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daph Jan 6
do you think?
what i think?
do you speak thoughts,
those what i hear?
do i understand?
your body language --- stands!
i assume, i assume
or maybe i dont
"i want you"
is that what i hear?
im saving this for future and from paperpiles
daph Jan 6
and as the day ends
with tender night's kiss
back of my head blends
reaching for something
a hope
a wish
for your goodbye kiss
i found this at my paperpiles
Poetic T Oct 2019
Congratulations to
        everyone who
                                     killed the planet.

                                 My bleached bones were
my tombstone
               an expiry date.

Pasted due,
                            my children
died at sunset.

A planet
                        spinning with
no voices, breath silent.

                              But no one cares,
everyone's expired,
but the plastic lives on.

Plastic shores,
                                       an island
in an ocean of empty hope...
Francie Lynch Feb 2019
You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.
MicMag Aug 2018
World lays in ruin
Our enduring monument
Plastic-covered shores
our plastic will outlive us all
Oskar Erikson Jan 2017
The moments with you, i recycle.
*(some say i mangle.)
but everything gets a little worn out.
Rex Allen McCoy Jan 2015
Ancient doors creak and groan
scraping back the dust
of ages gone
A formidable sight...
like standing guardians
since time immortal

Slinking in
past swirling fog
I pause to calm my fear
adding strength to resolve
when suddenly...
a deafening voice ERUPTS

Solid ground shatters beneath me...
I hover helplessly
Below me...
a noxious boiling maelstrom

The voice of truth EXPLODES from above
ECHOing  my 'Every Sin'
the resounding shock-waves
drive me down

Legs lifted high
to avoid the searing pain
a tangle of blistered hands reach out
and drag me within the churning inferno

Blinding spin and unbearable suction

Scream fades to gurgle

Unconsciousness welcome
though never met

The searing pain still rising yet

Each fibre ripped apart
to molecular particle

Riding the vortex of purification
Separating sins from soul


Cast out
and caught yet again by the uterine web
with the voice of truth
still taunting ...

Mark Parker Dec 2014
Writer's block is like a white stone wall.
Every failed poem in the trashcan is like a brick.
Soon, I'll have enough to rebuild the great wall of China,
and the garbage man will know
many trees have died for my poetry.
Take heed, only you can prevent forest fires.
So, why not have fun with writers block if it breaks writers block.

— The End —