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Maple Buckets Jun 22
Tip
Of the tattle tellers tongue
Tenaciously Terse tales told
Tending to tea and tempting taboo
Ren Sturgis Mar 28
#T
In my hands I hold a pen, not a needle, but a pen.
Oh how I wish it were the needle.
Both hold the expression to that which I hold dearly.
For it's not just a pen or a needle that I hold;
It is me!
fearfulpoet Sep 2020
wrestling with angels

slept three hours max, my brain is a stew le ragout,
***-au-feu, a *** on fire, my dopamine is dope,
and seeing ladders, escalators going up and down,
angels all want to try wrestling with a protected poet
beating this poet a  internet-fast way to fast fame!

one who dares to tell the Boss to f
k off, who takes
none of the deity’s lip, mock imitates His deep pomp and
circumstance voice, gets away with poetic saucy disregard,
cause poet worked his way into a corner of His affections

all just because the poet keeps telling Him to stop
this tortuous interference in human affairs, to lay off
the string pulling in lives for His amusement and
satisfying a reality TV craving, why can’t He change,
the channel to Lifetime and get tears vicariously, like
an ordinary minor deity, nah, not Him, he loves His
wrestling so, even though, everybody knows that

wrestling is so fake.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Sep 2020
There is nothing but the murmur of your breathing, the moonlight
spreading its luminous light cutting through the darkness across the
white sheets. I am the keeper of the silence. You, Sarah, are the
keeper the sensuous. Now you sleep, but gently I begin by kissing
lightly your forehead, so lightly you do not move. I kneel on the bed
beside you gazing at your long, flaxen hair that the generous, silver
moon graces with its silver streams. There is nothing wrong with
silence or the darkness of the the rest of the room, a chiaroscuro by
the ghost of Giotto. I slowly pull the white sheet from your shoulders
to below your knees without awakening you, a panoply of pulchritude.
With only my eyes, I touch you. I am enraptured. In silence and darkness
and silver streams, there is no time. I am the keeper of silence, an august
post, more regal than any throne, any crown. Sleep, dear Sarah, as long
as you wish, for there is no time when we are at the epicenter of love.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet, an essayist, a writer of aphorisms, a novelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
#t
TEASE YOUR EGO.

trust my soul .

TAME YOUR MIND .

take my time .

at the end,

tEaR eAcH oThEr ,

BrEaK ___ hEaRt(s).
I'LL / you'll / wE'lL
Fill in the blank
salimon pelumi Jan 2020
AUGUST 29----08:50am
          In a mild weary night
    When mortals in final seek solace
        With their earthly deeds upon them tight
        to encounter a burden bound for see

Which apprise with unawares sneaks
        In many vision the world in view
     Then,range who in mystery pick
     May mordant or mellow with few

  Ascending instance as realm poke
  And a shrewd with cognizance attain ray
Which those folly with volition smoke
And in reality realm their mordant hay

               In  a wild scary night;
         When mortals in finals seek solace
         And precious embraced in flight
           By fierce angel subdue case

            And mortals are all nature minded
             Of any trifle or prime revelation
             Destined,as of subdue minded
       Then a dream is a theme of revelation.
                                                                                            #@T.G.P
                                                                                          #@Salimon
Dream is another method of revelation which God choose to tell what is about to happen to a person or someone's people
Tim Jordan Jul 2019
Mistah Gates. He dead"

Time is an ouroboros and
the Earth a flat circle

Measure out your life
in insta pics

Let us go then, you and I,
through empty diamonds
and deserted play grounds.
Let us visit, if you will,
the battlefields ,
streets full of bodies
that decay in minutes.

In waiting rooms people come and go
and speak of tanks and Bushido
 
Eyes I dare not meet
Can see me with their headpiece
made of straw

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Forgotten, as we stare at our new ones.
This poem is intentionally jagged and imperfect, much like me.
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