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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
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.
JM McCann May 2015
This will be no sad song,
I don’t want to overflow the rivers of tears
with a flood of my own.
We have all seen enough to fill oceans,
In dark corners I have seen the fates
sitting around and smile.

Some rivers overflow, and other scrap together every last
penny just to fight another day.

You die, I die, the president will die.
Our voices will not crawl along the edge of
a river rasping at the others to accept the
We will trumpet the tail of the glory of life from the after-party.
Chatting casually with a soldier wearing the wrong colors.
Is there one among us who does not bear the blood of countless souls?

The best champagne will not open to the highest bidder.
Nor will it be enjoyed by one, but by the prostiuite by the cop
by the technician, yourself and I. All of us enjoying each other’s stories,
none shall be left from the table, the best champagne all shall toast
with it.
An epic of a fight with a lion and the wind, of living through time
and the difficulties of never cutting the delicate surface no struggle
greater than either.
The old skeletons will find new life and I will dance freely with them
arm in arm, for a second or eternity.
We will stand proud together singing and dancing before the after party.
Then we shall toast to it all.
We shall toast the ever so careful historians,
did they really think they could fit, even the after party on
any number of pages?
So I'm thinking of cutting from the start til You die I die, thoughts on if I should? And any thoughts are always more than welcome!
baz Jan 2015
A leather-bound work of art catches my eyes and convinces them to feast upon what it has to offer,
They gobble up each word, those gluttons, stuffing themselves,
Until they get full and dizzy to the point where I’m reading the same line, the same line, the same line, over and over again.
I fall into a trance and my mind begins to curiously wander.
My soul takes this atlas of all that has existed, exists, and will exist, and uses it as its play ground,
Jumping over the letters, sliding down the “J”s, weaving around the “S”s, jumping over the “O”s, and ducking under the “H”s.

I pick up this narrative of life and attempt to decipher the map of all that was, all that is, and all that will be.
For this novel tells a story of one and tells the story of a million,
And it is my mission to read every single word, to pause at every comma, and to flip every page.

I realize that out of all of the stories in this compilation of creations,
I am just one of them.
I am one sentence,
I am one word.
Inspired by Walt Whitman.
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