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lua Mar 2022
time slips from my fingers
when i count each passing day
that passes by like passerbys
on a busy street
walking past me, my disillusioned form
an escaped daydream from a chronic sleepwalker
a recurring thought

the clinking of atoms like drinking glasses
the passage of space
things don't make sense nowadays
never really did

i'm just a ghost with no body to call home
translucent and vague
people watching forever
forever a thought bubble in a lonely man's world.
Zack Ripley Jun 2019
I walk up to the counter ready to place an order to go.
With coffee and cookie in tow,
i head to my favorite spot and get ready for the show.
3..2..1 let's go!
What's the show you ask?
I don't know! It's different every day
and plays whether the sky is blue or gray.
It could be a traffic jam,
a man trying to wash people's cars,
someone getting arrested,
or even a guy in a costume saying he's an alien from mars. Whatever plays that day, it never gets old.
I get to learn about the people of my city
while staying out of the cold
My 50th poem! This poem was inspired by someone suggesting writing a poem about something you would see in a coffee shop.
Matterhorn Feb 2019
I wonder,
Do you hold others
To the same exacting standard
As your razor-sharp bangs?
Is that why I've never
Heard your voice?
Why I've never seen your mouth
Form any other expression than that
Pretty, perfect grimace?
"You have beautiful eyes,"
I want to say;
But they remain downcast,
Accentuating your general
Aura of discomfort.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Jan 2019
From the back of the line—
Well, second to the back—
I see her there;
She is beautiful:
Piercing blue eyes,
Wavy brunette,
Sharp, cute nose,
Striking chin;
She is beautiful
Like the other two she is with—
Yet with the melancholy in her jewel-eyes,
More so.

She is much prettier
Than your average third-wheel;
And yet there she stands,
Waving a dismissive hand
At the offer of her two friends—
A couple, hands all over each other;
It is difficult to tell
Whose hands are whose—
To pay for her coffee;
She pays for her own.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Kaylee Lemire Nov 2018
A fifth-wear flannel, reek and all, drifted past me today,
came and went as I sat cross-legged, marinating in the patina-ed
He took one last apathetic drag from a half-burnt

Let it fall through his fingers and onto
the cobblestones below. Callous:
an afterthought, he ball-changed and crushed
the smoke-spitting litter

Left me to stare at it there,
still twisting plumes
of itself up and out, streaking, snatched away
in the wind.

Left me to watch this
wisp of him sputter its
death-throes in the street.
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
Rastafarian perches on a BT wiring cab
Slapping dark green metal and screaming
Obscenities in Patois and nonsense

          Passersby stare; shrieking oldies;
                                       laughing kids;
                                       bewildered Neil;
                                       and I

Sit drinking, taking it all in
The Marquis of Granby, New Cross, July 2018

As part of 'View from...', a collection of observational poetic experiments, whereby I allow myself five minutes to finish a poem regarding my surroundings at that time.
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