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bakunawa Jun 30
fickle winds
spread across him
with all the strength
of a dying breath

it swallowed him
nearly toppled him

stole from him
whispers, sweet nothings
simply bereft.



it was lifeless a sigh
that was her battlecry
like the once flapped
wings of a butterfly

and so they flutter
and they so try

harken
a heart's sweet
sweet hound

the mutiny to cry.

once, had she
silenced him
and never again—

a whirlwind
a heartbeat
and a teardropped
inkstain...

finger painted
across his chest
lock and key
to way back when—

and a life that's stolen
killed a ghost just
about to begin
still. soulless. slain.

a wreck before
he even rode the train.


feeble breeze,
a warm air
reached his ear

like crashing waves
against a lowly boat

he knew the vastness of the ocean
that anywhere else he'd be in the clear
yet no matter how hard he'd try
away, he just couldn't steer—
water and thirst am i right? what it feels like fighting of your worst primal urge.
thank you for reading~~
Seanathon Apr 22
The greatest secret
Allowed to survive in this place
Is that this place is hers
And that I am here
Next to her own
About two tall people
D Lowell Wilder Sep 2018
The moat where we keep watery fowl
afloat feeding them cracked corn
scattered from our parapets.
Repaired the dry rot in the gate, got the
drawbridge working, again…it rusts.
There is dust, makes us sneeze.
Stumble over stones, look at masons
askance.  Threaten grain withholding
(hint:  barley) unless they
make ‘em flush.
How fun to keep
the keep
shiny.
Always interested in  concept of time travel and having to tackle situations with modern skill set.  Never turns out well.
MicMag Sep 2018
|      two       |          |   a nation   |
|      twin      |          |   built on   |
|    towers    |          | ideals and |
|    rising      |          |  grandest   |
|    so high   |          | immigrant |
|    up into   |          |    dreams    |
|    the sky   |          | (and yes...   |
|    repre-     |          |   on slave    |
|    senting   |          |   labor too)  |
|    soaring   |          |    a nation    |
|   ambition  |         |  of mighty   |
|   & wealth  |         |  paradoxes  |
-------------------------------------------------­-----------

                       and then
                      ...BOOM...
                  world changed


             all                              all        
        reduced     ­                broken    
      to heaping                 by hateful  
    piles of rubble          brainwashed
  and raw emotion     men drowned in
tears & fears & rage.tears & fears & rage
------------------------------------------------------------­


we rose from the ashes
united in mourning
national pride swelling
emotions still swirling

we warmly embraced
neighbors and friends
overwhelmed with grief
paralyzed by anguish

we explosively cursed
those enemies who'd hurt us
simmering in anger
engulfed in fiery rage

we boldly surged into war
to defend and protect
blinded by our deep-set fears
dead-set on vengeance

we let the years pass
we still remember
we still recover
we still rebuild

we still rise

from what is clear
but to where?

please let us be wise
Written quite a few years ago reflecting on the terrible, world-shaking events of 9/11.

Still left wondering the same questions.

How will we remember and honor those who died?

How (and to what) will we rise?
Helene Marie Mar 2018
Three years old
He sat slumped on the floor
grabbing at the colorful
wooden blocks beside him
He built his own
teeter-tottering tower
until it was taller than him
His proud self
beamed up at you
"Look! Look what I made."
You smiled
that pitiful smile
that he would soon understand
"That's wonderful! But it's time
to clean up the blocks now."
You disassembled his
hard work and
he watched you
with his small, sad eyes

Ten years old
He had upgraded
to Legos
building extraordinary castles
from the clouds of his
young imagination
"Look! Do you like it?"
He smiled
small and shy
You glanced up
from your pile of papers
"Yes...very nice, but
don't you think
you're getting a little
old
for things like that?"
His eyes shifted
down to the ground
towards his creation
"I guess"
This time
he took his own
towers down

Seventeen years old
he was far done with
building blocks
but he found some
joy
with paints and paper
he shuffled over
to where you sat
"I know you
are probably busy,
but do you want to
maybe look at
what I made?"
Your eyes barely
moved from
the laptop
in front of you
"My teacher said
I should consider
an art major...
they told me
I'm talented."
You sighed
"We've been
over this.
You said you
were going to
school for
business."
He refused to
let his woes
bubble over
"Yeah...
you're right."

Twenty four years old
nine to five
sitting in an office
watching the sparks
leave his soul
He picked up the phone
"I couldn't be more
proud."
you gushed
but little do you
know
He would have given
anything
to go back to
three years old
ten years old
seventeen years old
when he still used
His Own
building blocks
for anyone who has a dream
I remember watching
Back in 1963
A Presidential funeral
There on my tv

My son watched his son
And he saw me cry
Then my son looked up and said
"Why did he have to die?"

Five years passed, a Memphis death
Was felt throughout the land
My son watched this and said to me
"I do not understand"

I looked at him, looked at the ground
And looked high into the sky
My son, said "Dad please tell me?"
"Why did he have to die?"

Again that summer, sixty eight
We stood along the track
We watched the train go past us
We knew he wasn't coming back

My son, a little older
watched as I tried not to cry
He said "it's ok to feel that dad"
"Why did he have to die?"

Years went by and he grew up
Got married moved away
I remember sitting watching
On that warm September day

Two Towers tumbled to the ground
My heart broke, and I cried
My son, went in to save them
"Why did he have to die?"

I'll never get an answer
Till the angel's song is sung
"Why did he have to die?" I'll ask
Why do the good die young?
Poetic T Sep 2017
Towers fall and the face you seek
is your own arrogance.

A stone is a single thought,
but when you build yourself
                               up in delusion,
there is only one conclusion,
                                              a fall.
hazem al jaber May 2017
Tower's poems...






Tower build...

poems created...

only just for you...



don't ignore me...

this ignorance will kills me...

don't forget me...

this forgetting will slays me...

don't leave me away...

don't make my soul get out from me...

sweet lover...

i am the lover, who loves you...

the poet who only writes for you...

and because of you...

i build up my tower's poems...

just to house you there...

build it because and for you...

to read it...

to hear it...

to feel it wherever you be...

so please...

save my all lonely loneliness poems...

read and feel within me so deep...

and live there into my tower's poems...

because there i stay in...

come babe to me..

come to complete me...

hazem al ...
Seanathon Mar 2017
Did he know?

That the stories he'd create
That the characters which he'd sow
Together all at once
Would so quickly grow in the minds of those
Who would follow along and fellowship
Together on this ever winding road?

For wherever there is rock and stone
Or root and earth
Be it on mountain tops or in the valleys below
How his stories over and over again
Will ever accumulate and flow
Through the minds of many so and so's

Did he ever realize the significance of this though?
That I do not know. BUT I kinda started TFOTR just a moment ago. :p

Race you to the Havens.
Rebecca Gismondi Feb 2016
two MTA

workers play invisible baseball across platforms at Union Square

the runs in my tights mimic the skyscrapers
whose marks I see across the black sky from the rear

window while he ***** me in the backseat of his Audi

an alley in Brooklyn,
the threat of a subway slasher,
the likelihood of getting lost,

but the questioning by tourists for direction

if I say “I am one of you”, it

discredits my memories here:

[pumpkins on 34th in July
kisses in bathtubs in Meatpacking
top of the Whitney]

but I am not (yet) one of you:

impatient drivers,
L train riders,
rainbow bagel obsessers

I still feel a hand grip my throat when walking down 5th
and throw my bones off the Chelsea Pier
before I spend 11 hours wondering why I haven’t yet committed myself to you.
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