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Jessica Jan 24
This cosmic canister carries the world’s disarray-
Our destinations different, our feelings the same.
Though we have regular meetings we remain strangers;
Heads down, uncomfortable.
A pattern forms in our lives which none exits, our sacred routine which if changed is wrong.
Empathetic eyes glazed with weariness.
At each departure, a new inhalation of caffeine and smoke,
A new wave of bodies,
A new mass.
We all contribute to the mass, but the mass never goes,
Only waxes and wanes with the seasons.
We travel as one, carried by destinations, riddled with enigmas.
The hour reaches 6:00 and the mass bulges; the kettle is at its boiling point.
We move as agitated atoms riling against one another.
The world’s day draws to a close, as our microenvironment wakes.

A man exhales stale disappointment- no promotion due.
The coarse skin of his fingers caresses
The constant happiness in his life;
Helping him live, hastening his death.
Unable to inhale satisfaction, his suit clad leg
Writhes underneath the table,
Distracting him, but alerting others of the craving.
Although his tie is straight and his briefcase orderly,
A lose thread and weary eyes give him away-
He’s tired; tired of life, tired of the necessary endless routine
Which holds him and his livelihood captive.
It weakens and sustains him simultaneously.
His secrets define him.

A girl sighs, her cheeks wet,
Tears heavy with hurt.
A bruise has settled itself on her forearm;
A warning for the next time she comes home late.
Her skin has become a canvas and everyday more paint is added.
Her permanent ink hides the painful marks
Yet the latter seems to leave the most lasting impression.
Her face is scarcely discernible;
Metal studs line the place where her smile should be-
They are so many that her humanity becomes robotic.
Her secrets define her.

The tube we sit in holds heavy hearts, new smiles,
Old friends.
The mass becomes one as each day our routine returns,
Unchanged.
We get to know our fellow travellers
Without really getting to know them at all.
Their influence on our existence seems insignificant,
Yet they contribute to the steadfast mass that so grips our little lives,
Whilst we hold on to sanity by a single thread.
Our secrets define us.
Glenn Currier Aug 2018
The hair on the back of my hand
glistens in the lamp at night
it tells me I am a man
I am a creature
a thing created.
I did not create myself
even though I act as if I did.  

You made this body
and you keep it alive.
When I look at my hand
sometimes it reminds me of Jesus
who was also a man.

I yearn to feel his touch
his arms around my shoulders.
How often I need his hand
on the small of my back
giving me a gentle shove.

When I picture that hand
in my mind’s eye
I see the hair
the veins that bring the blood
from his heart,
a heart so full
so big it reaches to heaven.

It also reaches into my heart
when I think of his first noticing
and then stooping down
to touch the person on the side of the road
the person nobody else would go near.
I am touched to tears.  

That was the hand of Jesus
reaching down as it does now
to this sinner.
This is another of my spiritual-awakening-moments. I find myself on this site with poets/creators many or perhaps most of whom don't relate to the godstuff and yet I feel at home here standing in this garden and all of its fabulous and rich fruits - creations by these lovely creatures. With gratitude to all of you and to David Chadwell for his web piece entitled: “How low will Jesus stoop?”
Debbie Brindley Feb 2018
Notice the things about
the one you love
Like their beautiful smile
The way that they dress
their own style
The tone of voice with
each change of mood
Or funny habits when eating food
The sound of their laugh
That look
just for you
The way their lips pucker  
as they drink
The way their **** looks
when they stand at the sink
The shape of their hands
The arch on their feet
All our loved ones are very unique
The color of their hair
Or expression in their eyes
The feel of their skin
The touch of their thighs
So make sure you notice
what you have today
Because someday
it may
just all go away
Stop and appreciate
Whisper Yes Oct 2017
I notice the group of homeless people I see every morning
However this morning they are fully involved in some sort of drama
I notice how one man puts his arm around the other man
I notice the humanness, the support, the love and care

I notice the woman with the **** on her back
It pushes her fully forward so she can't see the sky
I notice her and her husband walking along by the sea
I notice how he is holding her hand
The sight fills my eyes with tears
I hope they go and drink a coffee and share a slice of carrot cake
I hope he kisses her cheek and tells her he loves her
I imagine a blanket of love enveloping them both

I notice the woman with the gold sandals and bunch of floweres sticking out her bag
I notice her dishevelled hair and clothes
I sense her aloness
Her sandals and floweres make me smile
I hope they make her smile too

The moments of beauty
The human need for love, beauty and support
These moments are all around
Within the sadness and dark realities
They are there
The magic is there
I saw these three things on my run this morning....❤
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
in trouble
~

I AM
the crime scene.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

one day I'm ******* SNAP
Angel Feb 2016
For the first time I noticed,
that I am not the only one.

For the first time I saw,
that they knew how I felt.

For the first time I felt,
how hard confrontation is.

For the first time I saw,
how what I did hurt them.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
the less I
know.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Charlie Dec 2015
They tell me to write about love,
but I'm not sure I know
what that is.

Is it the warm feeling,
the soft sigh listening to
the smooth sounds of Sinatra,
or is it the insane laughter,
the inability to wipe the smile
from my face,
when I'm with you.
Is it the in between moments,
just noticing,
noticing the quiet, lovely things,
the silence that isn't
all that silent

Maybe, but

It surely isn't the
feeling of home or
the prayers to God,
or the shouts of rage,
the obligations,
or the "have-to's"

If its love because
it's supposed to be,
because you should,
then I don't want it.
I don't want that "love"
wrote this for a challenge poem ..
Frank DeRose Apr 2015
I draw you closer,
The better to feel your warmth.
Radiating,
Emanating.
You lie against me,
Resting silently.
I look and notice--
I notice so many things.
The way your hair frames your face,
The way your scent lingers around you,
How you didn't take your makeup off,
Even though you remembered to take out your contacts.
I notice smaller things, too.
I notice all the distinct curves--
From your forehead,
Down past your eyebrows--
I notice the arch of your eyelids,
Contrasted with those dark lashes.
I notice your nose,
Slightly upturned,
And how your upper lip
Juts out further than your bottom one,
Giving you a slightly elfin look.
I notice everything,
For so rarely am I afforded this opportunity.
To notice,
And not be noticed.
I draw you nearer,
My arm draped around you.
For security,
For protection,
From the loneliness inside my heart.
Written after a night spent with a friend I was interested in romantically at the time. I wanted to explore the idea of reversing the dichotomy at the end as to the intention behind my actions.
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