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Nolan Willett Feb 2021
The weeds live side by side,
With the roses in a meadow,
Fallen branches of a dead tree,
Help its neighbor grow,
Nothing ever ends,
Death is not an impasse,
When you’re gone,
We’ll look for you in a blade of grass.
nif May 2020
misty days
of moisture and sun rays
grass as tall as tree trunks
rolling by
a breeze fills my eyes
with skunk

nose blind
we roll on
and on we roll
between the weeds
this private show
no one need no
what goes
on and on and on
inside misty
days of mine

kisses by the sun define
golden brown backs
where nails scratch
eggs hatch
we lay

message relay

you cannot escape fate
nor hide truth
but one thing you can do
is be you
honest and true

no matter where you learn
nor from who
relay races
ideas and encompassed facts
as a matter of lies
I feel that
this poem is out of wack

started writing
what I want
the universe only gives
what I need

always pleased to know
I need not much
but provided
and more and more
I remain faithful to you
and more and more
I give to you
you give me too

Full circle
everything everlasting
dance and sing
from night till morning
these are my days  
rich and plentiful
watch as my garden grows
under the misty rays of my
moisture
all over the place but somehow stuck at home
Benjamin Feb 2019
and just how far have you gone for the sake of your "camaraderie," my friend?

their half-glow hearts and prejudiced minds could have swallowed you whole,

or abandoned you, wit be-******, and genius be-******, you
might have died a pauper—

I hear they’d **** a man much more guarded than you, they might string him up,

tie his broken body to a fencepost, leave him ******,

satisfy a tyranny under the watchful eye of a loving God,

trade a boy in Laramie for a jet-black brutal odium,

**** a kid and wonder what his mother did to steer him wrong—

but still you wrote of calamus and of holding hands and handsome lovers,

still you gave us songs to sing back to our lovers, gentle songs,

despite the shame and censorship they cursed you with, despite

the threat that everything could be undone, despite the scripture,

well I must say, dear Good Gray Poet, before I fold my hand,

thank you, Walt, for giving us what you never had.
I take a breath and close my eyes with pride.
His comments seek a lodging in my soul;
The hurt I feel from all he spits, I hide.
He’ll never know he’s found my numb heart’s holes.

“Forever” was his biggest lie to me,
One word, a feeble promise left unkept.
My heart should learn the way his drums beat free.
I’m captive to the trebled tears I’ve wept.

Do you recall when Whitman said “Beat! Beat! Drums!”?
Too bad the drums could always beat, beat us.
At least I got kisses ‘tween rounds of ***.
But still, to him, I’d grown superfluous.

I simply craved some adult discussion.
I guess  he preferred to play his percussion.
Tyler Grace Dec 2017
I sing the body electric.
I'm dazzled by the promise of a greater tomorrow. I'm dizzied by the awareness of my own consciousness.
My body is merely a container for the soul that begs to be removed from its restrictions, for it is imprisoned within fragile bones and tender flesh.
It sings the body electric.
A melody that resembles a plea before slowly releasing a sigh in defeat against its enclosure.
It yearns from something better than what is offered in such a short span of time.
Life is short, they claim but life is indeed long.
Long and harsh, the road ahead.
We travel forward singing the body electric.
ramblings after listening to l4l
Mike Virgl Aug 2017
I forgot when
I lost myself
But I remembered
when I did
Inspired by  Walt Whitman
Kov Bog Jul 2017
Singing death of many while you are still alive
Is like dancing vigorously in front of a crippled child,
Thirsty for that sacred and such evil thing
That makes us human for the time being.
"Gliding o'er all, through all, Through Nature, Time, and Space, As a ship on the waters advancing, The voyage of the soul—not life alone, Death, many deaths I'll sing."
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
Kurt Kanawa Jun 2016
there was never any more of you than there is now,
nor any more of me than there is now,
if we shall be heaven, let us be heaven now,
if we shall be heathens, let us be heathens now,
for you are the south of yesterday
and the north of tomorrow
for i am the west of nothing
and the east of infinity
let us love where we cross
and if we shall cross, let us cross now
and if we shall cross only once
i will make east kiss west
and i will let south kiss north
until we become infinitesimally small
towards nospace and notime
i unbecoming i
you unbecoming you
us becoming from two
infinite at the single point now
at the single moment now
where we are nothing but now
“There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.”
--Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
Baylie Allison Feb 2016
I am a vast dichotomy of tasteful ideals.
I desire to dream the dreams most people deterred.

Paintbrushes touch canvases then lift
as if unsure if they should grace the world with their
beauty or hold back with chagrin.

Bodies burrow under blankets with
banned books instead of men.
I warm myself with beverages in a coffee mug on a
rainy day rather than
a body lying next to me.
We had to write a poem for my English class that attempted to imitate Walt Whitman. I think it was a ****** imitation of someone as amazing as Whitman, but I think it's a pretty okay poem.
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