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Alive, her Tanned Smile mirrors in your Phone
And you smile back. Such Grin spices your Face,
Browning each side completely whenst alone
Fortifying your Moment in good grace
Haply in penance your Innocence bears
Of Blue-and-White Anthems she held the Gold
Which many Fans sigh deeply in Despair
Knowing, in arrest, her Story is told
It's now up to you. Let your Plum-Charm shine
Yet suave must be your poise during your Date
Me? I am the Earth-Hanuman; In thine
Set this Stone Pillar to secure your Fate.
I told you, Athlete: Only you decide
Which Ticket you had your cause to remind.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Making the most of my day
Riding back and fourth from station's
139 poems wrote
But the route never changes
Blasting pop punk anthems to get me by
Instead of dwelling in my room furthering connection with the outside
On mission with no destination
To find the people or place that feels like home
A community found when the lights go down and the band  starts to play
My 140th poem wrote on the same bus heading the opposite way
Slightly less lost
patty m Apr 2016
Smoke witch
gathering storm clouds
just past the peak of mushrooms
litanies of cicadas sing
scratchy melodies
to blustering winds
setting dust flying.

Rain let it rain, end the
violent extremes of this
desiccated land of summer.
Let it rain
where brooks once gurgled
and rivers rippled,
before entire  fields vanished
and we became the starving..

Anthems of thunder rumble
accompanied by bolts of lightning,
At last it comes in downpours,
sheets flattening in the wind. . .
rain-washed black branches
blend with overcast gray.
silver puddles shimmer.
Ankle deep in mud we twirl  
catching rain on parched tongues;
oh the blessed relief.  
The end of drought
and soon seeds of hope will rise
green against the dark rich soil,
food to appease hunger.

Moonlit gathering,
liquid bliss like tears moistens our cheeks as
we **** the marrow of acorns
and a handful of pine needles,
whispering in ancient tongues;
Shrouded figures among the trees,
a silver eye watches ferns uncurl,
We will endure,
running full force into the eye of the storm
stopping only to gather gifts from
earths shadow..
Q Jan 2017
Candy-sweet ballads
****** heartache arias
Undying
soulmate
anthems

Everywhere I go
The soundtrack never changes
But no one else
seems
to notice

Red-rose shades of white noise
Heart-shaped confetti stuck in my ears
Jangling
omnipresent
sound waves

The song everyone is singing
Grates against my inner drum
It's not
the kind
I'm looking for
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gelato Nation

There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.

But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.  

Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:

gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.  

Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;

Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.

A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.

Mixologists please record:

One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:

But is it good for the Jews?

But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.


He makes the pastiche,        
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.  

Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.

July 2011
You couldn't make this stuff up...it was an Amerian moment....Frank the owner instigator passed away in 2019.  we  take the grandkids to his gelato place very time they visit
Mark Edwards Jr Sep 2015
The want, the urge, the need, desire! Like burning coals under blazing fire. Impassioned flames evoke; inspire, anthems betwixt emphatic choirs. Yet once was loved now holds such ire, for now I tread upon thinning wire, with none to help in times so dire, turned sinister, bitter, a cunning liar.

Of petty games I've now grown tired, and all the while my soul grew drier, now sapped of life, I'll get no higher, submitting to anguish like slave to sire.

Leaping now into a bloodstained mire, seeking solace, my new desire, but what I'll find is so cold my friend, for all I'll find is the bitter end.

Edit: 10/01/2018
Robert C Howard Oct 2017
The heart sounds cadences 24 - 7
    whether we choose to march or where,
rhythm section to our several songs,
    no drum line like a blood line.
It's all business for this noble instrument
     never laying out for a chorus
for survival is its singular tune.

Aristotle thought our hearts were made
    to air condition our brains
but evidently not enough my friends
    for that pesky mythic heart,
right sized for greeting cards
    and hopeful men on bended knees
also drives our swords and powder
    to quell our brothers' singing souls.

Brothers and sisters, is not the hour at hand
    to tune our hearts to superior anthems
composed for us in celestial harmony?
Brody Blue Oct 2018
Around the clock
     By lot we rot
To rags and boneless
                            Candid
As the hour and
     The second hand
Seem both locked-up in
                            Handcuffs.
We lost our mules
     To Arkansas,
In parts we saw 'em
                             Vanish,
While we both stood
     In silence, blood
Cov'rin' ev'ry
                              Canvas.
If they'd only had
     The medicine
And met us in
                              Ratón,
This mess we're in
     Would fester some,
Then just as soon
                              Pass-On;
But now on the edge
     Of the tiresome sea,
Each pledging
     The other to
                              Stone,
Push and shove
     Our hand in some glove
In one fast move
     Will be
                              Gone.
Meanwhile, the tides
     (Poised by Poseidon)
Rise and
                              Disappear;
Hound dogs bay
     Beyond the bluff;
Bandits watch the
                             Pier;
And I look thru
     My lookin' glass;
You, into your
                            Mirror,
Both only saying
     Anything
The other wants to
                             Hear.
Though ev'ry dime
     Was lent, we spent
Them all to keep us
                             Floatin'
As autumn rolled
     Past summer's fold;
Now, winter holds the
                              Ocean.
No matter how
     We stack the deck
Our cards cannot be
                              Chosen
So the ones at hand:
     Take 'em fast!
Before the river's
                              Frozen;
But,
     Taking too fast
     Won't make it last;
Watch out!
            Don't crash!
                             Bewarned!
A ******* gets faster
     In the late second-half
Dry,
     In the eye of the
                             Storm.

At midday
     You insinuated,
Beneath the noontide
                            Sun
That I'm someone
     Who multiplies,
But will divide by
                            None;
Who swears he can
     Be counted on, yet
Never counts past
                             One;
Who cannot tell
     All he's lost
Apart from all he's
                             Won.
Who to and fro
     And back again
Has witnessed ev'ry
                              Sky,
From Anchorage, to
     San Juan Hill;
From Bangor, to
                             Hawaii;
Who, facing off with
      History, compiled
On the
                             Sly
A litany of victory
     By trickery,
Where
                            I:

                 Took on one sun
                       Won by one
                                           Handsome
                 Rook took from
                        His high-hilled
                                           Mansion
                 Took ev'ry bird,
                        Turned word into
                                             Anthems;
                 Took the book
                          And shook out
                                              Ransom;
                  Met Set head-on,
                         Left 'im severed and
                                              Scrammed,
     ­             Put roots to soil
                         And oiled the  
                                               Cams;
                  Ran and ran after
                         That sure-footed
                                                Ram;
                  Stood under the light
                          With the swarm of the
                                                ******

And you ain't wrong:
      Life is long;
But time is swift,
      Adrift and
                             Blazin'
But you'll get burned
       If you don't learn
Advice is better
                             Taken
But
     Taking too fast
     Won't make it last;
Read!
       It's written in
                              Red:
A ******* gets faster
     In the late second-half;
'tleast, that's what
      The last one
                               Said...
Timothy Oct 2018
No swelling anthems do I offer thee,
     Gone are those words that came so quick by day,
     And in whose mind they seem'd to swell and sway,
And leave just as another came to me.
I merely have a simple, "Thank thee," see?
     A poor reflection of those flow'rs of May
     An unforgiving nagging in mine lay
'Pray render more and more about the lea.'

     O mine good friend, now take a look at this,
These words art meant for thee, for thee art penn'd!
Thou didst arise, like Byrons rolling sea,
     To shake an Ode for me—how great that bliss!
Now for thee, Tryst, these poor lines here do wend,
Across that mighty ocean to bless thee!
A thank thee to Tryst for those lovely words!
© Timothy 14 October 2018
Nancy Maxwell Dec 2018
Often I wonder which is harder
'Singleness or Marriage'
How do we do it?
The struggles of being with someone and remain purified sexually
The focus we must attain in this manner
The mindset of suppressing lust and passion
Remaining without touch till the set time
Our partners how they seemingly accept the challenge but later deviate;
With talks like ‘am only human’.
How we look innocent but crave deep down for a tiny piece
The chain of celibacy a slavery we were made to follow
Or else anguish and chastising
Am broken and torn
The lessons I learnt I hold dearly
Corinthians stated worries
Oh my fate!
When whilst thou end, this status I cross around my neck
Wait! but don’t look waiting
The side talks and jest, the respect long lost
Yours will be the latest I know
Happen already!
Wait on God permanent anthems now
Smile and wave don’t show it
Or you are jealous.
Be happy and suppress
Be hopeful and pray
For how long!
Be patient, kind,
God’s time is the best
Oh when!
It’s been 3 decades and counting
No judging authority
I only want to be loved
Now I live for myself alone no deviation from love and service
I will do not just right but the right way
With God before me.
This poem is centered on the travails of singlehood, marriage is considered preferable sweet, the holiest and perfect tag also everyone's dream and singleness the No game, unwanted and some sort of plague everyone is running away from.
When a metaphysical Venus flytrap
blindsides the honeycombpound eyed
sense of security I've falsified;
when the knowledge of good & evil is ratheripe;

when contiguous backgarden of young guns
mix solar with Stella & I can hear from here
scruburb hubbub, my hothouse muse sick at their
Asbo airrifle house anthems;

when I've been spat out like a pip again,
& nursery taunts of my bullies Johnny & Tommy
- who dibsed Bill & Ben,  which pilloried me
'Little ****'  - are flashback thicket evergreen;

when local calumny of all my complaints
wins blacklisting,  thus alone, I can't cajole
or goad my thriving today:  a fool
for the sun, I go to her in her element.

In her greenhouse grown from garnered discarded
gardengates, writtenoff windscreens, woodworm tough
junk planks, other ****** clutter, freecycle stuff.
Maybe what the fairies  flytipt, shed sheds.

& as her silver hatter, tinfoilconed garden
gnome, I say it with godwottery
& fleurs bleues of drosometric poetry.
Fecund in seconds at so gorgeous a groundswoman,

compared to whom Charlie Dimmock's
a pyrrhotic hummock. I need to feel
her greenfingernailed hands that heal
petals upon me. Even dogsmuck

has its day in the sun (faecal factoid:
contemporary canine squelchtraps for shoes
no longer dessicate a canescent hue,
because of low calcium content in tinned

dogsmuck for our best friend's biting end).
But may those hands which craft crutches for
crocuses scratch out my roots, pooper-
scoop summer stinkers I grew from. She tends

to sheltered seedlings, soon to spam 'ead
the ceiling of her slipshod shed, even
before 'Bunny H. Greenhouse' is interjection
wellsaid. & when transplanted, repotted

they'll nip new zeppelins in the bud
in a beanstalking blink, like a safetypin
in a  zit! Her garden's always plopping
antigrav aureate  H.Dumpties, sunnysideup

drive of saplings & seedlings, for golden
egg plants be all flora to my floraphile.
Not strict drips she feeds to daffodils,
dahlias, daffodahlia hybreeds - they're sodden!

O Edwina Wateringcanhands!
Also my Mrs. Mellors, at whom a herm
shoots up overgrown, aherm.
Eden is a garden of reproductive glands.

Her hyponychium frowns
with flowers' bedding,
but the **** needs weeding
that brings my flower down.

Far more than the Maggie (not numb P45)
Thatcher of flower power, Frey hersilt,
Gardener Girlf put da spurt inta expert
teasing o' da e'rt. Induviae

of a concrete straitjacket, please be pleached
til dead arms o' malacophilous heart  reach
her greenfingered kind of golden touch,
much more precious than any old Midas touch.
lX0st Dec 2018
Can’t you hear me?
My tongue hurls your name
Into the wind
Moving east
Urging storm’s brewing
Rising with the chill
Of eery lake
Carrying my echoes
Through clouds of haze
Damp desperation
Voice, strained, releases
Surges of rain
And sleet. Pooling,
Pleading at your feet
Drown in my essence
Watch as it breathes
Watch as it weaves
Through the valleys and summits
Of your goosebumps
In intricate lattice
Ice lace tourniquet
Asphyxiating sadness
From sore hands. Solitude
From weary eyes. Silence
From blackened lungs
Darker than the thundering sky
Reverberating anthems
Of my unfulfilled soul
And my direful need
To be made whole
By you
We are all talking much louder
Than your shoulders can translate
There are escaped sovereigns hiding from
Modern anthems of star spangled spasms
Underneath our hearts there are cars and cartridges
Condoms and consoles coiled around our flagpoles
We are through being told what not to do
So whenever we fool around with tiny tyrants
Please know that we are talking about you
And I am supplying your mind with ecstatic silence
In order to finance these fading fitness regimes
And measure your symbols in systematic struggles
We are all insignificant bundles of nerve fibers
Hoping to one day be born again
As an alchemical magus fluent in many languages
Sam Dec 2018
This emptiness inside
So many feelings that I hide
Even with all these pills I take
A smile I could never fake
Like a computer that's bugged
I hit restart, but froze

Do you think of me when you're alone?
Your sad, gray, eyes so less alive
The hollowness inside your chest
You once told me you were "hopeless at best"

These lives we live like broken dreams
The sidewalk anthems that we sing
Sorrow spreads it's grateful wing
Enveloping all who fall beneath

Last December, do you remember?
You dragged me from the hell I made
You saved me from my bitter self
It'd be impossible to count
Every tear I left behind on your sweater

So if you ever think of me
Think of who I used to be
The boy with the monstrous smile
Instead of the monsters in his head
Lawrence Hall Dec 2018
What Child is this WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP! WHEEP! WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP! WHEEP! WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP! WHEEP! WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP!
WHEEP!...
In Mary’s lap is sleeping…

“It’s okay, folks; it was just the muffins.”

Whom angels greet…
                                          “I don’t want a muffin, thanks.”
With anthems sweet…
Yenson Sep 8
The fraud bourgeoisie
mobsters and hoods contract
chiller cinema screening terror vision
gutter psychology of the henchmen dopes
presenting the locusts and ants thriller invasion

the throngs underfed
issuing permits and warrants
reprobates, thugs and con-artists do apply
at the Bastille on the Victorian embankment
bring your disorders of crimson and singe the blues

The zen mentalist of Zenda dribbles rut
the guillotine feeders sharpen dirges blades
pale cowards party in full swing and checks abound
call the pirates of red sea and the mob to share the spoils
no coronation for a sun king a jealous mandate thus declared

the pepper-less hordes of lames
find El Dorado in a mirage in lies of bandits
Scipio Africanus in great and graceful throes incarnate
made thousands ploys and cuts anthems of craven imbeciles
wayward profligates who mired their obsolesces in parable David  

And he stood a Colossus edified
braving contract of thieves, ghouls, thugs and recreants
apostates of truths, corrupters of the just pilgrims' progress
burn in shame, reveling in asinine boast of personal fallibility
requiem for dregs, requiem for the humanization of the toxic heathens
Why is being single an excuse to set me up
I'm not saying that I'm happy just to shut you up
I need some time really, this years been crazy
No one ever talks about the things that keep me up

And I don't want to talk about it  
I just want to be normal
I just want to sleep for hours every night and wake up more hopeful

Or a different person
With different thoughts and feelings
With different needs and labels
Tell me would that stop you from screaming?

And gossiping and talking so much about me
maybe the things that I show you
Are the only things you see

I don't think you read so deeply into what I say
Not like I do with everyone else anyway

It's not like I can stop myself
I know the trigger phrases
Of, say, person with low self esteem, maybe

And I've been raised and have been shown
To recognise these thoughts
And change them to make them opposite to help me to grow


I think I accidentally always tend to psychoanalyse
But your life is your canvas, I'm not one to vandalise

I'm trying to be a friend
but I've never really had them
It's much more difficult
Than it sounds in party rock anthems

And at the same time it is easy
I didn't think I could relate
On different levels
Different people seem to stimulate

All of these discussions and ideas inside of me
I feel like I've lost most of my life
just trying to be
When some people just have it so naturally
Arifin Salleh Aug 21
We're nearly halfway through,
but you still have not understood
my truth.

Finish all of my poems,
like as if you were reciting
anthems.
Only will you
see me,
see my heart,
see my colors,
see my knowledge.

Read on, to learn about
my thoughts,
but don't let it clot.
Jackie Mead Sep 2018
How do you define love?
How do you begin?
Come with me on this journey and explore,
The emotion of love that we all truly adore,
The emotion that we all seek to receive,
The emotion that makes us weak at the knees.
An emotion that has been written about in Music, Stories, Poetry
An emotion we have captured in paint,
An emotion we long for to hold and cherish, let noone taint.

Songwriters have written lyrics, declaring their feelings of desire,
Different Genres, Ballads, Rock Anthems,Jazz, Rhythm andBlues,
Singing of love for cars, women and drink.

Singing of the Power of Love and who started the fire,
Singing of pain, hurt, unrequited love, betrayal too
Songs making us remember, desire and think.

Music so light and pretty,
Music that rises slowly to a high crescendo,
Music of passion, devotion, trust and loyalty.

Music that is dark and *****,
Music that takes you down low,
Music of betryal, mistrust and insanity.

Artists take to the brush to paint a picture clear,
Of women walking on a bridge parasol in hand,
Portraying feelings of lust, romanticism and fear,
Of lovers dancing on the beach leaving footprints in the sand.

Portraying their love of the beauty that surrounds, women and children with beguiling smiles,
Portraits that make you laugh, cry and stand still for a while.

Artists that capture the perfect smile,
Artists that capture that capture the love in the eyes,
Artists that capture that moment, once in a while,
Artists that capture that bond, those ties.

Poets create a picture with their words,
Bringing to mind lust and desire,
Writing of feelings that matter.
Making you cry, laugh, raising your emotions higher and higher,
Using words that describe, pain, and hurt,words that charm and flatter.

Poets that tell a story of hardship, friendship and survival,
Poets that make you laugh, cry and bring about revival.

Poets that write of emotions,
Poets that write of tenderness,
Poets that write of devotion,
Poets that write of togetherness.

Throughout the centuries we are bequiled by love,
How it hurts, how it heals,
The emotions love makes you feel.

How it is won, how it is lost.
Love at what price, what cost?

How we desire love from each other,
How we desire the love of our father and mother.

How love can raise you up and let you down,
How love can get a smile out of a frown.

How love can be your freedom and yet love can smother,
There is no medium that can capture all the different aspect of love for each other.

Love is unique,
Love can be bleak.

Love is scary,
Love can be weary.

Love is strength,
Love can be any time, any length.

Love is freedom,
Love can be your guiding beacon.

Each and everyone of us, feels love in someway
How do you recognise love? if love spoke to you, what would it say?
it's a bit long but what do you think?
RJ Days Oct 2018
Each sorrow is the child of a happiness
you thought would never end;
Every happiness is a sadness
I may not survive—
a brilliant October day
lying back in dock hammock suspended
quoting bits of Rilke and starlight anthems
the shadows cast by buildings and frogs
ink drawings made on August nights
by our beautiful chain-smoking artistette
admiring a giant spider friend who’d
spun her majestic web and vanished
while we were swimming
backdrop of bay and boys and cherries
creaky boardwalks under bare feet
and stickiest pine and sand darkness
photos over wing clouds below
creepy call to prayer from ancient Mosque
at twilight punctuating strange dreams
perfect reconciliation on hotel balcony
McDonald’s after soaring from Black Sea
to Bosporus Straight, edge of Asia
visible on the horizon and all of life
a nightmare from which I can’t get woke
terrorized by ***** donor bonesaws
homophobic maternal afternoon rejection
peace that passeth no understanding
when you’re a ******* genius or just
a few points lower sorry never enough
compassion leaking through pores
drawn out by steam more darkness
Eucalyptus perfumed
another flaccid experience on a stranger’s
bed recalling Hippocrates on the drive
away after more bad ***
shots of sauces and grilled roasted
poached lentils bespoke chickens finery
malodorous wafts limestone smoothed
by centuries of acidity oily tourist touches
but they’re in Mexico Australia India
we’re back at home twins calling
each day an error of time rounded off
the incorrigible quark refusing
to cooperate with Einstein choosing its
own entangled path and lighting fools
what beautiful skyline
what amazing celebrity capture
what nostalgic group assemblage
what **** cute puppy who’s no more pup
what swanky tailored look
what smiles what smiles what seriousness
the soft and supple features curves lines
practiced looks and wayward hairs
a simple flourishing according to the lens
so much that skin conceals and eyes
beer garden sidewalk orations
wedding after party for April fools
we were who dance grabbing rings
swinging wildly discussing the vulgarities
of gastronomy and digestion
tumbling into diners midnight offices
brick lined streets magical talks
demonstrations and ideas unbounded
carving pumpkins into likable politicians
we think are statesmen and wailing
when she loses winning a trophy case
buckling under weight of moral victory
the thought of skyscrapers lit
shining under heaven unsubtle insinuation
we’re better than all this nonsense
and stronger having raised this glass
and steel by our own hands, our parents
rather now maybe that’s confusion
erecting higher stairwells to escape
encroaching seas and bums below
all memory all happy every laugh
each rumination on the hours
kisses cocktails cuddles laughter
that perfect vest completed outfit
those thrift store jeans that shirt
that secondhand one speed bike
those lunches with the priest
those brunches with the students
those happy hours with the coworkers
those dinners with the beard
all interchangeable parts in show
theater of recollection one subway car
one taxi ride one bus to NY or DC
one flight to Seattle or Vegas
or some Floridian seascape, mansion
each cog or bit like paper currency
imbued with no value but buying
the totality of lived experience
from which to draw upon in sad elsewhere
—but they cut deep, well meaning though
whenever was now isn’t and can is blind
to what day will ever be when I can say
in truth now sadness isn’t.
How memories, even of happy times, can feel smothering when recalled from within the Bell Jar.
Nancy Maxwell Oct 2018
Grow up girl u’ve got responsibilities
These are now anthems I hear often
But how?
Am still a kid, so innocent and pure
How do I cope with this new forcefully imposed me
I don’t want to be accountable for anyone
I don’t know how
I want the old days back
The nurturing I disregarded and saw as pestering
I want it
I want it back
I want it now
You can’t be asleep now it’s a school night
Help them get ready
I don’t want to hold the key
Neither do I want to choose or make suggestions
As they would want me to
I take all the ache
Bottle up the anger and be good
Or at least seem to
Laugh and be the big sister
They all look forward to
But why?
I just want to be a kid again
I never got to blossom or be a teen
I became stuck as an adult at a premature age
an instant mom
Advisably
This is my fate
I dammed all and accepted it
But what choice do I have
I hope I do it right.
this was inspired by my fav TV series shameless
i saw myself in the character fiona alot and suddenly dawn on me, i was there, it also inspired me to write this piece
pls enjoy and tell me what you think

— The End —