Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
topacio Aug 2022
It is nightly,
I shift from person
to sleeping archaeologist,  
as I shut my eyes
and fall into you.

And it is nightly
I set out to
decode the great
of your sky,  
etched out by
or maybe the great
ancient spirits,
who try to
relay simple
answers to
heavy thoughts.

It is is evident to see,
after my nightly research,
that you are simply
the dancer's ribbon,  
and the beings
yet to be written,
the ghouls in the attic,
and the poet's poem,
the union of electricity
and circumstance
colliding to
put men in
their place.

And as I fall
deeper into
the excavation
of my slumber,
I hear your whispers
dancing through my sheets,
saying: yield to me
when we one day meet,
not like the lunatic soldier,
but like the silken lover
who is reliably there
upon your awake.
Northern Lives Matter

Note the fine flowing plain lands
One where peace and order reigns
Residence to historic cultural affluence
That chaos admired from afar with pains
Homing the abiding partisan patriots
Entrenched in now ravenous blood hovers
Rustlers, insurgents effected their domains
Notorious bandits we once heard in fables.

Lives lost cruelly to obdurated elements
Imprinting images of guns and deaths
Voices raised; are our leaders ritualists?
Establishing innocent crime-made orphans
Spreading evils, afflictions and destructions.

Many a religious shrines turned death traps
And markets, farms; ransacking poor villages
That barely know governance and her benefits
Turned into flowing river of blood and tears
Emptying plangent hearts to quixotic elites
Rich in thoughts; gliding us to precipice.
Nathan Tom Dec 2020
Somewhere along the road
Frozen deep at home
I'm not dead yet
But I'm still alone

Melt me with a baseball bat
Crush me to bits
I'm not dead yet
But I still feel like ****
Me listening to "Alive" by Pearl Jam on repeat. God help me.
Brian Turner Sep 2020
O'er the Causway road
To the lands of the giants
We smile as the Atlantic roars below
The path is green, our hearts says go

Past the rope bridge we sidle on
The skerries frighten us with their brawn
Careful o' oncomers
Breath in,  they're vaughn

The architect's house
Provides little shelter
The harbour fights
The seaweed felters

Near the hill, the Scots and Rathlin anew
No time to stop, no time for a brew
The waters rage
No traffic, no queue

We reach the beach
'n cross the stream
The weather draws in
The water's sea beam

Back home via Bushmills
The Inn is a stop
Guinness and mussels
The head, what a top

On reflection we drop our pace
For this happy journey is not but a race
What a joy those places are for me
What a joy for you to see
The beautiful causeway coast road from Portrush to  Ballycastle in Northern Ireland. Home to the Giants Causway, Bushmills whisky, Rathlin island a view of Scotland .'Vaughn meaning youth, felters is the German for gather or mat".
Traveler Feb 2020
It’s as bright as hell
my eyes are squinting
Due-east the sun is rising
The shining snow welcomes
a break from days of overcast
Banshee and I aimlessly walk across
the frozen lake to avoid the traffic of the winding slippery busy roads
Dead critters feathers and fur
cars and trucks slip and swerve
Ice fishers on the horizon
year rounders in summer cottages
Far and few people but hardly alone
So I sit on this ice and write this poem
Traveler Tim
Black stone juts out over greying ice,
A mass of alpine greenery,
Half bare, half masked in white;
The motion of a turner painting,
Colours cast through Lowry's eyes.

Camouflaged upon a riverside
With no sign of Lutheran ambition,
As faith faltered, medieval to Christ,
A small church modestly mirages,
Casting simplicity into Nordic pride.

The excitement of the northern lights
Over the precipice of these continents,
American and Eurasian plates collide.
The Langjökull Glacier screams
Witnessing its own untimely demise.

The remoteness captured in the landscape
Starkly contrasts to us who bear witness to it
And in the mirroring of the landscape
A lonely civil dwelling knows nothing
Of war between nature and humankind.
Mark Parker Feb 2020
They say all is fair
    In the chase after the wind.
        As it blows to the North bringing frost
                Snow falls upon my love as war and lust
                                          become bed mates.
All is fair in love and war.
Colm Sep 2019
So you think my storm is done at last?
Just watch and wait till summers end.
When, with a quiet rumble I return.
As a single jar of lightning left.
To speak the words of thankfulness.
And to spark one more glorious storm to pass.
Nothing lasts forever. But for one more year. I'm just a notherner bringing one final southern storm to pass. God give me the strength and focus to do my best.
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
In a distance an emptiness echoes,
another lonesome dove's sigh
is carried away with the leaves

silence annulled by tempest gusts
as late autumn winds
belatedly lay bare the trees;

the sad song in the wind
repined for golden days
bowing sun ripened amber fields
dancing with the moment's sway

now windswept wild feathers  
chase after the waning sunlight
bucking prevailing headwinds
just beneath heaven's glow

sail away! — sail away!
way up on high!
O' birds of a feather
sail away!

begone — bygones — begone
homeward bound
from north and south
on  an algid heavenward flight

Jesse Stillwater ... winter solstice ... 2018
Next page