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There’s nothing like a zesty story
    to tell us who we are or were.
It could be spun in a fabled myth
   of gods with mortal kids
or a saga of proud and shiny empires
    blasted back to primal dust.

It might be painted in a cave in France
    or etched on a Pharaoh’s crypt
or finely quilled on parchment scrolls
    and even set in rows of mobile type.
Human stories spinning across the eras
    that tell us who we are or might become.

Latter day oracles pull on laboratory robes
     and prophesy of molecules and DNA
writing new chapters with every rising sun
     of how the universal pendulum swings.
But will someone please reveal the trail
     from what is to what ought to be
and free us from Pandora’s curse.

Robert Charles Howard - 2018
I want to keep
the version
of you
that's
only
friends
with the
moon & the stars
somewhere far from wishes and washes of light waves crashing  - --- curves and shores
at moonlight and rough waves,  i sea you float by hummmming,
soothing, swooning, 1920's jazz blues and melodic piano - maybe sad show tunes.
down in the dark, past depths you sea.
i stay down here
im a monster. afraid
but  i can breathe in depths that be.



i've learned to live though.
its actually quite peaceful
not a sound.. not a swim.
just me. floating . and at peace.
I've found restful nights in my solitude. knowing that you're afloat. somewhere. drifting. down below or up high. idk
not too far though.
you'll get your fur wet.


one night, i met the god of the sea and he asked me if i could have anything what it would be.
.
.
well i thought long and hard.
and said

"i wish that no matter where i go, where i float,
how far from sea to sea, that lion on the blue.. her love and heart.  and her stars think of me."

that no matter how many leagues in the sky and sea.
that she looks down at the water - up at the moon. and hums her tunes, thinking one day, that she looks down at me. wondering what love lyes in the darkness that be .
that this krusty krab remains her bearer to be.
a monster to some
but no matter how ugly.
remembers every hum and song she's uttered for the sea
..
its actually quite peaceful
not a sound.. not a swim.
just me. floating
away but never far. that feeling. that be.
Zia Sep 13
there was little wonder
near the end of our tether
we decided we wouldn't linger
smiling at each other
we said good-bye for ever

i replay the scene over and over
and I can’t help but wonder
has he moved on to another?
is she much better?

i don’t want to remember
but it’s like I have a fever
in the middle of summer​
Stories of burning in the sun
fizzle out after a couple generations
Stories of salt filling our lungs
will outlast many civilizations

The sun burns quickly
like a brief moment of excitement
that wanes away while we search for
the next blazing hit

The sea pummels slowly
like a life of enduring and remiss
beating you down day after day wholly
until you sink into the abyss
Emma Sep 10
I am the sister
of those women
who stood in their
"once upon a time"
and demanded that their true stories
be heard.

I am the sister
of those men
who demanded that their trauma
not be forgotten
by those who wished
to silence them.

I am the friend
of those who suffer,
whether it be solitude or
in company,
and they shall know that
they're not alone.

I am the child
of those parents
that can't understand
how their child suffers,
and I am the child
of those who do.

I am what embodies
every soul in creation.
There may be no god,
but they were never needed.
We are the ones to decide
when the stories cease.

And I am one
of those who say,
"the stories will end
with me."
mermaid Aug 29
wishing is dangerous..
if not for you then for me
once i wished for someone
who would save me
and one tipsy little thing
you saved me and then wanished

wishing is dangerous..
at least for me
you know why my wish came true
'cause i was saving all the wishing stars
but ohhh why i cant take my wish back

wishing is dangerous..
such a dangerous thing
but now i would wish
for someone to wish me
even if that would back fire me harsh

wishing is dangerous..
and so fucking wrong
Kat Aug 28
From the blood on your wrist.
You draw a door in the mist.
In the small town far from New York.
Where there are trees and trees and trees some more.
In the small town far from New York.

It only works if they let you in.
The ones who have finished their stories choose to open the door with a twisted grin.
They always have a purpose to let you win.
But you never win, you can tell in their twisted grins.

At least 2 must be there.
One to go there and one to go nowhere.
The one to go in must be ready for nightmares.
The one to go nowhere must but be ready for pain they can't bare.

There are bridges in the form of certain people instead.
But don't think you're a tourist and think you can leave when you want to go home and it's time for bed.
You can visit a bar and ask for information ahead
But if you can't find a bridge, you're stuck, mess with the stories and you're dead.

But this is where you get stuck.
Unless you have intense good luck.

Althea lives all the way.
She's old and crazy but the spinner won't let her die anyways.
Travel like Alice it'll only be a day.
A day in the halfway
is 2 days in the real world okay?

Don't go seeking fairyland
Because you will age immensely in that magical dark woodland.
Don't go seeking fairyland
Because you won't be able to leave until the spinner says you can.
Anyone else read the Hazelwood? Just me? Okay I'll leave
My drum has perforations; now flawed
Mylar parchment once taut on bone
Leaks prose; but each metaphor pored
Percussive skull reverbs teeming tome

Waning instrument yet waxing lyrical
Tympanic threepenny opera still plays
Snare split - verbose facial spiracles
Whip quick flick of offal; tongue flays

Well weathered but - oh still sensual
Drum bongo crammed with lyrics learned
Skin leathered; worn – still beautiful
Spills tales – well told – well earned  

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
The head is the drum of our band! Our instrument, through which we see, speak, hear, smell and feel! We use our "head-drum" as a musician uses their drum....to tell tales...and, the older the drum, the more stretched the parchment...the better the story!
Lyn-Purcell Aug 23


Loving hymns blessings
the moon's pillowy softness
Life upon my breast
My silver knight sleeps in peace
Meek, ethereal flower

Soul born of the stars
His smile so meek, sweet and sad
His eyes are so bright
Silken arms wraps around me
My blessed silver-tongued hero

Our kismets are tied
Our foreheads touch so gently
We succumb to Hypnos call
Hand in hand, our bodies soothed
Our souls kiss happy


Haven't written a tanka in a while! ^-^
Lyn xxx
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