me and a friend have come to lend a hand,
To farmers for voluntary work,
Which is also a school on the farmland,
For kids who can't achieve the mark,
Who can't study in the normal system,
I am in the pure countryside,
And it is beautiful and majestic,
There are fields wide,
Long clean canals blue,
It is a beautiful sight,
I cycle looking at this view,
The sun shining golden bright,
The wind blowing past you,
The dim villages at night,
It feels nice to be away,
Away from the fright,
This is what I like,
This is,
The Dutch countryside
Hello, it has been 2 years since I have been on here, and been on a terrible path, I am writing again, to become normal and get my life together
Carl Halling Apr 2018
You told me that your name was Maria,
And that you came
From the Netherlands,
But you looked more like a Latina,
With flowing dark hair,
Perhaps a natural tan,

I was in love,
So much in love,
But I let love pass me by,
All through my life,
So much of my life,
I have let love pass me by.

You left me with a casual ‘I’ll see you’,
But I looked for you
All over London town,
It’s like that I was paralysed with fear,
I could have sworn
I saw you on the underground,

I was in love,
So much in love,
But I let love pass me by,
All through my life,
So much of my life,
I have let love pass me by.
'I Have Let Love Pass Me By' began life as a song, based on a melody I sketched out when I was 18, and with sketchy lyrics related to a lost love, while new lyrics were recently written as of April 2018, but still referring to the same incident of lost love that took place when I was 18.
camps Nov 2015
1 AM: Train station falafel

2 AM: Trash, throw-up, gay clubs

2 AM: Daylight savings

3 AM: It’s 3 AM and the city is finally falling asleep.

4 AM: Conversation about friendship

5 AM: Some dude is trying to talk to us. Later, she’s asleep.

6 AM: Church bells tell everyone it’s morning.

7 AM: Sunrise. Hey, the fishermen are waving. Cast your nets!
           May they return filled to the brim with the precious
           cargo of the ocean!
Fianna Beth Mar 2015
what i cant understand
is how people can write poetry about the flowers
or the sunshine
it just seems so irrelevant
when there are so many more beautiful things to write about
like your dainty, thin, long fingers
and the way your lips emit a tiny bit of air when you pronounce ‘th’ words
your towering, awkward, bony body
loosely, limply entwined in mine
that make up your gentle, comforting hugs
how melodic your voice is, almost lulling me to sleep
your contagious, animated smile

how you write as if embroidering the pages
gracefully, an art
and the words float mid-lines
reflecting how your thoughts float among the clouds
doolally detonations of enigmatic pure excitement  
over the most extraneous of matters
your eyes, the captivating bluish-steel of a mid-winter night sky
their flare, and the way they light up when you maunder lovingly of such passions

alas perhaps, poetry about plants or the weather are just as beautiful
but i
would not know
for even the planet, and nature
and sheer beauty of life
seems pale
in prejudiced comparison to your radiance
and how bright you make
my insides feel
Written last summer about my best friend.

I titled it 'bias among the tulips' because I wrote it after going on a walking tour in Amsterdam, on holidays. I learned about 'tulipomania' during the Dutch Golden Age, and how they were the most valuable things available, even worth more than land at the peak of the market in their time. They were treasures. Tulips were everywhere all over Amsterdam. In fact, the whole place was covered in flowers, really. It was beautiful. Alas, my best friend was still much more beautiful as a human being. He was worth more to me than any tulip could have been worth. Between them, the decision was obvious, hence, to me, I'd always have a bias view even amongst the captivating, rich tulips of The Netherlands.
Theodore Bird Mar 2015
Mustard sweaters in the Mauritshuis,
     scattered ashes at the foot of our bed.
We run, run round in circles,
     till the stars drop out of their cat's cradles and into our laps.
Empty paintings and glasses frames,
     dozing atop anarchist literature in the back alleys
of some distant treasure island.
Don Bouchard Jul 2014
Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.

Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.

Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.

At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....

The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.

Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...

And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.

We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.

And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....

Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled  in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.
Working on this....thinking of so many places in the world today....

— The End —