Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
First glances are strong and ripe,
First touch is like a midnight musk against my skin,
Right leg goes over and i'm sitting on my black beauty Virago,
She's a warrior, fierce as fire and brings light into my darkness.
Everyone tells me "you're" dangerous but can't they see i enjoy the thrill of the rush between my legs as the rumble dream continues further unto highway 10.
Fresh crisp air, blue sunny sky, these are moments i'll remember when i'm older, true and genuine.
I love my motorcycle and always will,
no one can ever change the rumble dreams i have for my ride.
A lady and her motorcycle. I want to travel the world with you
Sombro Sep 12
My poem's salt comes from the sea
Awash with flailing kelp
And absorbed light, hidden and sweet
Like me.

It rakes the gravel with its fingers
Cooly rushing over its skin
Absorbed and intended back again
When the sun blushes ruby red.

Little seals dot the waves
Mirroring the clouds
Chuckling through their whiskers, beckoning
At the dogs on shore, faithful cousins
To these rotund sprites.

The dried up fields are far away
They gasp for the rain that's closing in
With the prettiest grey clouds
Crickets jump from the Terra Cotta
And spill the Summer air, little breaths.

While ores seep into the mass of blue
Rather than be claimed, and turn the bottom muddy
In pinks and oranges dulled by the jealous green.
The fish enriched begin to talk
And their blessings pip pop upwards.

I think it's beautiful that air goes down down deep
and finds the things that need to breathe.
If only I could follow it
And be consumed by some crease
And become the ocean too.
Jessica Sep 8
My lips are full and red,
They part in numbness and sullen dread
from a winters’ cold
As I wander amongst the trees in a moonlit grove
I pass a fountain
With the porcelain sculpture of an angel
Whose body appears ivory and translucent
in this light blue film noir called midnight
We lock eyes
And the water whispers something secret
from a century ago
Above, a dove flies
And gingerly passes the blooming clouds of Jasmine scented incense
I imagine flying with him
To some other time suggested by the angel
Where my chest could be as light as his wings
And my mouth could sing some melodious  phrases of a heavenly past
To unhook the syringe of solitude
Perhaps with weightlessness of flight
In the rapture of yesterday’s moonlight
Inspired by a Keats Ode.
White Shadow Sep 8
Death is a life changing event,
Not only for the one who die,
But also for the ones alive.

The concept of death feels so vast and confusing, but yet is so simple,
It's like you're travelling from one place to another, just like we normally travel,
The difference is just that we cannot return to the place we died from.

Many of us are here alive but are dead from within,
Our pain, our sorrows and many other are the reasons behind it.

Sometimes I just think death is better living like this.
Sometimes thinking of death gives a feeling of being more alive.
Dante Rocío Sep 1
And now a change of scenery;
the night has truly fallen
now
and departing from
our Baltic Galway
“into the woods”
we can greet the callings
of some shenanigans
luring and
lurking there
to plant or extract ideas
and trespassings
of
our
flickerings.
Have a waiting room
in car rides,
help yourself

And earlier,
barefoot through
sand poured with pine needles
and we walk
nevertheless.
Bare feet open
the way to puddles
of warm diamonds
called sky water
now with pungent flowers
hitting senses like ambrosia,
the way to high embracing
of the trees whilst climbing,
to mud healing,
to impassive conquering
of any earth we
encounter,
to comprehension,
and to the respect
of all that came
and left through
these lands
in the span
of
all
the history.

Stronger and stronger,
closest to the truest
an affection and
calling
belonging
from the trees.
As such I cup one all,
I never want to let go,
there comes a commotion,
like entering the hidden crowd
from which you’ve always known
you truly come from,
like creatures
of a forest looking
in the silence too deep
at a village of
another world.
At first I thought from scientists
that plants don’t like being
touched,
yet as someone
quite new told me:
“Would you
be able to
find such
comprehension, love
and moving
appurtenance if they
didn’t feel exactly
the same towards
You?

Recent forest
walks when I
free my spirit too to
let it approach me
make me feel that
such great intimate
pride of an archer
or
vagabond
bound with it all in
their own story
and perception, and
even a half an hour walk
makes itself a wonder of
a few pages of a
Robin-Hood-like
book
in my presence
walking.

Also, the same
in river’s sole fine
line of freeze,
who holds dear
the mute,
those
who feign not
appurtenance
of this
world.

Let us stop,
we have arrived
already at our shack
and there’s our safe
space that
holds a place
for us to sleep
away.

Another
unconscious lesson
in God’s library,

another
Sun
to
come.
What’s over a garden wall,
Lighting a torch towards the known
Instead of truer unknown,
Magic and Home are already there
From a time before time.

I have been there.
Then.
It’s just the same encounter well,
Just that it is in flesh.
Jim Sep 1
Once I leave..
Once I go..
I leave behind
My troubles and woes

Onward I pass
With time frozen still
Escape from reality
Unguided free will

As I go..
Once I leave..
Weep for me not
Golden pastures I seek

Good fortune I follow
The road guides me so
Pray for me yes!
As onward I go!
I had a desire to travel
across the ocean and
explore the deserts.
But how long
will I scrape your memories
to fly with my severed wings?

Will you help me
in getting the ashes of this body
so that when the storm comes,
I can whisper my last words
and travel far away,
drifting for eternity
around the globe.
Pockets Aug 29
There’s no traffic in the canyon
Just hitch hiking coyotes
That *** to many cigarettes
But always have good stories
All they want is a play boy bunny
To scratch them behind the ears
Where the truck stop soap always collects
They are simple like that
That’s why I never fear all the teeth in their smiles
Dull and worn down by all the miles
They have put on those paws
When we pulled into the next town
They nodded and got off
Back to the puppies
Or back to no life at all
The sun beams down
The coyote walks
Dante Rocío Aug 26
Though another day passes,
once having arrived,
cinnamon sunny
with a misguided preaching
from a catholic church,

I recall our gorgeous
misty evening
right by the waves
from yesterday
and its one peculiar
moment:
my dad pointed to
a far away regatta
sailing in
a distance
whilst standing to my
right and asked
me not quoting

“Do you know why
I wanted to go
to the sea?
The vastness of that body,
no endings in infinity,
no one to tell me
what to do,
and once you sailed away
from the harbour
it was just
it
living.

Whilst I was on my night shift
at the very front
of the ship
on my ever first voyage
by sea,
heading to
England from Gdynia,
I felt as if I
was the very first
man to discover the oncoming
land,
like Cristopher Columbus
with his dear Santa María
breaking the waves”.

Yes, Dad.
I would add,
settled in my question

“Why do I long somehow
in smaller
or bigger
ways too at
times for that
aforementioned harbour
and otherness with so many
sounds, details,
lights and
dancing dangerous like
knives in a tavern
thrown?
For so similar
yet
so privately schemed
departures I paint?”,

I would answer
without Brain,
even if it would be solely
in perfect, dreamy way
sketched:

“Because there is
some greater and
truer breath
of mine held out
by a foreign hand
or by standing lonely
from the other mirror’s side
in front of some tremendous
waves of Kanagawa,
hugging itself small
yet with fearless Child’s
patience, like
the Young Verter
on his painting.
Some more abstract
and
breathtaking
with charisma image
of me there
stands, flowing
instead of walking,
through called aisles.
Beige coat into the
blue falling.

The No Man’s Skies
and Lands
(or yet
Of Some Men)
to be felt with all
the body and
upraising in all hues
and minute sacrifices
in speechless
wonders,
like lagoon’s turquoise
water that would shine
in a cave’s dark
with krill dancing.”

Some upholdings,
some blind images
and all rest
fresh,
windy,
dark
and light with grey
whose voicing
I cannot make,
not just to keep
it in immaculation
to stay non-maimed.

Tss
Ouch.
The Missing.

El,
ese,
acantilado.
Why do I keep having this dream?
These might be now only flickers
Of a proof to come and test it once for all.
Probably a family inheritance
I get in blood or sight
From Adam
So often yet at times
Next page