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David Hilburn Jun 17
Red...
The snore of a ghost...?
Has seen a party, with music fed
A prayer; a sincerity lost?

Catching a breeze
Catching a star
Chances predict, a certain heathen
With marveling eyes, staring at far

Away
Motion of a decision
Saving might from may
A sorrow has spent a stare's lesson

Purpose beyond
Stifling a wish, that gave...
No man a soul, for psyche and longing?
Are we to dance, alone or might we take...

The time to ask
Cause curious, enough to face...
The music, for its compassion of facts?
Seeing a cacophony, I know you, for dread's race...
Lets party like it's nighty-night, benign?
Heidi Franke Jun 7
What is between schocking red, earthly pink, and plummed purple?

Life. Grass. A trembling leaf. Force of green.
My three year old  Serviceberry tree planted in memory has this year bore the berries. The colors shock.
Heidi Franke Jun 5
He died without warning.
Lives fractured
From failing
Air bags,
Ten in all that
Deployed, did not protect.

It happened
Pleading to un do.
On a sidewalk in a fetal position, pleading.

Nothing, no money
Millions or more
Will ever bring him back, but hate takes up residence in your soul, burn until you can't move from the scar tissue.

He would not want hate. He would not want you in this state.

I see it so in every
Red fruit garnished
On the Serviceberry
This year
Three years after your death. I hear his echos, it will be ok.

It's all I have to give
Watered by tears.
Planted a Serviceberry tree after the accidental death of a physician. A tragedy that can not be changed but maybe transformed to allow a manageable life free from the burden of suffering. So many things we suffer over. Let go what you can't control.
Ken Pepiton Jun 1
Saturday after Memorial day,
at the third star, meme

Any ancestor visited
over the holiday, they say,
during the holy day phazem

sayemshakem

thankenthinkentaken
artificial sacred making effect,
are the peacemakers affections

lightfoot tendency to take luck
as good as grace, to live under
as go'ds message receptors formed

from all my nations reasons for liking
Ike and ****, the world's greatest ever
reasons to hate the enemy, most certain,

the law, the charters, since the days
of Rome, nay, farther, since the days
of the written law of fixed intention,

lets us pray aliegiance, under the law
of god, despite the irreal logic of law,

after truth is taken as the key, knowing
we all need to know, all minds made once,
and set aside to try another. Pride knowing,

puffing up the pose, supposed to convey,
ferry, carry across this river, twice,

once for tomorrow, once
just for today.
Notes, exacted out in letters let be any words we mean we think, a state of grace once repeated in penance, piles of idle words, working with us now
Shofi Ahmed Apr 25
The same rose, still ablaze scorching red,  
A ****** from realms yet untread,  
That unfolds upon the ancient, earthen bed—  
But heed the thorn; this way one cannot tread.

Every morning the nightingale sings her song,  
Leaps into melody, ere the day grows long.  
Down the moon’s open eye, once strong,  
To unlock the door, one must belong.

In the quietude, beneath the moon’s aged grace,  
Maybe lies a key forged in shadow,
The sun slides down, lights a candle at a silent pace.  
Who claims this boon, who dares to embrace,  
Must know the rose’s fire, the nightingale’s chase.
Shofi Ahmed Apr 24
The same rose, still red hot,  
the ****** from the other world,  
wide open on the ancient Earth—  
mind the thorn, though;  
this way, the door is closed!

Every morn, the nightingale  
hops onto singing before the sun pops.  
In the shadow of the visited moon,  
keying in the door must be someone's boon!
I could intensely sense the metallic tang
of blood coursing through her weary eyes,
painting a vivid red picture of agony and despair.
It was as if the very essence of life had transformed
into a distasteful reminder of mortality,
akin to the off-putting sensation of morning breath.

The realization that death could manifest itself
within one's very being caused a shiver to travel
down my spine. The odorous assault of decay
lingered in the air, assaulting the senses with
each blink of an eye, echoing the macabre scene
painted by the stained marble floors,
a canvas of violence and loss.

There are moments when I yearn to hold onto
you as a means of seeking stability in the chaos
that surrounds us. Love, often described as a blind journey,
leads me to close my eyes at times, attempting
to shield myself from the harsh truth that love
can sometimes obscure reality.
Ander Stone Mar 19
To tread the depths
of long promised
Death.
I long for those
forsaken ashes
of whom they
promised I would
Be.

To wade the shallows
of promises
and stolen childhoods,
in search of
broken glass
to cut away
the ribbons of blood,
and join in silent song
the ones fogotten.

To sink in frigid waves
of bloodied eyes
and shattered teeth,
in desperate need
of tethering.

To bleed away all warmth.

To let the floods
turn crimson,
and the skies rain rust.

To drown in the emptied
innocence of life.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 23
Francie Lynch gets it! (The Thin Red Line)

https://hellopoetry.com/francie-lynch/

“A poem is like a tickle,
it gives both joy and pain:
with blissful tears and tearful
giggles, you'll read that poem again.

A poem is exactly like
a damaged heart in
need of surgery:
a cut that heals,
a line that
leaves a
scar along your heart.”
F. L.
<~>

I,
now in possess
of said thin red line,
where they cut me
just so, opened
stem to stern
for a rethreading repair, a repaving
of the highways & byways of
my little blue engine that
almost but couldn’t quite could but thought…
b e l i e v i n g
it could eke by for a little longer

new observable routine,
first item of my daily rising
now includes a pre-diurnal poetic
extraction~*******~ejection,
an intro~introspection
of an
introductory, petite reflexive
contemplative
reflection
of life’s mysteries,
like enjoying that
first bang of eye~opening conscious breath and a
disruptive need to spill
a few verbal beans before the
daily dead~lines of to do’s
strangle me into oblivion

a morning dispatched
by the poet paperboy
on his cardio bicycle

with
tearful eyes,
and many mirthful
gaggles of
giggles

yep,
a tickle
too,
no
extra

charge✅
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