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Tizzop Jun 2020
The Ocean Inside


a place made of cosmic dust and water is
inside of me, birthplace of poetry
red voices are echoing through the ocean
in order to create words of vignettes
the lines are floating above the water's surface


how can they escape from the dullness
of my mind? my thoughts are not a poem yet
i have to lure them with music, with adagios
the strings are playing and they are dancing
green layers of feelings transcend me


my hand is not writing on the keyboard
the keyboard is writing on my hands
i can not dictate my muse, she is shy
she only comes out when i rest


the muse wakes me up and overtakes
rivers of oblivion, streams of consciousness
no thinking about the reader or the trophy


a place made of muses and flow is
inside of me, birthplace of poems
pink voices are echoing through the vignette
in order to create words of a special form
the verses are drifting through clear water
Today is a good day.
Vadim Slivinski May 2020
The door, half-open, the sound
Of piano keys one by one
Accelerating, rushing,
Then, softly and gently
Fingertips only
On your neck
And my hair;

The doormat, greasy,
White stains on black,
White stains on white,
White saints above,
And below — white Snow.

Hands jump
From one place to another,
Passionate, yet thoughtful,
Albeit slightly nervous;
A black bough
With a little cloud atop,
Red on white,
White on black
And white on white again.

A lucid view
Through an opaque surface,
Chills mixed with warmth
Within and around;
Muted soft sound
Goes on for a while,
Numbs the senses,
Then, suddenly, a couple
Of accurate and precise
Touches make such
Clear and dazing notes,
That you just sit there

The drum, slow and steady
And swingy and lazy,
As the body trembles,
Bends slightly, freezes
And goes crazy;

Translucent wings
Flutter over white
And black and gold,
The bird serenades
In the dim, shivering light.
He puts
his hands
Around her body
And a calming, warm,
Quiet sound
Of a pulsating heart
Blurs and blends
All the colours:
White on gold,
Gold on black,
Black on white,
White on hazel
And so on
And so forth;

An upright bent
Of the bent upright;
Hold on,

The end.
A friend of mine once said that it's better than ***

Originally published on Medium @ Poets Unlimited

Subtitled 'A jazz-infused impromptu' for reasons unknown
Devin Ortiz Apr 2020
Having decided to go out in a whisper, this vignette, blows through and around the bones of the no longer relevant truth.

It is a wonder how something as simple or complex as a paradigm shift, can usher entire worlds in and out of existence.

I've clung to this narrative that I am a prisoner in my own mind.
That some usurper took the reigns when I was otherwise too weak.
I needed to believe that, that there existed a power beyond me.
That there was some distinct discontinuity between us.

And if we are indeed one and the same, we are also different.
There was strength in being divided, separate, unique.
I've not yet created a reality where being a singularity is supreme.
So I cry out in agony, united in my unknowing.

I write to shape this new form, this new being, this new structure.
I write to fight against the unmaking of my self.
Vadim Slivinski Jan 2020
I’ve been sitting at a local fast-food joint
Waiting for my friend, who was outside
Having a chat with some girl he loved once;
He didn’t anymore and just wanted to set things straight.

I ordered myself a medium strawberry shake
And just sat there listening to Bill Evans
As the most peculiar thing caught my sight:
All around me were men in their 30’s and 40's,
Drinking draft beer and staring sadly
Either at their phones or simply at the table.
They all shared a common tired and dumb look;
Hell, I thought, how low do you have to be
To drink horrible overpriced beer at a fast-food joint
Alone, at 7 pm?

At the next table, two young girls
Were having a dinner; so smily, happy
And full of life I sat there overwhelmed.
Why not just go there and talk to them?
But those sullen faces kept staring,
Rigid and unemotional, except for an occasional sigh,
Immediately followed by a gulp.
I glanced at the same table again —
Those girls were gone and another
Asian woman was siping her coke…

Some hum broke through the Shadow of Your Smile.
I looked around: different men, same posture;
Same look, same sadness,
Same disgusting smell,
Same lonely warm beer.

I picked up my coat and my hat,
Tied my checkered scarf around the neck
And went outside,
This is not a poem
Originally posted on Medium in Poets Unlimited
Mark Toney Jan 2020
Mom's joy, Dad’s
I quickly
God's Word
then God's Will
into my
heart of
do the most
good I
love my wife,
with two sons
our lives
good friends’ lives
end too
gowing old,
as dear ones’
deaths come
when Lord calls,
all things

© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
01/03/2020 - Poetry form: Narrative Vignette - 3-2-1 perfect six sequence is a sequenced three line (three. two, one syllable) narrative vignette form. - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2020
em Oct 2019
splintered at the core, its bones scraping together
hoisting its dying frame, a final cry against the void
chanting and moaning, the screeching numbed, the hate forgot
then the painful halt, the silent fall
the soil forever branded by its corpse
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
cough, cough*


Say twas an "appetizer" to avail
Keen hunger:  poor man's tea and biscuit thence
Sae dry and old, whiles I half shiver hence
In dawn's sheer absence, silence poised in frail
Morn's weary eye we need lights fer, to scale,
My bouncy cheer squelched in a blink cuz sense
Pulls me up short to quarrel like joy's pretense,
And I'll not serve the rye bread yet--sans bail.
How fresh-ground coffee's scent wafts, teasing poor
Desires to nearly swoon on that note's cue.
I'll stretch the butter for six toast in tour,
As well as soft-boiled eggs, if Thou'lt grant to
Me such.  And listen to the Scriptures fer
Just whither, cuz aught we have is of You.

I forget what else to add here.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Oh, let's us sigh and swoon, shall we?


I swear these blue heavns look like June's detail
Back when we'd ***** through grassy trails, a sense
Of lazy hours in tow; pluck mullb'rries dense
With juicy sweetness til our lips to scale
Were purple as our tell-tale fingers, hale
Warmth like a pass'nate kiss we'd revel thence
In, naked arms free as the birds fr'intents,
Hearts as our limbs cavorting down aught trail.
But he pulls me up short to note how poor
The shadows are for such a thought.  These blue
Skies are expansive, that is true; winds stir
Wee Maple leaves to whispring on that cue,
Yet ah, tis nary as warm as our tour
Of forest glades once knew.  I feel what'd woo?

*cough, cough*
The "he" in L9 is my brother.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
...or Once Upon A Saturday Night


With fingers cold as Death, arms naked, pale
In lamplight's ghastly note for aught intents,
Watch as the golden moon 'non rises hence
Huge and sae round as't slowly climbs t'avail
These darkened scapes whose silence maunt exhale,
Half breathless, nary voice to answer thence
Save lo, these men who work late in defense
Of deadlines is't? where I love which detail?
I'd planned to watch that movie 'gain in tour,
Yet oh! how bits and bytes have ceased tae woo,
As if there was at all excuse to stir
Was't simpler joys where even frogs don't cue?
If's lonely, guess I maunt escape in poor
Reply this hungry fate which swears I knew.

This piece is a veritable beauty, dontcha think?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
or Notes From, erm, Sunday [AFTER MIDNIGHT]


So boot up, grab a coat, red scarf, and thence
Wade out to breathe afresh (like to inhale
Ole Winter is refreshing) and none hail
Save lo, the cardnal from a distant hence,
Erm, corner.  Ha, pretend in sheer defense
I don't care, though to roll upon that scale
Yes, "lonely" 'cross my tongue as each detail
Hangs frozen in keen silence haunts that sense.
The lake is as erst wont and still, grey fer
How very white all is!  Wee snowflakes to
Effect land in my hair I 'non in tour
Unloose and shake out whilst a robin, too,
Sans voice half stumbles to the Maple.  Poor
As talking when none answer, what's to do?

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