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Em MacKenzie Oct 9
The colours to illustrate you don’t exist,
and even if they did I still would miss,
a single shade or hue
that fully captures you.
Better than a Mona Lisa smile,
and Starry Starry Night eyes,
I tried for a mosaic but there was no perfect tile,
nothing could do justice, blasphemy to anyone that tries.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
every gallery should be honoured to have you on their walls.
Too complex for graffiti on the streets,
too heavenly for concert halls.
I can write you; rainbow and tornado,
orbs of faint blue, and a grin of sweet day glow.
Oceanic waves and erupting volcano,
the sun’s ray that came on through,
and the embrace within the wind’s blow.

There isn’t a single brush head I could find,
that could stroke each corner of your mind,
it’s too complex and deep,
it’d be so stunning, it would make all weep.
Putting shame to an Impression, Sunrise
and casting shadows on Lady with an Ermine,
as just a simple picture of your eyes
would last eternally through time.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
not meant for a mere mortal to possess.
Completely perfect personality, traits and feats,
every other human design was just a test.
I can write you, style and rhyme,
blindly bright, natural sunshine.
Digging only at surface to fit into each line,
but there’s no describing what connects it all or the bind.

I know the answer but if you said,
that your favourite colour was red,
I’d let myself bleed out to provide you some paint.
Non acrylic and totally free of lead,
I’d wish for you to illustrate the picture  within my head,
even if the proportions are wrong,
and the lines are blurred and faint.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
completely impossible to duplicate.
Though unfinished you’re still complete,
amazingly flawless in this state.
I can write you; every day till I die,
until the pages and filled and my pens run dry.
Deep like the ocean, but bright like the sky,
and you’ll steal the hearts and breath of all passing by.
J J Sep 10
Weeping sonatas haunt the patio
Underlined with your twisting fingertips
Once ablur and tracing Beethoven Debussy
Mozart and Bach and it's all gone now—
I still recall your grey eyes as clearly as the rusted
and snagged red wood that forms the old arbour
Where we use to sit and trade stories.
Still here and seeming
A relic that should have been forgotten.—
I  watch the sun turn the wood white
Then crackle crisply into night, I can still
Hear your spectral steps from the day you
Left us.

I slept in the bed that used to be yours wondering
Written about two years ago.
J J Sep 9
Lovely whispers cycling the night in
      Clearer than words ever could. His body
Emaciated and drenched in rainfall water
     Falling wishywashy on the mountain top
Which grips the sun as divinity-scannihg eye.

Met in icy surface that separates the dead and the living
From those who live in limbo;
      Purgatorial letters swapped
In gregarious burials that permeate a life of suffering
Better than any etched headstone could.

Would you trade your skin for water knowing
It'd save someone you never know?
Would you paint the sky gold with old red stars
Still poking through    just so

He knew that his journey was not just to die?
To all the kids from 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, and all the others who were told they're to young to be a poet.

To all the theatre kids who can't sing but do it anyway

To all the people who post vines, memes and jokes on here.

To all the people who post poems while they're in class, or in the middle of the night.

To all the people who are open and proud about their sexuality and gender.

To all the closeted people who still post poetry about it.

To all the people who quote songs, movies and musicals.

To all the people who post the conversations they have with their friends.

To all the people who were told they're bad at writing, bur do it anyway because they like to.

To all the people who are unsure about their writing.

To all the people who support all these kind strangers online.

To all the people who support all poetry, no matter what gender/age/sexuality the person has that wrote it.

To all the artists that wanted to try something new.

To all the people who have known this site for years.

To all the people who are new here.

To every poet I haven't called out,

You make this community even better. I love you.
Y'all are amazing and valid, I love you.
J J Aug 21
Cresol dusk imbued to rustic hypnosis,
The civic stroll outside,zombified with
What must be glorious ataxia.

The masquerade hosted by dust,
An implicit surrender to the elements,
Basked in nocturnia-- lo,

The elements ceased having meaning
When I learnt I could not hold control
  over them.

See the sky ramp and shiver,shuffling stars
In a showcase to those loving,an augury to those
Self-appointed sinners--

And see me,disconnected and without a care,
I surrender my breath as limboid tangents
And the elements do not rebut.

I am homed in becoming alone,
I am possessed in converse and I am lost
  without the choice to be otherwise.

I watch the gimcrack mannerisms loop effably,
Understanding the road to omniscience is tipped
In ego alone--

One must not surrender,rather accept
And work a way round the system.
The cosmic map is eidetic,it's lanuage
  dares not pander to speech,
  it's sleep is one day needed
  and complimentary to our own--

I listen to the madrigal and no longer seek to compose it,
I choose to believe that nothing is chosen.
(LONG AFTERWARD) I began posting here under a different name years ago and decided to revisit the site only recently after a string of publishing rejections,despite an urge to abandon poetry all together. What's amazed me most is the growth of talent,particularly one S. Olsen,looking through much of my older work(few of which ive published here) I've found a lot of similarities,from similar phrasing's,vocabulary,format's,viewpoint's,etc. Despite not knowing of him until recently. Simply put,he is the poet i aspired to be when poetry was what my life revolved around,the best of his kind. I would rank him among my favourite contemporaries and if not for this site I'd never have discovered him, this poem shows more of my voice than his,I think,but that is a further example of his own unreplicable voice. Keep strong,brother, whatever helps helps and your writing has helped me greatly.
Money didn't save Steve Jobs from death.
The physicians couldn't restore his health.
Sadly, he passed without taking his wealth.
So, in God Almighty alone invest your faith.

Steve Jobs built a very great empire
In which he had planned to retire.
Though he died, his name will never expire
Forever to his legend, will generations aspire?

Steve Jobs was a very good man
philanthropic with a helping hand.
Even that too didn't save him at all
In the end, death came with the call.

He gave us the iMac and the iPod
He gave us the iPhone and iPad
So he will forever be in our lives
In our homes and in our kid's lives.

#IvanBrookspoetry© #@Bassapoet©
      Aug. 2.2019
Gone but not forgotten.
I have often seen him pace the strip of grass
Stretched along the riverfront all alone
I have never asked him why he did so.

This morning it had rained,
The tender grass looked greener and prettier,
The flowing river full and furious;
Pleasantness rode the air and I was delighted.
For once, I wanted to match his stride.

“I want to join you”, I said.

I heard him say -
“I am a loner. Stay away.”  

There was no anger in his voice,
There was a distinct firmness.
I did not approach him,
I watched his moist bare feet drip caressed by the grass,
He felt pleased and lost in his thoughts,

No one is ever alone I soon realized.
Nigdaw Jun 20
Member of the 27 club, too young to die
Too fast to live, only lent to us
A break in the clouds that let some light in,
Original flash of inspiration jumping
From my radio to shout, music isn't dead
Too soon to leave us only wanting more
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