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Graff1980 Sep 5
I’ve been looking,
through glass windows,
reflecting city lights
of the night life.

Strange phantasms
pass like distorted
carnival glasses,
mind mirrors broken
from the harsh words

I’ve been searching,
seeking the smiling hearts
of brave angels
who face hateful strangers
that are full of poison,
and spitefully spitting
sick syllables,
possibly contagious,
as they go
instantly viral.

I’ve been watching
cops stopping
particular people,
seen one to many
real life movies
that end in tragedy,
and in observing
the hurting
of children
and elderly folks
I have fallen
to tears of rage
and anguish.

I’ve been wondering
if in my wanderings
seeing this sideshow spectacle,
of disrespectful,
cruel, and hateful
have I found the true face
of America?
Mirroring for my bridal song.
Opaque reflecting.

Confine my white, blue and yellow or
Yuzu fruit underwater.
The slice of life's parrot.
They sing
The flight, they might be
Waiting at the traffic light.
Narratives speaking out of features.
Features of the strange signature of a left hand.
Explaining is the evermore expectation.

Even when a movie plays
It is not just watched anymore.
The evermore explanation.
Left hand shaking striving in time to help the right.
As it always has been.
Perhaps it had not been seen.

Looking at straight lines like shoots.
The sunshine of restart
Falling slowly.
Tiny windows through a
Favourite scene when the weather is weary
Like watching a movie.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
ManxPoetryGuy Aug 13
Cars flying by like Airplane’s in the Night

Create a stream of colour, like an ocean of Light.

Firefly backlights swim on a toxic cloud of Blight

Leading me down their path of Flight.

I- Oh, the path is closed.

End of the Road.
I’ve been gone for a while, hope to get back to writing now I’ve got my creative juices flowing.
Chris Aug 11
I melted fear
Ice of the trapped
But that grew doubt
Hunter of smiles

I run but its smart
My heart will see the good
But my mind..

Will analyze you to shreds

Should my guard ever fall

Know you have a gift..

Its the task of a saint
Loving a heart of blue paint
People try but its hope feels so faint

So as I fall in endless rhyme
I still get back up with every line..

Knocked down reliably as air gives life

Becoming more human every time
Dante Rocío Aug 9
or any other sibling
of it
doesn’t realise itself solely
through the mannerisms of
choice of company,
activities or
similar antics.
It mainly possesses in
its hold our
mind as a way
of revealance,
as our
thoughts might cling
on it dependent,
in constant
shouting & fleeting
from Stillness,
our lone
OR either have
‘em all ready
in conscious observation
questioning on
the inside in your
private voiceless,

to detach yourself
from others’
it’s all,
felt sublime,
when the latter,
comes and makes,
itself a
Extrovertism kills me (like
Alcohol in excess),
Introversion heals me,
Only then do we wake up
To excess injuries
By the junk of existing in vain
(Among the intellectual garbage).
We're not for the public
To their rational pleasure
That fascination by how mental
tension both in thought and muscles
changes into sophisticated bliss
when you no longer listen to reply
yet to understand and give yourself over
I’m ambivertism tinted
luringly chosen solitude.
And the sun couldn’t scorch
my thoughts aloft to more
Paul Quinton Aug 9
It did not happen
    it would have happened
        it could have happened
            it should have happened

It did not happen
longing for unrealized possibility
Jana Pelzom Aug 4
It’s getting a bit hot out here,
It‘s been my lingering fear;
Childhood blessed with mamas humming,
Now replaced by some mechanic droning,
Blowing cool air
This little white machine,
What powers it holds
Keeps going past midnight until I come around,
Then continues on
As summers background sound.
AC ©️2020 Jana Pelzom
Carl Fynn Aug 3
Lying helplessly in grace
Beauty buried in clouded thoughts

Stunning resplendency glowing in a thick fog
Eyes are the window to love
Character glues the hinges

Love me, love me your heart screams
Fear triumph in joy

The answer is the problem
Fake is real
Real is false

Lucky bird tweeting in the dark
Find solace in the echo

Some answered the call and fell
Hold on to your guns and hope

Till another echo reaches you
Lucky bird in the dark.
An Observation

The aim of Art is to express its own self by the means of its specially codified articulation. Whether one choses to employ language, paint or plastic, as a mean of expression, it matters little in the outcome. Art has always had its way, and never failed – what has is public reception. In this day, when much craving for realism and concrete is asked for, it has embraced the shape of abstract and ideal. By opposing the modern demands of Life, it stirs us from our sensing percieving, and points to the introspecitive and intuitive. Turning to these two, which go hand in hand,  we are likely to find closely associated romanticism. The meaning of romanticism has shifted its form and rules in the past centuries, but it was always present in them. There is in Thebes the young girl professing she was born for no other purpose than to love. Amongst the reeds, there shifts the nymph into the laurel tree, its bark swollen by sweet – liped god's tears. On the island of Albion the king passes into the shadow of Avalon. Back in Italy, the maiden pots her lover's head with basil and mourns for her life. The young prince in the North sacrifices his life in attempt to avenge his kingly father. The doctor's wife ruins herself and her family, to end her life in sorrow and agony. The modern Narcissus achieves eternal youth for the price of his soul. We feel a certain deterioration from this image in the time that came afterwards, which may be attributed to the external circumstances that spun our beliefs, culture, taste and thought. Something deeply changed grew within the contemporary thought, and through Life realises itself by strict exactness. Through Art, it realises by fluid abstractness. As a result, many refuse it, some agree with it, while the minority strives to feel it. The good question to ask oneself, when facing the contemporary Art, would be how to reach for the meaning with what is present in front of one. For, very so often, we might feel an isolated vagueness scratching at our minds and emotions, and turn away from it. The starvation in the incomprehensible frightens us, because it is the answer to the strict exactness – for which we haven't asked a question. In this light and its shades, we search for the long lost ideal of romanticism. „Romanticism is always in front of life“, Oscar Wilde stated in The Decay of Lying. In the past century we have witnessed a few attempts of applying it to the modern Art, but in vain.  Where Marsyas once used to cease in his song, in his being, there came an ever – fulfilling silence. It is not uncommon to see young readers or admireres of Art returning to the old masters nowdays, and it delights their teachers to see so. What should disturb us, is their lack of notice for their contemporaries. It simply urges us to refine our methods, reach for the pure and unbroken visions – untouched - and confront our self – restrictions. We have become overfocused on self – protection and preservation from crude attacks, imposed by the fashion of our time. What is needed, much as ever, is to embrace the emotions, purified by their sense of rawness. This comes to be the vital substance of all creation. Without it how much longer are our inner worlds to endure?

Oh, give us complex beauty, tender beauty, distant beauty – but always, always – our cry is for beauty.
eye to eye they met
embers burned among the leaves
yet cold pierced one's skin
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