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Dead Rose One Jun 2015
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
Jeannery Nov 2018
In the middle of the afternoon
I realized, everything will be gone soon.
I have a problem that I can't say
I don't know how to make people stay.

Everything's falling apart,
I know what to do in my part
But I let ***** happen
In the end, I'm always forgotten.

I know I'm the one to blame
Why things are like this
For my reasons are always lame
And that's why I'm not in peace.


--jeannery a.




It's afternoon and my mind's a mess, my heart's not in peace and my body is weak to process things. How do you make people stay?
Dead Rose One Aug 2017
consciously, willfully, I wish it

quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment

the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity

consciously, willfully, I wish it

once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?

consciously, willfully, I wish it

the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place,  be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically

consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*

8/27/17
6:35pm
Eunyeong Jun 2018
Looking out the window with a blurry sight
It is another hazy Wednesday afternoon
Although it is not time for midnight
I could already see the faint silver moon.

A beautiful June day is back from the past
For her resting summertime dream
The sun has rose to the mountaintop at last
Softly drenching us with his golden beam.

I could smell the wild roses of desire
From the garden of heaven above
They are colored in the shade of pure fire
To symbolize their sweet summer love.

The fragrance of afternoon is in the air
Like the cool freshness of pouring rain
The silent darkness is just and fair
I can hear his footsteps coming again.

The seeping shadows will come with time
Soon everything will grow mature and old
I will count the remaining days of mine
What Mother Nature has given us is gold.
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
It was the early afternoon of Infinity when we met.
I had called into being the forever of time
to anticipate your arrival in finite rhythms—
Knowing they must be the whitest of lies.

The preparation, the perception, the recognition,
the intertwining and engagement of spaces,
their separations—all in the span of hello
and the impossibility of absolute goodbye.
..
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
Umi Dec 2017
By the afternoon!
There's not much time, the sun will set soon
So be ready for the coming of the night
And don't be afraid, all these stars are shining bright,
Stay calm and enjoy their beautiful sight!
Or seek rest, in the world of dreams.
Happiness there it seems
Ceases not

~ Umi
arrested and defeated,,
my fated causality,
by mine own hand done in,
'twas the death I ordained,
when to the addiction of ego,
I did, did I,
surrender and concede
Nov. 2017
Breathless
You leave me
On a fine day
In the hot summer
Craving
Yearning for
A cool breeze

You’re majestic
A flower petal
Beautiful and sweet
The nectar
The pollen
In the summers heat

In the yard
Sunbathing
Soaking in the sun
Lemonade
And ice
Dancing on my tongue

Birds chirping
Bees buzzing
Bright and green
And blue
Heat wave
On a Sunday afternoon
Inspired
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
eye did.   As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...

not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.

the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there.  Odd couples, were there.  If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one.  We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you.  That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Prabhat Chhetri Jun 2016
The weather was not as hot as it used to be
I was still adjusting to the chaos
The wind would play hide and seek on my skin
I was getting tired of listening to my favourite band
The apartments were still growing all around
like fungus on wet logs or
Fire on dry ones (take appropriate metaphor)
Two old women slowly climbing the stairs of the building in
front talking presumably of other slow walking men and women
I was overwhelmed by the longing of some miracle that would wash me up like a tsunami and take me elsewhere
even though all things were
good enough
I knew I had to do something but the walls were my
addiction
A gust of wind threatened to blow away my shirt which was hung
to dry
For a moment I felt that I should let it escape
but then I have to walk down three flight of stairs to bring it back


The old women were still climbing up the stairs
The winds whisper into
apartment windows
I rose, from where I lay.
The slumber then being done with me,
To follow upon what's necessary––
A routine sung out to me.

Then on this particular day,
Trees on the outside
Waved with the wind—inside.
No thought was then wasted

In entering a paradise
Where the clouds charioted across
the sky—to diffuse the harshness of light
So that I could glance at the source of life.
You are the almost-silent
of my coffee-stained summer.
You are the clear and tender
plucking of guitar strings
on a lazy afternoon;

With sunlight streaming through
the painted window,
just bright enough to fill the room
but gentle enough to fall asleep to;

with the smell of everything we love—
caffeine and chocolate and banana muffins—
seemingly coursing through our veins
with every breath we take;

with the daydream of
what-could-be lingering
in the haze, in the silence
it sits,
it waits.

I proceed to the only thing
I know how to do
at this hour of day:
I stare at the cars passing by,
all the while wishing
I was staring at you instead.
ken not the
vive la différence!
entre les deux,
these two bed and head chambers,
for all poets are seducers,
regardless of ***, race, creed or color

when first we employ our working, yeoman vocabulary,
we plain start,
to relate but not to regale,
the whom we are,
hoping our moments unique,
will  breach the boundaries
of our collective commonality connectivity,
and find human receptivity

thus, the seduction of self commences

though every possible combination of words has somewhere been inscribed and committed, we ****** ourselves
(the seduction of poetry)
with potions of notions that we are and always be our
first, and now soon forever,
yours as well

of course, we are, it's true,
our very own first admirer & lover,
having conquered the hillock of self,
see the universe expanding and the
****** need to conceive
and prowess to please
beyond the beyond with
the poetry of seduction

do not want your body, heart or soul,
commitment, allegiance, vows,
sacred or profane,
all such in vain

crave your everything,
not even a legal nine-tenths satisfactory

dare not call me arrogant or presumptive,
gaze upon the mirror that cannot lie,
rereading thy words assemblage,
and deny to lie to yourself

want you, you want me,
my adoration,
we want to be in
a poem together,
lovers at the molecular level
where words dissected into letters, then again,
into guttural sounds where a simple outcry is an elegy,
a love poem, a wound, a denouement, a preface, a tear,
a welling, a heaving, a sigh, an exhalation, all,
an entrance to where the need for words
is long since past

the sin and crown of seduction completed,
unanimously

now breathe out
and then,
breathe in
Jeannery Dec 2018
its three o'clock
i wish i wasn't going home alone
my sadness, it *****
then add this playing melancholic tone

the same playlist on repeat
i keep on thinking of you
my heart still skips a beat
i love you, always



--jeannery a.

what's the date five days ago? It was written five days agoo soooooooooooo
Rose Everest Nov 2018
It was supposed to be the both of us and our mutuals,
But it ended up being just the both of us going out.

Watching a romantic film for two people in a weird relationship,
It was not as friends nor lovers.

I wore my best clothes and make up just to impress you,
Which in the end I did.

We took a couple of pictures and we both went to the theaters together,
Sat next to each other.

In the car you and I sat in the backseat,
You gave me your jacket, played with my hair.

And you put your face 10cm away from mine.

And you still pick her over me.
It was supposed to be a date bit in the end his friend came.
CK Baker Jan 2017
I can’t wait
to be a hundred
turning over the thoughts
and plots
of Caledon
floating
on zimmer inserts
and dusted florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon

through the
barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes
and goes

you can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
from Allis Chalmers
to combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
to shallow carp fields
the patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(with ripped and rolled
frontier seats)

it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through
the rusted
grinders wheel
ronnie hunt Dec 2018
orange bodies in the
yellow light in the afternoon
green thumbs in the garden
blue lips at night standing at the crosswalk
CK Baker Feb 2017
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay

there are swings now
and an empty barn
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak to the past
...and little dogs
not big ones

the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say

and flanders
the holder of those pigs
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun

i can still hear the screams
of river dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees

think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane

they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
Yesterday, clouds gathered in the sky
Covering the sun,
Yesterday, I saw the ravens fly
I saw the squirrels run.

The wind stormed on the walls in rage
Her fury knew no bounds,
Violently she rattled the cage
Of the hell hounds.

She flew from tree to tree
Unsettling its leaves and flowers,
A hive that sheltered a swarm of honeybee
Fell in the pond, for the frogs to devour.

A thunderclap echoed from a distance
A prelude to what is to come,
Shattering everything in existence
Leaving everything numb.

Enveloped in darkness
The canvas was coloured grey and black,
It had an air of stillness
Yet, there was something that it lacked.

And then it started to rain
On the brown soil of the small town,
Easing the pain
That was hidden behind the smile of a clown.










Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2019.
All Rights Reserved.
As usual, I leave the interpretations to you.
CK Baker Jan 2018
who lit the candles
placed eloquently
behind purple rock?
the sculpted radiance,
chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs

street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
and frontmen
shuffle their wares
as the madman
and pock face
sing their
holy blues

cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts

a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway

hula hoops
and ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy

beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow

a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Waiting out with feet in the sea
The little boy called Charlie and me
He wore red and I wore green
Love to swim in the spangly sea.

The sky blew over a cobble stone
Dropped some raindrops that afternoon
It was very dippy in the weeds
But fun was had by Charlie and me.

Love Mary **
Tanay Sengupta Oct 2018
Shattered frames of ashes and dust
Remnants of our deeds,
Like the fruitful tree in August
Unaware of its seeds.
Claiming to be intellectuals
Ravaging on the weak,
Tied down by our own rituals
And the words we do not speak.

Divided by our views
Fake is what we feed,
Battered and bruised
We watch as we bleed.








Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved.
Hello there, it feels good to write something after a long time. Hope you like it. Cheers!
In the lazy
late afternoon light
when everything seems dreamlike
she comes to me.
Smiling coyly she undoes a clasp,
her robe slips off the shoulder.
I watch the fabric water like
flow over her body.
Hanging on her *******;
heavy with the ripeness of youth,
it pauses
then slips over her ***** brown *******...
One bouncing, then the other.
Following her curves,
past the hollow of her navel...
exposing her crowning glory,
her woman's furry triangle
so warm and moist and welcoming.
Like an admiring hand,
the falling cloth
traces the wonderful curve of her ***,
and down her long, smooth legs
to pool languidly at her feet.
She undoes her dark hair
shakes her head and lets it fall.
In all her glory she stands before me
eyeing me hungrily...
No seducer but prey am I.
This is my take on Ovid's Amores 1.5
At lanes end
where churches sit
black and white,
In rare afternoon
stillness, trees rigid
as statues shield
St. Peter’s yard.
Nations favoured bird,
the red-breasted aggressor,
gambols gracefully
across the gentle
arcs of ageing
headstones,
gifting movements,
radiating elegance,
flitting from sight
in a burst of most
powerful flight.

© Richard Duffy. All rights reserved
Brief moments shared with a robin while visiting churches in Bywell, Northumberland, on an autumn afternoon cycle.
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