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Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes pasted along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam naked in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Some days and nights, that young maiden of
Moorea does still visit me, in dreams as real
as can be. She never grows old, nor does the
beauty we shared for that one brief moment in
time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her sixties, most likely
a Mother, even a Grandmother yet living.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?

How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged

Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?

The Arrivals Board flashes:
                    une poétesse est arrivé
                    eine Dichterin ist angekomme
                    a poetess has arrived
                    una poetisa ha llegado

Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?

Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout

Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother

Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming

Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:

Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria

But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address

Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking

This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land

Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...
Aug 2013
Romantic Poetess Jan 2011
How do we begin
The music
Of love making?
Are we sure
That the language we share
Is harmonic?

Who arranges the pulse of the piece?
Who decides which beats are
Accented
Which beats
Are not?
Will they give rise
To our motif?
Will our phrases
Use repetition or contrast
Be weak or strong
****** or repose?

Will our passage
Be AABB
Or AABA?
How many themes
And how many variations

Will we play
on our
delicate instruments?
Will our cycle be
a symphony
or will we
happily create
a one movement work
with an air
of spontaneous inspiration
and call ourselves
a rhapsody?
Kewayne Wadley Apr 2018
And like incense our scent takes to the air.
Ascending before we fall.
Her and I.
We burst into fire.
Our eyes a gaseous mixture. 
Ignited by the touch of skin.
Kindling the many thoughts we keep of each other.
A crackle blown out.
Accented in desire,
Our yearning ignites.
We hold ourselves unselfish,
Keeping warm.
Separate stems bonded as one. 
Our inner voice visible. 
Bypassing worry, our doubt.
A piece of us both, dissipating in a slow burning.
To give more than we've taken in unspoken communication.
We fell in ash.
Our scent a prayer sent to heaven. 
To always remain this way. 
Even after our extinguishing.
May we linger.
Forever more.
Falling fast asleep in each other's arms.
Leading each other to a place we call love.
Until the last ash drops
Ananya Kalahasti Nov 2017
Our first kiss was in my basement, one year,
and three hundred and forty-seven days ago,

his lips tasted like the saccharine double chocolate chunk ice cream
that he licked off my spoon just minutes ago, beard
brushing against the soft bottom of my chin,
                                                           ­                   his hand slipped
into mine as we walked away from yet another birthday celebrated,
it’s been seven since we first became friends

and his hands have finally stopped trembling.

Her eyes convey concern as her head slowly rises up from mine.

“This is a bad idea.”
In her face, against the lightly accented string lights

I see his eyes, tears welling up,

I know I can’t do this, I can’t kiss her, I can’t lose her

I can’t betray him.

I know this is wrong but

I love her and as she leans back down our lips crash together,
hers are plain, soft, safe,


When he cries, he sniffles more than he sobs, when I see him sad, powerless,
my heart cracks, I made a promise in my basement to never be the cause of this suffering,

my right hand runs through her soft hair, twirled between my *******
left hand resting on her cheek, I can feel that under her eyelid she is helpless,
I feel powerless, captivated by the twinkle in her eyes when she laughs,


I feel as though I am held hostage in her arms, yet a wave of freedom washes over me,

I don't know how I feel all I know is I don't yet want this to end,

we both want this,

yet I tell him it is my fault, I hold him close to my chest, my fingers run through
his wildly curly hair,
                     she pulls me closer as we continue to fight rationality,
and in this moment, we are breathing in synchrony, I taste nothing saccharine,

only feeling her soft lips and a bittersweet moment
11.6.17

edit: this poem was written as an assignment for my poetry class, in which we were told to put ourselves in the shoes of a character who had made a life changing decision that we ourselves would never make. i would never cheat, this poem was written as pure fiction with no basis in real life.
Nat Lipstadt May 2019
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
Koe May 2014
I don't desire to share my opinions with anyone
Too long, have they been bashed upon by peers or anonymous figures
"You should respect their opinion."
What hypocrites, even opinions could be wrong and hurt others

"For the sake of arguing."
It doesn't matter if they humiliate someone.
It doesn't matter if they turn others against them.
It doesn't matter if they were wrong as well

Even if you understand their perspective, they refuse to see yours
I long to be mute
I hate my own speaking voice
If all my words are unheard


"I can't express myself, this secretive awkward human."

If only they knew of the true cynical and diabolical thoughts locked away
Would anyone bother to accept and understand
Or would I be shunned
Isolated like I had been since so long ago

I don't mind singing
The rhythm and flow much better to the accented jumble words
However I'm merely a ghost that no one notice when they have stars to illuminate the room

"Ahhhh.. The jealousy and bitterness will consume me."

"Please see me."
"Please acknowledge me."
"Please talk to me."
"Please hear me."

*I'm fading away.
Sympathy I feel for those who haven’t seen what I’ve seen, and for those who have felt what I’ve felt. The embodiment of my regret, shining with all the light once saved me, now engulfs me in torment of my mistake. As I orbit in harmony with the rotation of a green star, that is much more than just a green star, I ponder what my life would be if I still had my green star. I know that in time, this green star that means everything and more to me, will collapse and perish, but we will only be able to see the star frozen in time, that very instant before it collapsed, desperately clinging to one single moment. I still cling to that moment, the moment I saw my soul break free from the chains that I thought would hold me down perpetually, in her eyes. I don’t quite know how it happened, I wasn’t looking for it, I wasn’t on the make, it was the perfect storm, I said one thing, she said another, and the next thing I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my days in the middle of that conversation. It’s painful to admit that I ruined the most precious friendship I’ve ever had, which tends to sting more when she was the only genuine friend I’ve ever had. I prefer solidarity most of the time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t long for a companion every now and again, but lately that desire grows stronger and stronger, holding on to the memory of the companion I once had and lost. My life on Earth, my past life, would be considered prosperous; I was one of the top aerospace engineers in the world, which is a very time consuming and painstaking practice, but exploring the unknown territories of the universe had always been my passion. I didn’t have much of a family, my mother and father passed away when I was 22 years old, and my brother and I severed ties shortly after the death of our parents, and I had not desire nor time for a significant other, let alone the willingness to dedicate my life to another person. I always believed that I embodied the definition of misplacement, I never seemed to fit in any particular group of people, nor with any other person, really, I enjoyed getting lost in the sea of my thoughts, riding the waves, pondering ideas, asking questions that can only be answered in theory, which essentially renders me incapable of interacting with others. However, being your own best friend can sometimes lead to psychotic thoughts of self-loathing, and eventually the last straw broke the backbone of my perseverance, and I convinced myself to commit suicide. Originality and pretentiousness ****** me, demanding myself to end my life a way no one else’s life has ended, and my imagination spiraled into a storm, brainstorming my own demise. My most recent endeavor at the time was to manufacture a personal bubble that would sustain in space, and condensing a spaceship into the size of a smart car was the threshold between my pathetic life of this planet, and self-destructive glory. After a year of an extremely unhealthy intensity of research, my talisman of my soul, my most cherished invention, my cosmic coffin. I traveled from my home in Anchorage to the highest point in Alaska, Mount McKinley, and inserted my body comfortably inside my space bubble and proceeded to ascend into my eternal salvation, ascending towards achievement of my life’s dream, ascending the edges of space, where no human has ever occupied in history. The butterfly feeling in my stomach, caused by the sheer joy I felt, is probably the closest feeling I had ever felt at the time to true love, the irony of my affection for death. As I slipped past our atmosphere and found myself floating closer towards the stars and planets, I sat down and enjoyed the galactic show of entropy before me, and after a while the visual melody put me in a hypnotic state, and before I knew it I was being stated down by a saucer shaped spaceship with luminous blue lights encompassing the round edge of the ship. I felt my capsule gravitating towards and entering the ship through a small hole on the underbelly of its structure, that appeared to look like a portal. As I passed through the light I was being observed by a feminine looking blue creature, with bright green eyes that sparkled like emeralds in the moonlight, and long, luscious blonde hair, straight and smooth as silk. She was tall, which I realized as I stood up out of my capsule, about an inch taller than my six foot frame, with long, skinny fingers and decently big webbed feet, and a long slender tail hanging down from her backside that wasn't quite long enough to touch the ground. She had shiny, scaly skin that had a deceptive rough appearance in texture, but felt soft and smooth when her hand reached out to embrace mine, and she said, "Hello, I am called Elora, what are you called?" Still in shock, the only awkward response I muttered was, "Eric" and she asked, "Why are you here Eric?" As I regained my quick wit I declared, "Does anyone know why they're here?" She smiled, exposing her sharp white teeth and proposed, "Well, you can help me find out." I think it had something to do with the adrenaline rush caused by the mystery and uncertainty of the situation, but I caught myself grinning, I didn't even realize I was smiling, it was an odd, unfamiliar feeling, but I was madly attracted to this blue angel from the stars. I spoke to her about my life on Earth, and my elaborate suicide plan, and she explained to me that she abandoned her home planet Eridani to conduct galactic research, and that she was from the Altair race. She elaborated on how life on Eridani did not satisfy her, and that she would spend her life roaming around nebulas, exploring galaxies, researching stars, and documenting her experiences. She showed me a star that she claims as hers, a green star called Zohra, which was her favorite star because she said she could only feel happiness when looking at it, to which I said, “It reminds of your eyes” and she looked at me and seemed flattered. She loved that star, her eyes lit up brighter than the star itself when she would stare at it, hypnotized at the sight of it, which I cared little to notice because I couldn’t look away from her. I couldn’t quite understand how someone could be so invested in something like that, something that just sits there spinning and spinning, peacefully participating in the orchestra of the universe. I think she was so fascinated by this object because she felt the same disconnect from others of our kind. The lonely, outcast feeling connected us, ironically, and we carried on intriguing conversation for what felt like an eternity, and I only wish that conversation could've lasted longer. I found in Elora what I had not found in any human being, she understood me, to the point where I was convinced she had mind reading abilities, and her understanding me didn’t diminish her interest in me, like what usually happened to me on Earth. I found happiness in her company, I found salvation in her embrace, I found unparalleled beauty inside and out, and I found myself in our friendship.  As time slowly rolled on my affection for Elora grew increasingly unbearable, and eventually the realization dawned upon me that I had to inform Elora of my feelings for her. We were accelerating towards the Crab Nebula, and I noticed the blurred blue light in the center, wrapped around by streams of red and yellow light, holding the blue heart in the center together. Elora was to me what the red and yellow streams were to the integrity of the Crab Nebula, without those streams, without Elora, my soul would fall apart and disburse, just like the blue light in the center of the Crab Nebula. When I turned, looked her square in her eyes, her gorgeous eyes that were accented by the light emitting from the Crab Nebula, those eyes that pull you in and leave you in a trance, those eyes that display the beauty of nature condensed into two little spheres that seemed to effortlessly gaze inside my soul, breaking down every single wall that I have ever built up to hide myself from other people, and uncover everything I so desperately attempted to hide deep down, and I said to her, “You are the only reason I’m still alive, the only reason I still want to live, the only other soul that accepted my lost, broken soul, you are the most amazing, most beautiful creature born from the stars we now roam around, I tried to die to see what heaven is like, but heaven can wait, because there is nothing more I want than to be with you until the day my soul slips away from my body, I am madly in love with you Elora.” I poured my heart and soul out to her, bleeding out every ounce of passion and love and sophistication to her, exposing every bit of my emotions, leaving me naked and defenseless before her. Different scenarios raced around my head about how she would respond, and she glanced down at the ground, looked back up at my blank face, and she said, “My people do not love, we do not believe in love, and we cannot love. Love, no matter how polarizing it may seem, always fades in time, everything fades in time, love fades in time, ideas fade in time, you will fade in time, I will fade in time, in the end, nothing is perpetual.” My heart sank down into my stomach, and right at that moment I grasped the idea of why they call it “falling in love” because I landed harder than I could even fathom, I did not know that such powerful emotional sorrow could physically hurt so bad. I dropped down to one knee, and the streams of tears ran from my face and splashed down on the ground, like delicate little glass beads shattering as they made contact with the surface, shattering like my heart and soul. The pure agony and embarrassment of staying with the love of my life, whom I had just made an absolute fool of myself in front of, was enough to crush any man’s esteem, so the only rational option I could think of was bail towards my space bubble, and go as far away as I possibly could from the light that saved me. With every inch of separation between her and I, my heart and soul grew sour and stone cold, and new theories to rationalize my reaction and actions that followed. As a child I went to an amusement park, and I was particularly frightened of a certain attraction that lifted you straight up, a couple hundred feet, and dropped you straight down, and now I realize that my fears of love are comparable to this ride. I was so mortified by the ascension, which precedes love, that I could never enjoy the thrill of the fall, even though this time the safety harness didn’t soften the landing. I came to the conclusion, after years of thought, that I could not blame Elora, it was who she was and there was nothing she could do to change that, and instead of accepting the fact that she did not love me, I cowardly abandoned the only thing in my life that I gave a **** about, I ran away from the only other being in the universe that could make me smile the way she made me smile. After years of solidarity and self-loathing I realized that I would much rather spend my life with Elora, even if she didn’t love me, as opposed to regressing back to my lonesome life, only surrounded by a vast, more captivating scene. The only reason I am still alive is because I have not given up hope that one day I will find Elora again, and I will beg for her forgiveness, and hopefully I will be able to cherish every precious moment I spend with her. I solemnly believe that the slim chance will occur that I will once again see that face, gaze into those eyes I once did, and curse my old self for being foolish enough to leave her. I am not certain, but I can only hope that she is at least indifferent to encountering each other once again, but if she denies me I cannot blame her, because after all it is my fault for my impulsive escape. But for now I wander as a nomad amongst the stars that form constellations that all remind me of Elora, watch the planets rotate, and reminisce on the time we shared together, the time I took for granted, time that I consider to be the most precious moments of my life’s experience. I spend most of my time roaming around Zohra, which was where she and I parted ways, in hopes that one day she will return to her favorite star, to find me right there waiting for her, however patience has not served me well, and my actions which I so deeply regret caused her to abandon the star which she claimed as hers, the star that radiated happiness upon her, the magnificent star that embodied her in beauty and essence, to avoid the thought of me leaving her, which is justifiable because she was probably very flustered by me scrambling to leave her after my episode. I rotate around Zohra, observing its physical qualities, seeing Elora’s face every single time I look upon its surface, but one day the light exiting the pores of the planet grew significantly brighter, and Zohra began rotating and shaking at a phenomenally fast speed, and I witnessed Zohra swallow itself in a supernova, creating a black hole. I interpreted this to represent the death of the hope I had to once again see Elora, or maybe time had taken her like time had taken her beloved star. I allowed myself to succumb to the irresistible force from the black hole, and the death of hope I had to once more see the angelic face of my love, swallowed my space bubble and my hollow body occupying it, to the point of no return, where I can no longer regret what I had done to her, because in time, my love for her destroyed me.
Kewayne Wadley Jun 2018
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Joy murmurs above.
We crave patience.
Twisting the top off each other's head.
Who first insults permission.
Applying our hands as cups.
No longer dull to the vapor of how we feel.
We recline in long verse.
Spudders of interruption.
The rush of anticipation.
Pressed against the couch.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Opening up to you without cease.
Frequent sips of red wine.
Tilting you over filling my cup.
Eager to sip in weighed sway.
I hear and smile.
Feeling the effects.
How you laugh.
How you smile.
It's funny how time flies.
Leaves in Spring.
Blown away, scrunched up in the crinkle of your dress.
Rustic brown & red accented in black.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
There's no alternative.
I'm an alcoholic.
Pursuing sip after sip.
Civil in how we converse.
Neighboring bold taste
Charlie Chirico Sep 2015
College dreamers,
trust fund seams broken down
like veins after repetitive prods.
Drinking days
are alliteration accented
because two
dollar drinks deserve denotation.

A hangover that brings
clarity is irony;
a sad realization made
after a night of excess.
A drop of vulnerability
and personal accountability
is desperation, and preference
at this point is permissible,
yet premature.

Face buried, between the sheets, wrapped in legs and lust,
books thrown against a wall.
Classes are dropped faster
than broken furniture
and one night stands.
And **** the taste.
We're all chasing that last sip
that brings a confidence
to think rhythmically.
Roberta Day Jan 2012
Picked freshly from the
garden of my newfangled
burning infatuation for you,
a fine blanket of lettuce,
to suit my modest request
This evening holds meaning,
accented with wine of white
over candlelight,
delicious Italian dining tonight
You do me well,
you know you do

Scorching days
turn to chilly nights
We are but two spoons,
failing to convect heat
to warm each other’s souls
and hands, which I kept
moisturized, for us;
scented fingers of vanilla
caress uniquely speckled skin
Genuine fascination
in everything
that is
*you
Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  I sit entranced by the rhythmic force of the cargo train rolling by.  This is the third train in 25 minutes, and with each pass, the sound of the heartbeat steals my attention away from the drunken chaos around me.  I glance at the north wall where a small, golden, shadow flickers with each pulsation.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.   The cargo train seems to disappear as unexpectedly as it arrived, and now I am pulled back into the scene around me – drunk, rowdy bar-hags and middle-aged men with bellies expanding at a rate too fast than can be restrained by their tucked-in Milwaukee Brewers t-shirts and their ******* Green Bay Packers jerseys.  I re-focus my attention to the crew with whom I share this table.

The CEO’s.  How is it that God blessed me with such an opportunity as to break bread with these four great, inspiring, and humble men?  NO WAY IN HELL is this a coincidence - this is undoubtedly God’s work at hand.  Our waitress walks quickly by, and I notice the uncomfortable glance she casts in our direction, her eyes focused on Vince’s t-shirt that reads in large, red letters, “CEO. Christians Encouraging Others.”

Vince. Boisterous and fearless, he can be relied upon to know everything about anything, and for the benefit of all within ear-shot, he never shuts-the-****-up about his faith or about those who lack it.  Thank God for Vince because without his leadership during our five-hour drive here, I would know nothing about tire pressure, ideal gas mileage, ****, the meaning of great music (a.k.a. R.E.M.), or how to deal with nagging kids. He is a truly model Christian, taking every opportunity to remind us of our calling in this world, passionately ending most conversations with, “This is Satan’s domain - the end of the world as we know it.”  When we were one hour away from the campgrounds, Vince disproved my previously-developed theory that he could not possibly be any more of a puke.  After making sure he still had everyone’s attention, he pulled out his favorite hat and enthusiastically adjusted it on his head.  Featuring another clever acronym, the oversized, navy-blue trucker mesh cap accented with gold rope trimming proudly sports, “C.I.A.”  Christian in Action.  

I share a cabin with Vince and these other heads of households.  These fellows come here once a year “to get away from the wives.”  One of the other fellows with whom I have the pleasure of sharing the cabin is Paul.  Paul forewarned us that he suffers from irritable bowel syndrome, a claim substantiated by the bag of “**** powder” that he proudly held up in the air during the ride here for all to see.  My brother Tom also comes along in order to partake in the outdoor activities, trip paid in full by my older brother, Richard, who has financially supported Tom for as long as Tom has been able to utter the words, “I can’t afford it.”  Thanks to ****’s Christian generosity, Tom’s soul has been saved along with all of Tom’s money as his mortgage was paid off over a decade ago.  Unlike Tom, **** is a tortured soul who suffers from PTSD.  He is also a recovering (to be more accurate, “recovered”) addict, having been cured “just like that” (snap!) when he found Christ in the 70’s.  

Deh-bee. Deh-bee. Deh-bee.  Another cargo train…  Why did I agree to this?  The waitress comes by again, this time with our food.  “Thanks, doll,” Vince says with a wink.  Embarrassed for her, I look away, staring once again at the flickering light on the north wall.  My gaze is suddenly disrupted by the steamy, ivory dish of food placed in front of me.  French fries, bathed in a lake of runny ketchup, sit enticingly in the middle of my plate.  To the left are mountains of milky-white coleslaw, and to the right sit boulders of golden-baked cod stacked one upon the other, towering high as if built to honor to the gods.

Without hesitation I grab the pale, cloth napkin and blanket my legs.  I find myself clenching the sparkling fork as I drive it into the base of the cod shrine.  Ketchup runs everywhere, and as I lift the bloodied mess above my plate, I become too distracted by the sound of Vince’s voice to notice that the cod never makes it to my mouth.  Vince stops and stares at the blunder of food now back on my plate, laughter erupting from the bowels of his cholesterol-encased belly.  

Debbie. Debbie. Debbie.  No train.  I look down at my plate again, the contents of my plate further bathed in ketchup.  My appetite is gone.  All I can think about is that frigid November night two years ago when I found her lying dead, body still warm, in our gazebo. When I saw the back of her head all over the floor, I knew it was too late.  “Debbie and I were going to go out for fish that Friday, but I didn't get home early enough…”  I hadn’t realized that I said anything aloud, but the sudden silence around the table quickly awakens me to reality.  

With a mouth full of chewed cod, Vince looks intently at me and raises his arms. “Man, don’t let him trick you!  He’s out for everyone, and he’s toying with ya.  Shoo him away. Christ is in you. This is Satan’s domain, and he’s messing with your head.”  

His voice trails off as my mind wanders back to that night.

“Greg, are you listening to me?  Cast these thoughts away, man!  The devil is trying to ensnare you. Call upon…”

“Hey, Vince.”  I cut him off.  “The other day I saw this sign in front of a church, and your hat just reminded me of it. The sign said, ‘It’s hard to stumble when you’re down on your knees.’  You know why your hat reminds me of that sign?  

"Let me tell you, Vince.  Let me tell you why your ******' hat reminds me of that ******' sign. Cause your hat says, ‘C.I.A.’”

Vince, silent for the first time since I’ve known him, responds to my comment with a blank stare.

“C.I.A.  ****... In… ***…  Get it?  You see, you’re never going to stumble, Vince.  You’re already head down, on your knees, taking it hard in the ***.”
Thank you to my wife for your patience in editing this piece for me.  I love you, Hannah Klein.
Samuel Dec 2010
Life is a flower
Blooming in the darkest corners
Stretching for the light

Pedals of purple, white, yellow
Accented by a forest green stem

So too should we be
As flowers

Should a pedal wilt and die
Let it fall and
Grow another.
Sam Dickinson
Dante Feb 2012
Jesus Christ, Lord Almighty
     Expel my demons and watch them die with me
Satan Lord, Leviathan
     Give my demons an interesting origin
Plague me with poets smoking joints rolled with rejected poems
     Fill my thoughts with cockney accented thespians
Let them hold Academy award nominations from films long forgotten
     Enthuse my self-destruction
Bring me goth kids brought up in wholesome homes
Bring me Art school students choosing to abandon their degrees
Bring me women aroused by smashed clocks
Bring me men aroused by awkward teenagers
Bring me Christians questioning their faith
     Lord Almighty, God, Yahweh, Jehovah
Tell me the story of your disagreements with Vishnu
     Let me see Moloch's disgruntlement and subsequent drunk and disorderly
Show me when Hera was seducing your nephew
     Bring me into the world of the soap opera battles
Write to me Paris
Write to me Paris
     I want to read your poetry
     I want to read your mind
Sing to me Helen
Embrace me and we shall escape from torments
    Heavenly and humane
We shall watch hipsters walk past us
Smoking Spirits and drinking poison berry teas
     Let Adam grow disgruntled
     Let children laugh
If, Lord Jesus, you grant me my wish
    Send me a djinn with evil in his heart
Who's bound to be annoyed by my desires
    Send me an ent to lift me above my world
Send me an elf to love me for all my time
    Send me a mountain to travel over home
Transport me to Germany
Transport me to Spain
Transport me to New Zealand
Give me a free pass, one-way ticket to Darwin's islands
    Write my story so that I collect new, unprecedented species
And devour the flesh of my find
Hide me in Antarctica with a monstrous creation of my own mind
Let me eat
Let me gorge
Then starve me
    Show me Caligula
    Show me Marilyn Monroe
    Then leave me with Ed Wood
And force me to watch his films so that I may inherit my grandfather's fortune in comic books
    Which, of course, will bring her to love me again
Oh Lord Jesus
Lord of Hosts
Possess me so that I may live again
Kitts Apr 2015
My Mother has always been attracted to violent, cowardly men
So one night she went to a local, seedy bar located in the bad side of town
She was barely 19 but had a fake ID bought from a clever counterfeiter
As she sipped her third Black Russian in walked an attractive man
He wore far too much black leather; leather pants, jacket and vest and biker boots
When he took off his helmet his Grecian looks were extremely apparent  
He noticed my Mother right away... She was the most beautiful of the woman there
Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders, her blue eyes flashed
And sparkled in the light of the dimly lite bar
Their eyes made contact and she brought her drink to her mouth
Her light pink tongue ran around the rim of the glass
The dark man raised an eye brow at her and made his way to the
Bar stool my mother had her legs propped upon, her incredible long white legs
He looked at them and touched her ankle without a word
He ran his thumb over her pale and soft skin, with just one touch
He had my Mother completely under his spell
Finally after seconds that felt like centuries he lifted his hand from her ankle
He asked if he could buy her a drink and sit by her
Breathless she nodded her head and moved her legs to allow him to sit
He bought her another drink and they sat and talked for awhile
The ****** tension was almost tangible between them
He loved how brass she was, how she argued with his beliefs and how she flirted to get her way
She asked about his motorcycle and he offered to take her for a ride
She responded with a puzzled "Now???"
And he laughed a deep laugh and responded with an accented "If you would like"
She got up and whispered in his ear "I'd like to very much get a ride"
My Mothers heart raced for she had never done anything like this before
But she had to have this man, this man that she had just met
With a smile that nearly blinded her he got up and placed his hand
Dangerously low on her back, exactly where her shirt ended and the small line of skin was
He had kept his hands on her the entire night but this touch almost burned
My mother let him herd her out of the bar and once they were outside
He walked over to the meanest looking machine she had ever seen
With concern she looked at her mini skirt knowing a lot of leg would show if she got on that bike
He laughed at her face and climbed onto the bike
He tossed the extra helmet he had to her and beckoned for her to climb on
When she did he ran his right hand down her each of her legs making sure they were pressed against his
My mother was in for the ride of her life...
For this man was not a man at all but a God...
FICTION
mother died today or maybe yesterday i can’t be sure  the telegram from the home says your mother passed away funeral tomorrow deep sympathy which leaves the matter doubtful it could have been yesterday - “the Stranger” Albert Camus

a misguided partiality exists inside me i feel safer around women maybe i’m fooling myself and women are equally capable of the brutal cruelties i associate with men i don’t know i guess i believe women hold themselves to a higher behavioral standard gentler more nurturing there’s another aspect to my belief women floor me i am totally vulnerable to a pretty woman but it must be stated my tastes run quite peculiar i prefer alternative looks and am put off by classic American glamour i guess the real deal is i’m a guy most comfortable among men watching World Series Sunday Monday Night Football despite the fact that if i were with a woman would be my greatest craving who cares what i think i apologize for opening my mouth

we are stranded by the side of road from out of nowhere a beat up gray truck pulls along side in a cloud of dust we cannot see driver from passenger side stubbly shaven mustached man wearing red bandana under tattered western hat in accented hoarse voice hollers out how much for the girl with terrified expression in her face her hand reaches for my arm i peer coldly into man’s eyes then glance away answering

a. what exactly do you have in mind

b. how much cash do you got on you

c. she’s not for sale

d. we need a ride

e. we’re lost do you have a cell phone

f. please leave us alone

g. all of the above

an extraordinarily attractive member of opposite *** runs into you on street in familiar tone of voice greets you speaking your name it’s been ages you look terrific i was just thinking about you the other day it’s such a wonderful surprise to see you do you have time to stop chat over coffee or drink i live quite near here please come over to my place let’s catch up i’d really love that this person then looks at you in a flirtatious seductive way yet you cannot place or remember where you know them or if you’ve ever known them you answer

a. yes

b. this is embarrassing i’ve forgotten your name

c. how do you know my name where do we know each other from

d. is it possible you’re confusing me with someone else

e. i have no idea who you are or what you want from me

f. all of the above

these are dark times every one acknowledges post-modernism post-911 is bleak jobless homeless callous frightful kali yuga no one nothing nowhere  is safe wars gruesome atrocities piracy blood diamonds **** mutilation theft deceit betrayal school yard bullying assassinations cyber espionage anti-depression drugs vicious video games why aren’t people making positive video games referencing cooperation affection happiness instead of Grand Theft Auto Vice City Call of Duty World at War Mortal Kombat what kind of world are we creating for future generations why does violence sell more than *** why is *** so unkind what kind of people are we better off dead they shoot horses don’t they what happened what’s happening why are we making this hell why aren’t we making better wiser more loving choices i don’t understand

in the late 1960’s early 70’s parents didn’t have money to buy their kids high school graduation gifts or perhaps the notion was not invented yet nobody had cars maybe a few guys i knew owned cars they bought with their own hard earned money everybody i knew who lived off campus and too far to bicycle hitch-hiked to school then hitch-hiked home every day for 4 or more years that’s how we all did it in Hartford i remember sitting in different adult’s cars indebted grateful looking thinking wondering will i grow up to be like him or her projecting connections

when i grew up it was a different time turn on tune in drop out in a way hippies were reactionary to all the modern progress atomic age we winged it by inexact methods that time is gone it is crucial at present to be coherent sober accurate mindful wakeful vigilant wary prepared 24/7 this history being written how will it be told i’ve been around long enough to know how these deceptions work we are all using feeding ripping off each other we give in to whoever wants us become whoever seeks to destroy us we disgust ourselves i’m astonished dumbfounded talk with me who are we please explain i beg you

who if i cried who would hear me among the angels even if one of them pressed me against heart i would be consumed in overwhelming existence for beauty is nothing but beginning of terror we are still just able to bear we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us every angel is terrifying – “2nd Elegy” Rainer Maria Rilke
Simon Monahan Mar 2018
Constant cloak accented of moss and vine and bubbles of fungus,
Adorned lavishly with baubles of shining dew and pearly snails,
Bronze berries refracting rosy light from a warm, pink sky,
Surely woodland pageantry is best observed at Dawn.

Or helmeted with blankets of snow, bristling with spears of ice,
Perhaps the queenly winter tree is the paragon of comeliness;
Or that softly dripping fountain, shortly after summer rain,
Is there a fairer fragrance than the perfume of pine and petrichor?

Oh! Can men with minds of concrete, spirits of styrofoam and steel,
Remain long disenchanted, cold, in spite of savage sylvan beauty?
Cannot the blooming orchard, decked with petals and busy with bees,
Suffice to empty the heart of gravel and flood the soul with verse?
The first line is taken from another poem of mine, "Lauds Arboreal": https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2206491/lauds-arboreal/
Fa Be O Jan 2013
I was born in a cold land,

The leaves bright orange like the sun

And a dusting of icy dew on wilted grass;

I was born in sanitary white and surgical blues,

Incubated, saved, isolated;

Mamá cried:

In the motherland,

mi Apá would’ve had to choose.

I was born into exile.

I was born to immigrants,

Brown like the dirt

Mis abuelos grow caña in,

Like the leaves, glorious colors past;

I was born foreign.

I was born in Español,

Accented with indigenous words,

Bastardized like our foods and dance;

I was born and placed

At the care of a deer’s eye,

Tied red around my wrist,

A wooden cross,

A brown ******,

A blue-eyed Niño Dios.

I lived in dust for 2 years.

I ran free, in fields of milpa,

In fields of caña,

In zocalos with

Colorful waving paper flags

And statues of generals.

I played with cousins,

Sharing bolis and nieve,

The hot clay burning our feet,

Racing to cool down at the spring.

And then I was brought back for school:

Los gringos van a estudiar,

They whispered, a bit mocking, about me,

4 years old, a girl,

In a place where girls were good for marriage,

University for the rich, ****** folks

Of faraway cities.

I came back to the cold land in spring.

A small barrio of tall broken down buildings,

Tiny apartments that became havens

At the sound of guns at night.

There was no more running around freely,

No more campos, no more town squares.

School was foreign,

There was English to learn,

A struggle to lose the accent,

To make the thick words

Comfortable in my tongue.
1/2/13
Martin Prado Jul 2014
I

the river
                          soars
like sun white
horses galloping,
shimmering, glistening

the gallop a harmony
of cacophony
to my listening eyes

what an idyllic
                           sky pink-azure
bringing excellence to rest.
tomorrow the white river
horses will fly like jazz
to my listening eyes

II

half stuttered premonitions ease
at sight of indigo accented flowers.
                  in goat land, clouds turn
                  to white wisps of doves.
the mountain
                            is
                                   with us
a chipmunk at the summit
makes waves through the landscape
dancing like a tambourine

wishes and hopes curl
around my face enveloping
me in Washington air

I see you looking at the chipmunk
and smile like

          really nice,
          your
                    smile
                                is
          really really

          nice
He touched our hands
But unconcernedly this famous man
And would not look us in the eye
For fear of contact or what might be worse, connection
And we could hardly blame him, for after all
He had each day been singled out for close inspection
By ones like us, in awe of his celebrity
Circled in the shade of his perfection
Hoping for the star-dust sprinkle of acuity
Or sparkling eyes, admission to his inner cult and clan

He wore blue jeans
And scuffed sneakers as a badge of proof
Of his coolness and unconcern
While we his audience with concealed attention
Enviously eyed his hairy confidence, unconsciously
Imitating in each phrase that low convention
Made small adjustments to our store-bought suits and ties
And nodded several times in bright pretension
Made small amendments to our smiles and lies
Flicked photo-phones in pursuit of custom and routine

He gave a speech
A flippant interview, this famous creature
A well tossed phrase, a rounded cliche
Poured forth like brandy in a glass, convivial
Or apple cider-ed vinegar in pewter mugs
A sardonically French-accented phrase habitual
Well humored, heavy lidded with testosterone
At interlocutor women with the pens and pads
Delivered in a low and purring monotone
For all the world as lovers, each to each

He stretched a smile
A modulated shift of teeth and beard
"Genius? Not I"  with deprecation
"My shallow intellect, so poor and so ephemeral"
Delivered in a tone that mocked inclusion
While we assumed an elegance, unintentional
A nonchalance that shields the wide charades
Unmoving in our breathless, but conventional
Genuflection to the the notion that pervades                                                      
Our addictive appetite now sated. For a while.                              
                                                                ­                                  
He kissed their cheeks
And stroked their arms, with sensuous ambivalence
But absently, as if he cared so little
In his farewell. 'A bientot' he said and 'Au revoir'
And slipped away amongst the moving Milan crowds
Creative and creator, irredeemably a star
With, in his wake the smiling scriveners staring
At his retreating back in Stark excitement
In the middle of the circling and squaring, at
The alpha-wolfic effigy. The Shepherd and his sheep.
I've ever been interested in the relationship between celebrity and ordinariness. How the lamps of the individual appear dimmer in the presence of the luminosity of others, more celebrated. Some weeks ago I was able to see this effect on me when I was in close proximity with a star of the design community (some clues to the individuals identity may appear within the verse, if anyone is interested). I was dismayed to learn that I responded in the same manner as those I had previously observed. This sour-**** little offering is the outcome.
Timothy Brown Dec 2013
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.

Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?

To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.

With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.

I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.  

Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic.  Now I use it to influence my movements.
© December 18th, 2013 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
blythe Feb 2013
A face as white as snow with cheeks blushing
Lips painted in red pouting
Hair so soft and silky
Arranged so neatly
Hanging around the neck is a diamond necklace
Wearing a glamorous gown accented with a ****** red lace
Illuminating the skin
Making it look whiter and thin
Walking graciously
With a pair of Cinderella shoes so pretty.
This is what most girls would want to look like -
A princess;
Obsessed of the physical beauty.

Physically, one can easily possess beauty
With the help of modern technology;
Lips can be as red as an apple,
Face can be as perfect as it can be;
But a heart as pure as an innocent child's
And as good as an angel's
Cannot be made by the use of those cosmetics
Nor be fixed by any advanced technologies;
Inside appearance
Cannot be made beauteous
Even by any expensive make up.

If you really dreamed to be a princess,
Be one who possesses the real beauty -
The one that never fades -
Not the one seen just from the outside;
It is through the goodness of your heart that you'll see
*You claim the genuine beauty.
Andrew Kerklaan Mar 2013
Delicate tang spritzes the air with a sunshine kiss

Peeling so gently it's lady-like tenderness is an elegant tea party with white gloved fingers and daisies on the mantle

Her majesty will be pleased!

A romantic encounter of citrus delight and sun-bathed security in ever loving om and happiness

A candidate as sweet could never be asked for such a casual Sunday outing and for you my dear we are but a shared slice of raspberry accented pie

So powerful but yet so softly subdued...

Like piano ballads or string quartets it is here simply for our glorious consumption

An ode to you my Sunday sweet orange!

May my taste buds always dazzle upon your  arrival
This poem is the embodiment of how I feel while eating an orange on a sunny Sunday afternoon
Emma Chatonoir Mar 2014
I have hated a lot about you
Ever since we met
You spoke one word, a greeting
And I looked angry, I bet
I really don't like accents
Especially ones from there
You have a particularly strong one
And for it I don't care
I promised myself years ago
When I was only nine
To never like anyone with those accents
Even if the rest of them was fine
Yet I am drawn to you
Your smile and your eyes
You're everything I could want
And also all I despise
An exception is what you are
Cause I don't hate your voice
But maybe that's cause I pay more attention
To your spoken word choice
I can't say that I love
The way that you speak
But I love the rest of you
And for you I continue to seek.
Prabhu Iyer Jun 2016
Zebra-striped cushion covers on soft-white chairs,
cream topped calorie delights, inviting -
this patisserie in Nairobi:
"you're welcome" the smartly outfitted
African girl spoke in flawlessly accented English
as I pore over the menu - a posh girl
dressed in haute denim and a sleeved top
walks in and spoke French in pouted lips
as she found her corner spot, reading;
an Asian couple walk in, wife in hijab
and baby in tow, as the man sneers at me and
answers 'assalamu alaikum' on phone
as I ponder on identity when
the French matron in Yoga tops walks in
saying namaste to me, and calls out for Henry -
her outfitted and bespectacled pomeranian
oh don't we all want to be someone else
Written while on tour in East Africa
By: Tony L. Jefferson, Jr.
I never felt it was fair to perceive her as just a woman

Just a being that existed beside me

She was natural, with a big afro that weather couldn’t blow

The way she walked, a silky sashay through the room commanding attention

She was like smooth jazz played at an expensive dinner

I longed to meet her

But yet

I was too caught up in mental fantasies

Scared to finally face reality and ask her for a simple dance

She was perfect in every way

I pictured her moving in tune with me moving to our favorite tune

Flowing like natural waterfalls as we fall into an intimate embrace

What a woman I would say

What a lady on this day

I finally got the nerve to approach her

My dreams were being realized before mine own eyes

When fantasy would finally meet reality

Just as I went in to present my case

She turns to me

Dreamy eyes, dreamy eyes

Sweet lips accented in mahogany lip stick

My lady, I would like to partake in a sweet embrace

I would like to move in a sensuous mood

We danced for an eternity it seemed

But alas, our song ended

And as I moved in for a kiss

She disappeared into a fine, sweet mist

Perfection is only perceived in the mind



But with time we shall develop as one and your flaws become perfection to me
An ode to women
I am the coy smiling handsome man
and my feet beat the darkness away when I rush.
And I rush, in the alleys, sightless,
an actor led by lines of wilting dialogue.
And jasmine litters the gutters, fit to be dredged, the
aroma and the petals streaked with reminiscence.
I rush. I am the man toward an apogee,
a scalpel, with tastes as keen as winter lavender,
and eyes that feel the weight of tastes behind them.
As I dredge the depths for rarer tastes
I rush toward the gutter.
And like the gutters I thirst, in the levees and fen-
In the fen the rush of prey caught
Idling fills the space inside my eyes like oil,
and I dredge the lake for traces.
I am the actor, the dredge, my wit rehearsed
and I am acquainted with the lady of the night.
I smile as she caresses my oily deluged eyes-
And her eyes are filled with bile,
accented by jasmine, even
in the dimmest light of
gutters are rushing to an
apogee, fiercer than I'd like them to
appear, but I am the scalpel, to incise the insincere-
I am the prince, an heir to exacting the coerced-
I watch her eyes like windows from the gutter like a vigil
and hold tight to her breath.
I pour her blood in paper cups
until her breath is weightless-
And I rush, an actor, in the scene that we portray-
I am the giver, the oily deluged eyes that close around the flesh
and rend the fruit from the rind.
This is a poem I am writing for all of the clouds out there who drift lazily through the sky on the dream of short-lived lives.
For the dogs who run around having no long term goals or dreams.
How I envy all of the simple existences that I see around me constantly.
When you are a person in today's modern society, it seems as if it is inevitable to lead a troublesome life, what with things like Facebook, Photography, and Freedom.
So what does this contradictory word complexity even symbolize in the miracle of the English language?
Complexity is the person who you love, and all of the feelings and thoughts that they provoke.
It is the red door, that stands for so much more, in that book that your English teacher tried to explain.
Complexity is the idea that by virtue of being accustomed to modern life, we have the determination to overlook the simple things in life...but that is kind of complicated.
Once we all learn our own primary language, the mind naturally expands to things like thoughts, feelings, ideas, hopes, desires, and all of these are accented by feelings.
So what is simplicity?
Simplicity is the formation of birds that are migrating south.
It is the sound of grass in the wind, the taste of water after a hot day.
As complex beings, we naturally strive to find simple things, because after a while, the complex thoughts expire.
But people love being complicated, so much that they try to find intricate patterns in the simplest things; even in death.
Although most people have the intellectual capacity to think complicated thoughts, that should not prevent them from loving the simple things in life.
What is lucky about our flexible minds is that we are allowed to decide what is simple and what is complex.
For example, a spider's web. It is a beautiful creation made of silky, withstanding string that latches on to any small piece of matter it can find. The web is the spiders shelter, it helps it to sustain life and to put bread on the table, or dead bugs as the case may be.
On the other hand, a spider's web is its home. The spider has one simple purpose in life, to survive off of the web. An existence with one goal, objective, and dream, to create a web is simple in a most beautiful way.
Being allowed to make anything in life, including life itself, as simple or as complicated as we like is without a doubt one of the most amazing powers we possess as human beings.
When encountered with presentations of pure beauty, I have begun to try to keep them simple in my mind, for the sake of trying to embrace the beauty for what it is, be it a colorful sunset, an undefined relationship, or the red door that doesn't stand for anything more.
So next time you go to think about something and make it your own, think before you think.
Classic, wrote back in July on some writing trip to Ireland
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
flipping through pages of his mind,
caressing unspoken quotes; I whisper
slang of lust in his ear, ******* his big
ego to the bottom of his page, while his
drool trickles between breast; uttering
syllable after syllable as I re-write his script.

his hardness speaks fluently, inking
parchment with liquid tipped quill, oh! the
thrill as I bend his will, to fluidly flow; dipping
in inkwell of thoughts, penning desires and
want in liquid diatribe of lustful pleasures; like
a moth to flame flickering, as I lick verbs in
hunger to peruse his re-written script;
gripping sheeted pages to uncover his
beguilement; drinking in acknowledgment
of his golden chalice.

I want to decipher his member in autographed
curlicues of calligraphic swirls, teasing and
taunting as he watches, awe-struck; as tongue
etches each throbbing vein in ebonized charcoal,
sketched upon pages of wanton verses making
him scream with passion in prose; on bended
knee tasting my rose, penning his moans in
quotes against throat.

in heat of our passion, pages and scripts are
flipped allowing him to drip ink upon lips as I
whisper softly to his mind; want of him to grind
his neb of ache within my archive, articulating
history of hunger; as limbs mime each cursive
letter, insinuating one vowel at a time; licked
against silken parchment in tender stroked
consonant utterances; shuddering inside  
walls as nouns clench and moans escape
in adjectives shattering mind as wet tendrils
slide down firmness, fore, only she can do this
to me; making me flip volumes of pages while
inside wetness she drips ink all over in
chaptered stages.

each chapter I lick her spine; cornering her
in my mind as a sensual adversary; claiming
her as I untie her collection of copious sighs,
my mind tries to deny copyrights to her library;
as I place her upon my shelf, while against the
wall; ravishing her like the wild section of animal
kingdom, lusting while I watch her body fall
prey to breathless hunger, devouring
and savoring her bookmark; paying full
attention to her glossary of delectability,
that melts upon tongued bilingual text;
her nectar leaves its imprint upon
our handbook of worded aphrodisiacs.

cherishing our artistic volumes in ardency as
we're ready to publish our first draft, but not
before I slide her lubricious cover upon my
shaft; we begin to lay strokes of signatures
against our first editioned copies belonging
soley to us, as we scream in accented jargon
every second I tease; easing in and out,
shouting out in voweled ecstasy; gliding
thickness, gently against taut bookmark.

turning each page with deep thrusts, into her
inkwell; as I swell with friction, speaking in
fluent diction, of addiction to her sweetness;
dripping, as I'm slipping in tomes; thinking
about how she begged me to re-write our script,
spilling ink in delirious closure, in *******
exposure while losing our artistic composure;
writing manuscripts as ink spills upon volumes
of pages in disclosure.
just some ramblings that went through my thoughts one day...hope it makes sense to my viewers and readers
Denel Kessler Dec 2015
He only lost her when
the music stopped

inner light faded from her face
her narrow arms, restless eels
winding through her shirt
snapping at the rising buzz
of voices, increasingly unbearable.

The teacher swooped in, miming
arms held close, contained; too late
for the pianist, armed with her name
and a captive audience, he accented
her frailty with two sharp syllables

and she was gone from there
to some mysterious world  
away from the crowd frozen
in the silent beat after
the reprimand.

It was only a moment
before the music resumed
opening notes vibrated up
through her toes, lovely arms
unraveled and rose overhead

her radiant smile
unfurled like forgiveness.
I wrote this after watching young children at a musical performance.  An autistic girl stole the show by completely inhabiting the music with her joyful body.  It was a lovely thing to witness.  But in a brief lull between numbers, she grew restless.  The pianist yelled the word NO and her name and it was like she instantly disappeared from her own body. Only the music brought her back. A regret I still carry is not speaking out against the pianist's very public shaming.  I ask that child and her parents for forgiveness.
Genevieve H Jan 2010
I am the doll with the growing hair
Whose face returns your bloodshot stare-
Your red eyes accented blue
Knowing he won't think of you.

When back was turned, in sadist lust
I wrote the name, etched in the dust
Upon the shelf where I reside
To catch your gaze as you walked by.

You ponder on this grotesque mask
And wonder how this came to pass-
How fate won't follow any plan
And memories rot, still in your hand.

And though I torture where you dwell
I hearken now to what you tell
On how you'll live against these odds:
"I'll sop up my mistakes with gauze."
I really wanna write pretty ****
Like about birds singing at night
or the tired steps of the one Mexican maid
as she passes by my house before and after work

I want to write pretty ****
About my mother’s resilience
Her words of encouragement
And the sound of defeat in her “mijo no tengo ni pa’ la leche”

I want to write pretty ****, academic ****, deep ****,
About beautiful man of color
Trying to be anything but black or brown
Girlfriends claiming their white side
The silencing of accented voices
I am dying to write pretty ****

I want to write about her big *** eyelashes
And her fierce makeup
And how her face was flawless when they found her laying there
In a poodle of blood
Why would anyone **** someone so pretty?
It’s as if they hated pretty ****
Like the color of brown and black skin
And green trees and ****
Why do they like to **** pretty ****?
Like spirituality and native languages?
And they give nobel peace prizes to ****** up institutions with ****** up policies that push people to desperation, bomb them, starve them, and at the end blame them,
They like to blame pretty **** too

I want to write pretty ****
Like waking up to the bright sun
And driving by the day laborers at home depot
Some of them look so hopeful, and some of them so defeated
Some of them sleep beneath the little tree on the parking lot
Why do you illegalize pretty people?

Ain’t freedom pretty and injustice ugly?
Then why don’t we write about justice and ****
About the caribou not having to be fenced
And native land returned to indigenous peoples

Why don’t we claim our inner beauty
And recycle all them ****** up magazines filled with cropped bodies treated as money, souless bodies,
The fashion industry is ugly

And why don’t obama talk about pretty ****
Like reparations and wealth redistribution
And getting rid of Deportations, Deportations that’s some ugly ****
Filmore Townsend May 2013
to buy a book at half-ten with
no time wasting. go back, await
instructions ‘cause ****** will
have their trinkets, with novelty
of accented voice. and i once
would talk often of a love – let’s
separate that word from ‘*****’.
often of a love, but am rare to
fall to elaboration. and through
contemplation the soul may
ascend to knowledge of the
Form of the Good, penultimate
object of Knowledge but not
Knowledge. and often writ of
this love, writ of what was to be
then and never now. never to find
affirmation in fleeting memory.
oxymoronic oblate of the mind
– this soul. attempting for attainment
of Kenosis. shambling i wandered,
rambling i wandered, and humbly
wandering on to pluck till times
and times are done. and
the dogs of this life have re-
moved dearest effects. in turn, sho-
wing the vanity in materialism.
end turn, showing futility in ret-
ention and the sun's continuous gro-
wth forcing abatement of winters’
vespers. cradling a gourd filled with
oil from the skin of ages, to reflect
micorocosms of preceived death.
those silver apples of the moon. and
when vespers return in color, when
the ground aches tensing muscles.
this love, if only the conjunctions
had been denied. perhaps by abor-
tion of if, then could have been a
block for now. these times found
oblate of memory by zealous self-
truth of the wronged past, and
humbled by skewed memory of
the hermit on unseen path for
Kenosis. unseen growth of
those golden apples of the sun.
Q Nov 2013
Craving interaction
Some sort of relationship
But never finding much
In this caricature of happiness

Lost but still searching
Considering the end
Yet never reaching finality
Without the needed confidence

Ragged cries of 'Help'
So scared, so lonely
Would give anything for a friend
Without the shallow ceremony

Please, help
Loss of common sense
People just aren't worth the effort
The fog of failure is so dense

Realizations in blue ink
Revelations written red
Hopes and dreams in yellow
Lay down and go to bed

Assumptions in bright orange
Bitter feelings written green
Colour scars these pages
Accented in screams

Vibrant hues straight from the vein
And onto the perception of reality
Force the depression down again
Let the façade run free

This isn't life at all
This isn't what should be
Colour scars these pages
The shades of insanity

Reaching out for help
And latching to an apparition
And
              Falling
                                Falling
  ­                                               Falling
                                                         ­          Fading from existence
                                                       ­           
                                                                ­   Hopeless desperation
                                                     ­              Quiet loneliness
                                                      ­             Stark disappointment
                                                  ­                 Life shouldn't be like this
                                                            ­        
                                                        ­           Whispers in the dark
                                                            ­       Of what the end could mean
                                                            ­       Careful consideration
                                                   ­                Let the colour bleed
                                                                ­  
                                                                ­   Hatred marked in violet
                                                          ­         Pain in large steaks of white
                                                           ­        Final blue-inked realizations
                                                    ­               Goodbye and goodnight
I suppose this would be the best suicide letter I've ever written.
   -Chaus
www.twitter.com/ChausVocamini
R Miller Jun 2016
I'm a puzzle with no corner pieces-
complicated and frustrating
but breathtaking when finally put
together.
Faded blue jeans, bare feet, and
a mass of wild curls.
Southern accented blunt truths
and sharp accessing eyes
that have forgotten their true color.
Messy scribbled words on heaps
of discarded paper
and gorgeous journals with empty
pages.
I am a piano player in private
and a singer in the shower.
Paint splattered hands
and a girl finding beauty
behind a lens.
A quiet thinker
with a head full of screaming
thoughts.
I am a lovely mess of
contradictions.
Brandon Sep 2013
It was raining hard outside and a cold wind was blowing briskly from the north. I ducked under the outside awning of a local bar named Easy Pete's but still felt the torrent of raindrops crashing into me.

I opened the heavy bar room door and walked inside to a dimly lit room accented with the sound of pool tables being played, gambler chatter, and thick cigar smoke. My eyes winced at the sting of smoke and adjusted to the lack of light. I looked around but did not note much outside of the elderly somewhat disgruntled faces either looking at me, their drink, or their games.

The jukebox played an old song that I could not place but had the vague notion that it existed somewhere in a childhood that I had moved myself away from too many times to count. I hummed along, finding the melody along the way and worked my way up to the bar and ordered three glasses of single malt scotch from a questionable bartender that had one lazy brown eye and the other, icy blue in its color, stared at me.

I ignored him and drank the first glass of scotch as he put it down. He gruffed his throat, sat down the other two glasses, and walked away.

I continued to drink the scotch when a long legged ****** sidled up to me and asked if I was looking for a good time. I found myself remembering the good times. Back when there were good times to remember.

The jukebox changed its tune and I became even more out of touch. I passed the third glass to her and she sat closer, wrapping her fingers around the glass and sensually stroking away the condensation that had built up.

I finished the rest of my glass of scotch, looked the ****** up and down. She was beautiful. And slutty. The way that I liked them. But I was tired. And not looking for a good time. I was content with my miserable existence tonight.

She made for small talk and I made for the door.
Ben Sep 2016
Under harsh street lights
And a rusted skeletal overpass
We walked in the syrupy
Silence of a Sunnyside Saturday
Night

A man asked me in accented
English
"Want that burrito spicy?"
"Yes"
His eyebrows go up
"Spicy?"
"Yes, ******* spicy!"

He smiles to himself
Reaches back into the food truck
And pours sauces and
Liquids of varying color
And viscosity into the
Tortilla

Wraps it up for me
Gives me my change
And waves me off with a smile

When we get back to the apartment
She is mad
Because I choose to make love to the
Burrito instead of her
I can't help it
Drunk eating is one of the
Forbidden joys of life

She slams the door and
Shuffles around yelling
By the time I'm done the burrito
She is telling me to sleep on the couch
Which is fine because I can't
Feel my mouth anyway
The burrito is so **** spicy

I tell her this and that her
Kisses would be wasted
If she wants to waste her time
With me, I want to feel it

We sleep together for
The night
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts

I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse

well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal

lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs
Greg Berlin Jan 2013
i poured a drink
and told my friend of the old maid
who used to come every other
monday to the
house where i grew up
and how beautiful
she was
and how i would clean my room
the night before she came
just to impress her
and she would come in
all those bright monday mornings
and she would smile
ask to vacuum
in her broken, thickly
accented english
and i would smile back
hoping that despite
her Portugese heritage
her broken english
and her son my age
that there was hope
for me

--he smiled at this
and we laughed
at the amazing
fantasies of
men and boys--

and i told him again
how beautiful she was
though i don't think he really
understood exactly
she came for years
until one bright
monday morning
after she smiled and
asked to vacuum
i returned to
find my wallet
emptied
and my laptop as
missing as she was

--i informed him
it was the first
and only time
a woman
had broken my heart--

for years after that woman
has plagued my thoughts
from time to time
wondering where
she could possibly be
alive or dead
and how many
more poor, starry
eyed nine year olds
she had broken
since me

me and my friend smiled
and poured up another
drink
this one's for you
my beautiful thief

— The End —