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Shofi Ahmed Jun 2017
Little earth is on the radar,
under the starry net.
Take a handful of soil,
only gauging a star’s gait.

Try once more can't do it
without the star above,
keeping a tab on the land,
on every birth and trait.
what is life to an estranged fisherman who catches shells
but knees held up by strings
sullied and winterbleak
and armless orions
and bar-of-red-soap memories
marred inside a confetti tin can?

i am programmed for a slap or two
down at the old public yard sale
where two cents buys a soul
and a thousand useless words

i have lifted all my woes
from inside the battery cavity
of all my clocks
how they ticked and tocked

and every spring upon the
arrival of ants and mildew
i fold myself into a paper swan
perched atop atticjunk
seen from the circular window
stiff and sullen
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Avery Glows Jul 2018
There's so much that you could say
to back up an irrational behavior
to cover for it.
A confession or
about a faltered mental state,
amid illusions, sights, incantations
of hearing a voice—
of exorcery
and of being possessed.

The only one thing that you weren't allowed to speak of,
was of you being you
willing the act.
Willing it
out of volition.

To be savage, and unhinged,
is a sin,
is blasphemy.
But why?

The Devil is obscene and real,
so is the savagery within
unleashed where you have wandered
out of reach from the realms of sense and conscience.
into Dionysian.


Dwell with me.
“ Come unto the dark.”
“ Let there be no fear. ”
July 2018
Advent Jan 2015
i have plenty of unread books
from Roth
to Palahniuk
supposed have been read
at a good nook

these books I have
are stacked on one shelf
cause time hasn’t given
a minute for myself

these books I have
are my companions
when I’m split into halves
amid destruction
L B Dec 2017
A beer can, phone book, a grapefruit
and an Advent wreath
with four candles
in its nest of greens
Two weeks
Two lit
Third one's the Pink
a life three quarters spent?

Next weekend
Saturday-- The Sabbath
falls in Hanukkah

“Blessed art thou, Lord our God
King of the universe
who dost create lights of fire...”

I'll light that third-- the pink one
like a barbarian wise woman
who traveled too far along life's way
to find a Jewish baby, wrapped in rags

...or, was it the old guy that night
lying in the street
outside a New England bar

“Oh Christ! Ya gotta be kidding me!”

Nope, He was there alright

Wallowing in the freezing slush
amid his helpless drunken cries
No cell phones then
Scrapped my pizza plans

On foot alone
waving in frustration  
in the passing headlights
a turquoise, wind-crazed scarecrow
_

“Someone's gotta stop?
Someone has to help us, don't they?”
_

Now there are two beer cans
a grapefruit, and a phone book
beside the advent wreath

Third candle lit and leaning out
for hope along the way
In memory of--
Louise McDermott, my daughter's godmother who gave us the Advent wreath.
and Joannie Handleman, my best buddy in music and crime who taught me her family's traditions  and Yiddish expressions.
Look there, Lost and Bountiful Sea!-
For these bodies ache with calls,
And these currents decide who to be.

Sifting and secret amid the waving sands,
It constructs my winds with a cruel eye-
Oh, my voice- so thin in its hands!

I, a glance lost in the wideness of death
And blessed by this ray filled cloud,
Was born upon a long, passing breath-

And, dancing wildly amid these trees,
Spoke an old truth upon a fleeting past:
We live so statues may be at ease.
I'm not fully back to the site but I felt like posting this. I wanted to do more with it and I might at a later date but this is it for now.
Also, I have a Tumblr up and going (it's under the same name that I have on here). Feel free to check that out if you want.
Sid Lollan Apr 2018
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines

Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand

and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon

in big pink petals of bloom;

A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
       patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
      the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (


be gentle, though whispering wind)

Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign

      fears,
      as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
      Consume the years between Here and Now;
      Watching from blank perch, among
      the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
      Sing the branches of experience, to wake
      in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
      of waking,

**** sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—

Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;

                          Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
        and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
        of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Osiria Melody Mar 13
I.
Quite irritating and aggravating,
Hater tater tots come wailing
Prevailing in their scathing, vapid thoughts

Appreciating their own reflections,
To the likes of Narcissussss
Derailing your train of thought with their words:

Vile arpeggios of "you're mediocre" shift TO
crescendos of "you're incompetent" TO
diminuendos of "you can do it" in hopes of
making you feel better,
Although you know that bit of motivation from
them is a lie—a blatant lie

II.
Quite condescending and stupefying,
Hater tater tots come to knock down your
door of confidence
Prevail in your defense of self-respect and
vow to protect your house of strength

Appreciating your own reflection,
To the likes of humility and empowerment
Derailing their doubts about you with your actions:

Victorious arpeggios of "I'll still write"
shift TO crescendos of "I'm better than my
past selves" TO diminuendos of "I know
I can do it" to stay afloat,
Although you know that the flaming
torch of criticism may burn you now
and then—blatant pain

III.
Amid the tornado of public criticism that
your mind is rotating in,
Amid your deteriorating state of
motivation,
Amid this negativity from
others that is pure B.S.

IV.
Bake the hater tater tots
Burn them with your self-confidence



Melody
3/13/19
Love your poems because you should appreciate your work the most.
CA Guilfoyle Mar 2017
I cannot write anything, the way my heart tells it
soft in murmurs or echoing loudly as it does
cannot drift the way I'd like, floating free
as dandelion seeds wild in these fields.
I hear words like arrows piercing in.
I feel shocks and waves
the sea that comes to swallow.
I face jangled places
of these fears again
amid storms of grays and clouds
and after the washing rains
the birds come singing, flying.
Knit Personality Apr 2016
They come together in the night,
   Amid the leaves, within the bush,
   Silent inside the stilly hush,
Beneath the full moon shining bright.

Healthy and large and leafy green,
   She beckons him of smaller size,—
   A woody, twig-like male, who flies
To meet his mate, his mantis queen.

They come together and seem as one,
   As though one twig with emerald leaves
   Were moving much with little breeze
Where shade rebuffs the noonday sun.

They turn their heads to share a kiss,
   Antennae twining round like vines.
   The male ignores the warning signs,
Oblivious to what's amiss.

The kiss becomes a vicious bite.
   She chews off quickly half his face.
   He holds, despite this, his embrace,—
Holding it fast and gripping tight.

Headless in bites, he needs no head,
   Continuing the ***** deed.
   His queen discovers her no need
Either of this, nor cares he's dead.

Finished with him, herself she frees.
   He twitches yet, although a corse.
   As though a leaf swept by a force
Of wind, she leaves upon a breeze.

O.O
Bryce Jul 2018
Amid the verbose magicians
Seeking kinships
And sailing deep into their arduous mists
Watching them peddle their afternoon
To a handful of smiling children holding their breath
Amazed in gentle body trick

The older men of age
Leaning deep into their creased chins
Stroking the grizzled fat
Blinding light of soul
Staring down the barrel of life
Striking the enemy one last time
And yet smiling
sober,
Met of match,
taking care of their kids.

Then there's the cold-clocked dudes
On the phone pushing buttons
In a button-up raglan
Lost indistinct
the promised land
The golden shores swept away by
inconvenient time
Left shopping in an auto mall
"Won't you look at the time?"
7.07 APR
Boy what a steal!
And Steve maddened and screamed
As the lines blurred instinctual between opposing teams
And the oven dinged a great alabaster slant
Leaning towards the new millenitants

Rise up!
***** the wheel
Turn the axel from pistons
To alkaline metal
And doubt with great monumental
Quality
That the machine borders all
And we cannot retreat

And while I sift bouyantly between the waves
Searching the puzzle piece within the molecules
Reconnecting with the things
And representing
dreams on a 66 hertz screen
I call rather failing
Towards a black rocked shore
Towards the sweet Dorigen
Of my dreams
Finding an integral of time
And space

And calculating the intangible *****
Of my desmise
With the imaginary constiutent
Of that lighted mind.
mariamme May 2018
i am only *****
when you are so far away
the weight of your absence
like the maw of a cave inside
and i ache to fill it
ache to feel hands and mouth
instead of empty breeze
the dark heat of your gaze
instead of my fingers amid sheets
so ***** i ache in waiting
for you to come fill these spaces
this is a little risque
blackbox Jun 2014
A tale of many cities confined within
Deep dark secrets stacked in.
Lies, the world presume as sins,
That’s how the story of ‘The Black Box’ begins.

Cramped amid the four gloomy walls,
‘The Black Box’ is what he calls.
Looking to unscramble pieces at the bottom,
He rolled up his sleeves to the problem.

Not knowing, this can put him in a ditch,
And ‘The Black Box’ can act like a *****.
He went on in the search for a prize,
Unaware of this forthcoming surprise.

He knew, many have tried to look inside,
To find a package of perfection in the hide
Disappointed to see the shattered glasses,
They closed the box to put it in a stack of more boxes.

Still, he preferred to move ahead,
In spite of knowing he will lose his head.
The minute he thought he was nearer to precision,
A way distant he was from the actual incision.

The time will come, when he will have his threshold,
Sooner or later, he will have to fold.
After all, no one can alter the history,
No matter what! ‘The Black Box’ will remain a mystery.
Out of sunlit wisps and aspects, light,
Out of sated eagles and mountain breeze,
Did they, in effulgence, unfold into sight
With delphic skins and raving unease—

O deity who splices that divine form,
And casts sepulchers from man's blood-
Even amid able words or whet irons, warm,
Does will hallow what arises from mud?-

O fire- see those lingering binds instilled
In the sinew and sinewless ones-
Enrich them! Perceive each as you build!-
Accord upon your many wandering sons:

A sum of creases, a new shade to be bore,
And youthful beat in the stain of your being.
There is your lamb! There is flesh in fore!-
Toiled and golden- fructified by your seeing!

Fire! How stifling is your deferring!-
Savored in the sufferer's depth and doing,
And in the convalescent's long stirring—
O stars, this life- for flux or supine viewing?
On me the tempest falls. It does not make me tremble. O holy Mother Earth, O air and sun, behold me. I am wronged.
- Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound

This is it for now- I'm going back on hiatus for a while. I hope you all enjoy this piece. It might look better if you turn your phone if you're on mobile. Also wanted to say thank you for the sheer amount of support on "O Friends of Twilight" and my poetry in general. I won't be gone for too long.

I love you all,
-Darrell.
Tom Spencer Jul 2018
a serpentine plume
of saharan dust

unveiled by radar
an ocean spanning

exhalation
of opaque

talcum haze
seeping into and onto

cracks metal glass
amid caustic

simmering
and listless

longing
for cicada drill

and aircondtioned din
to mute


Tom Spencer © 2018
At present Austin (my home) is choking on dust from the Sahara. World wide grime.
Hastening through a sunlit rift,
Onwards goes the moment-made drift!-
Run humming through this temporal cloak,
Hung amid sleepy trees, O wind of being!-
Take up these men like wisps of smoke,
Lift them past vernal reflections, fleeing.

When loft in morning or loft at sea,
Split them in lie and bough at every degree.
Bid them lay as mirrored days in wilt-
Perceiving their vastness as it grows:
Cast in all visages, mused in the astral quilt,
—Unfolded in antiquity and ill repose.

A weary infinite set in wander,
Yielding devotion to those who ponder.
Blessed nausea, turn to those who brood,
For they count the soul's delusive reach.
Oh, how that eager soul and still hand feud,
Even when beholding the swelling breach!-

In cherub lament, what must you do?-
Tread, and mind death—for it minds you.
If all is comedy, may dawn be amusing.
If all is tragedy, may dusk be a reprieve.
Though you sift each at your choosing,
Evoke this reflection: —laugh or grieve!
I told myself that I'd be back when I'd written at least three poems. Over the course of the last month, I wrote only two- this and another one which shall be uploaded in the coming days. A word about the book: I decided to part with my original publisher for a multitude of reasons. The plan for the book is still on. I simply need to find a new publisher or learn to self publish.
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