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Ken Pepiton Jun 8
We all are shown the oak in the acorn.
If , we wished to imagine time as a tree,
we may need to die,
as I comprehend
the process of mortality now active in me.

- but prior to my death.

Did we ever finish seeing trees
and any rooting thing,
really whole?
Below the surface of rhyme and song,
have we ever finished seeing the forest?

Chthonic intertwined mushroom goodness at the root,
breathing fruiting branches forming next in seeds,
orantic posed, uplifted branches,
asking daily bread and dew,
offering feed for men and birds,
and in my mind,
peace is overall a kind of comforting,
a kind of knowing recognitive
when sparked with mere
cast out words to wish with in time, windcast
as spore when puff ***** burst, or
as fire works, in the current
metaphor for knowing
exploding in all who
a feeling,
wait and see, as if
time lapse photography
my own grandmother lived to see.
Our children learn.
And I am not the last
to let that gleam seem magic,
that gleam I saw that one time, in my grandma's eye.
During a cool summer day as grandfather to five children, all but me screen free,
until sunset and perhaps, first star.
Zack Ripley May 11
As cold and lonely as the outside can be, there's a lot less drama and pressure;
You're free
deadhead Apr 28
Outside lies the vast world,
Containing all that is scared
Exploring the far and the wide
Ambitious souls do travel
Never losing their curiosity
Raven Feels Apr 13
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, no one knows you better than yourself:}

you know inside

you know outside

of yourself fears of the dies

they come to a fatal end they cry

letters on night candles lit

not even legal to spit

not sure if I can handle this not a bit

a mad house on the blacks

on dug wholes on the ***** slacks

problem with dignity

pride on admitting the consequences of this troubled malignity

The neighbors seem so vivacious
As they mull about outside my window,
Sun kissing their skin.
The mothers cling to their children,
And sweat clings to the aching muscles of workers
As they bustle,
Hustling mattresses out of the house
And building supplies in.
We exchange cautious smiles
As I sit here in the staleness of my room,
The monotony of this routine.
They are so alive.
I wish I was too.
Payton Feb 24
Darling, do not tell me that you are more beautiful with those drawings on your skin.
You've convinced yourself that they mean so much to you, and no one can even begin to understand, but I want you to know that the real beauty of an individual is more than simply skin deep.
That is why the ink on your skin does not impress me.
Everyone has stories and scars —I just choose not to wear mine on the outside.
This poem was written in 2016.
Disclaimer: I love tattoos and scars. I have some of my own. :)
Jet Jan 31
i am lying on my stomach
after having spent hours propped up on my elbows
spent hours reading, sunbathing
spent hours getting drunk and tired in the sun
i am outside our new chicago home
in a courtyard belonging to only us

i am sprawled on the transparent blue plastic of my past
the cerulean beach chair that never made it to a single beach.
its plastic wound and woven around the metal
like nothing i’ve ever seen before

and i fall asleep

and i’m awakened by the raindrops on the low of my bare back

but it is not raining

and i wake up naked, inside, in your arms as you tap out a tune on me

and the blue chair that we put in the shower
when my brother was too weak to stand
because my brother was too weak to stand
is nowhere to be found
even when he went to live in the hospital
that chair
gathered rust
in a closed, dripping shower

we threw it out
it reminded us of a hard time
he was our only surviving souvenir  

i miss the chair
and i miss the person he was before it all
before he gathered all this rust
2021's thoughts of 2008
KB Nov 2020
The very air is different in those places so untouched,
smooth and unburdened.
You can fill yourself, let it in with a breath
and it will seek every crack and crevice,
it swirls in the lungs and mends.

You could just about leap -
cast yourself from the very pinnacle of earth,
Forget the stone which proffers you
an open palm to the waiting sky,
Let the renewing air cradle you,
lift you up and twist you around,
show you the world as it sees
the wrinkles in a quilted landscape.

Scramble your fingers
along the jagged earth
to find purchase.

Oh, the drop, the fall,
the catch of breath,
how it sings,
how it calls!
Written for barren peaks and untraversed ridgelines.
Vidur Khanna Nov 2020
A stacked pile of matchbox dwellings,
yellow hue visible from the shades.
Meant for hiding the darkest truths
and never to be shared escapades.

A withered leaf struggles to escape,
the branch it grew upon.
The fall wind sets it free,
and the dead beauty treads on.

Across the gravel road of my bedlam,
a street lamp casts a flickering light.
Like the rhythmic notes of a violinist
playing an ode to a mesmerizing sight.

The bard sees a silhouette,
his titfer' tip shines.
Circling the edges of the block,
the watchmen protect the times.
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