Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I can't tell you the time I fell in love with love
Where I became crazed and I started to send wishes above
Where my heart first cracked, and I felt it's first attack
Where the walls that grew from the floor caved in and pressed up against my back

Oh, and I can't really remember where I actually felt free
Where I reached that lift off my shoulders and I met serenity

It's really hard to pinpoint these moments, and there's more that I haven't mentioned, but that doesn't mean they didn't happen, and that if they didn't they wouldn't.

Hopefully I one day can pinpoint my first real relationship
One that's mutual, forgiving, full of love, intimacy, and friendship
Where my wishes came true, at least the ones that matter most
And the wounds I suffered so, that they heal, or He'll turn me into a ghost

That the walls fall, and I finally feel my space expand
So that I can fill it with memories and things I love, making it a new land

That is what I would like to pinpoint.
I hope to see it manifest into reality.
She is light weeping shadows
depth you cannot follow
velvet rain on summer nights
lips exhaling sweetest flight

‘Neath the solid waves of ribs
She is storm my inkwell stirring
Mere whirl of finger tips
Erupting in a dance of fury

As we move as one
Fears fade behind
shed like skin of old
in gold and ruby fall

   * * *

Диханието на Октомврия

Тя е светлина плачеща сенки
Дълбина недостижима
Дъжд от кадифе във летни нощи
Устни с дъх на сладък полет

На ребрата изпод твърдите вълни
Буря Тя е в моята мастилница
Щом леко само пръсти потопи
Ще изригне танц най-див

Движим се ведно
А страховете вяхнат
Като стара кожа падат
В есен от рубин и злато
Translation into Bulgarian is a work in progress at the moment.
Преводът на български не е финален за момента.
Don Bouchard Oct 14
“Haunted Houses” (1858)
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table, than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star,
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,–

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
In honor of this "spooky" season, I bring before you one of Longfellow's excellent poems. I am now thinking of writing my own "ghosts" poem about our family home in Montana. Whenever I go there, I can hear and see my long gone family members. Each place on the old farmstead carries memories. Perhaps you, too, have such recollections that haunt you in sweet or for bitter memory.
Lee Carter Oct 13
[F#m, A, E, F#m, D, A, E, F#m]

Zombie Heart, why do you keep coming back?
Thought I killed you long ago.
Tried to hide from you undead love attack
Ran as far and fast as I could go.

Left you somewhere I hoped I would forget
Dug a heart-shaped grave and threw you in.
Buried you down so deep I haven't finished yet
An endless war I know I'll never win.

[A, E, F#m, F#m]

Do you think I like breaking you?
My hands are stained red.
Do us both a favor and
This time just stay dead.
Happy October!
I feel like if I were to pick out life choices, it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

Beside me stood a young oak.
Although I'm looking at him,
he swirled his branches
and his body cracked
to encourage me to enjoy the leaves falling
that would drop out —
in the midday of October.

I picked the book,
thoroughly flipping the pages
while I lick my lips
tuck my hair out;
peered on the white sandy sky.
Lit up the spark in my heaving chest —
in beneath those pages.

I wonder, though,
is life all inside the book?
While I flip through the portal,
why do I keep on walking
the same road
if an anonymous poet
wrote in his book
that a man shall not follow
one's path?
But their beliefs and energy
that goes beyond
and falls in deep?

Then a dead crow suddenly
rocked its way through me
while its side bitten and decaying,
the distinction I have with its life,
brought me back to these pages —
and words scrambled;
alive and beautiful.

I feel like if I were to pick out life choices, it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

At midday in October, once, there was a girl. Her hair swayed and leaves rushing to get her attention — the little bookish girl was alive again for a while.
We've all been dreaming to feel and live like this. Now, read that book and wander. Wander through those portals and write.
Lee Carter Oct 8
Foul, hideous, and horrid
Unfit for natural light.
An image, none as grisly
As the man named Simon White.

Once his heart was broken
So he kept the pieces in a box.
Tethered safely to his hip
With tight chains and key-less locks.

His mind was wont to wander
To clouds too high and skies too far.
So to keep himself grounded down to earth,
He kept his brain inside a jar.

His teeth would never smile.
Traded some and sold the others
Each to an unfamiliar home
Now all without their brothers.

Oh, his tongue was such a bore!
So he minced it to a paste.
He boiled, baked, and seasoned it
Yet still it had no taste.

He grew tired of his eyes
Looking down and looking back
So he took a brush with inked tip
And painted them pitch black.

The shrieks and wails of the passerby
He could not stand to hear.
So he melted a *** of candles
And stuffed the wax in each ear.

His face had done no wrong
But with fear it one day might,
He took a knife and chopped its nose!
Less from prudence and more from spite.
REPOST
Lee Carter Oct 8
Born in nineteen seventeen,
And died in sixty-seven.
His heart gave out, he became a ghost!
But did not go to heaven...

So now he haunts these hallowed grounds
From silver nights to dewy dawn.
His spectral frame glides above the grass
And drifts across the lawn.

But when morning comes and moonlight fades,
He knows it's time to leave.
To allow the other graveyard patrons
Their own time to grieve.

So he floats off to his tombstone,
Lies down in this coffin bed.
Every morning he dreams he is alive-
But each night he wakes up dead...
REPOST
Happy October!
Lee Carter Oct 8
If you have a fear of love,
Then you have a love of fear.
EmperorMoth Oct 5
Who would have known what was meant to be
Some could call it alone, but some would call it free
With all the bodies falling, formed into their ghost
Away they go, to never be as close
Alone again upon the deep blue sea
Amount of trust to fall into deceit
I wish i never made those deals
I wish you all knew how it feels

For every tomb, there is a ghost in there
And sometime soon, they blend into the air

And that's what this all ends up being
Crawling the graves of the lost beings
Next page