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Beaming parents,
Newborn christened,
Warning issued,
No one listened.
And a marquee,
But someone failed
To invite me.

Baptismal gift
Almost apt
Dragged behind
Badly wrapped.
Turning circles
With the blackboard squeal
Of an antiquated
Spinning wheel.
Robert G Page Mar 2013

when i look around this place
its antiquated beds and halls,
and hearing sounds that old age brings
the sounds of sadness through the walls.

and glancing into weary eyes
which stare ahead in planted gaze.
i wonder what story there in lies
a story in which they lived their days.

now at last they're all alone
alone because they have no place
no place that they can call their own
no children now to show their love.

yes lives now spent and youth gone past
their silver hair and faces red,
this lonely life they live at last
and roam these halls until they're dead.

old and crippled a man now lies
a cruel way for life to end.
to stay this way until he dies
in dim lit room void of friends.

quietly now a woman sits
her spouse and children long since gone.
to do no more but wait her turn
of when her lonely life is done.

a sorrow touches felt by all
of knowing that the end is near,
there's those awaiting final call
a call to death which few do fear...

---to be continued---
jane taylor Jun 2016
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes

shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit

brought before their court
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times

barbarically they shun me
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now

an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze

i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
i plunge

free falling
stripped wide open
reverses gravitation

i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun

you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound

you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul

dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly

my husband and i left the mormon church and lost many friends, family, and community
jane taylor Jun 2016
how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home

i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
******* feelings
rise and fall
as they melt
and disappear

i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs

i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer

i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies

hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main

itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
magnificence abounds

i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim

faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in

amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
luring in
my destiny

i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
fiercely clicking
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon

i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring

your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind

yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain

once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again

after a 5 year absence, we are returning to utah at the end of this month
jane taylor May 2016
stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests

pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed

as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories

recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner

i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time

familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine

i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus

an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self

flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly

i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain

as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind

an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned

as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home

©2016 janetaylor
Eva Aloezos May 23
The air shatters,
weighed down by heavy pollution

the streets bubble with the rage and oppression which plague humanity

Lost souls wander,
mindlessly chasing their antiquated   dreams

                         ­  Heading home

bursts of light!
honey suckle air

enveloped by the green forests of virginia,

natural beauty that shines with rays of the purest gem
As the crow flies south from capital city
With soaring moonshine he coasts into synchronicity
Highways below dissolve into forgotten whispers
Like a rear view mirror sees only memories in its disappearing

Visual ****** initiates and fills this polychromatic cruise
Starting with a quiet historic ruse
Contesting over which of the two
echo shadows for optical repeal

the many leaves of kaleidoscope hues
That keep a running legacy since time before our time
and / or
Buried horizon from endless layers of skyward hills
Hills that have been storing a primitive foundation for the growing of substructure foliage in order to be able to drop its petals and leaves

Resolve is left with the one true and unbiased impartial decider...
the wind
to form a fair measure of mediation

From the human view
All are merely a preview for the impromptu quest
In an attempt to catalyze foreshadow and paint memory for the drive out west

To approach from afar
The destination appears to be a resting
shape of an antiquated location

splashed with opaque aromas,

sensory weaving visuals,


Melodic tones of nostalgic definition

Emitting vibrations of soothing tremolo that quiver throughout the body

this multi-strip string of singular select shops
Is the alignment initiative in the countryside
forecasting a manifest
for the hazy occasion
Anointing inspiration over the heartland’s artland
That nearly only hope,
could create

Invisible snows sprinkle over roads like a magic red carpet of threaded tranquility in its coat
Enticing, Welcoming, and Lighting up this neck of the west
And opening into the
Woodland Hills of Little Nashville

We met through a latched gate
down a straight concrete path
With flowers and grass on either side
To a white cottage with a
Thick thatched roof.
To the right of the front door
Was a climbing, yellow,’ Chelsea’ rose.

The garden was an orchard of tenderness with
Five elderly leaning apple trees bearing fruit.
And David Austin roses in a variety of colours
Many wild and cultivated flowers grew and plentiful
Of bird song.

Roger and I sat together at a small
Table and chairs
And were given a delightful meal
Of chicken and vegetables
Followed by ice cream and mixed fruit salad
After resting with cups of tea
I wandered round the garden to see all the
Beauty of this wilderness and a boat in a large
Rather dilapidated shed
Later to be rebuild into a fine garage of
Original Suffolk stone and two wooden doors.

Our time together was very precious to me.
Filling in much that I had heard about, but
Never encountered, from a very dear relative.

In the afternoon we went into Bury St Edmunds central
To see the Cathedral, Abbey Gardens, with resplendent
Flower beds frequently replenished in an abudance of colourful changes and the antiquated book shops.
The day was concluded with strawberries and cream in the
Park sitting on a bench in the sun.

We had a long journey back to Watford.
I never forget this day so unusual was it
Made by my friend.

Love Mary xxxx
Ankur Jan 7
You remind me of someone from a half remembered dream,
A silhouette from an epoch
That I have journeyed through fleetingly.
And then beside these sempiternal embers
I indulge in a pestilenntial reminisce,
Of the antiquated aeon of camaraderie
When the befuddlement inundates my anima like a swinging ragde.
I have been spooring thy sigil,
Through this deranged tourney of metampsychosis,
Only to be impelled by your unequivocal,
Benightedness surrounding my subsistence.
MicMag Aug 2018
What's it take
These days

To write a poem

That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest

Is it those excessively long words?
The loquacious ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?

Is it perhaps...
     the "creativity"
               of      varied      spacing
  or...    could it be..... the lack
                              of capitalization
               the loathsome little letters
               screaming out
                         hey, look at us!
         ... or maybe it's
               the punctuation marks,
     littered, haphazardly
          through the text
                    (whether used correctly)
               or, theyre not?!
     despite worrds mispeled
          and a grammar might is broken
   can these tricks increase interest
        though miswritten or misspoken?

Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
     unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
   (or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Heard by herds
Raise the
                  Praise for which we
                  Privately, desperately

Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism

Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes

Well, maybe not...
     those gems are often ignored
     cast-aside, unclicked, abhorred


Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
   of "the right way"
   to write
   to speak
   to act
   to live
   to (fill in the blank)

No, what the modern world needs

And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Changed up way
After line
Of synonyms


What's it take
These days

To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?

But more importantly:
What's it take

To make my poem go viral?
Only halfway cynically written, I swear!
In an antiquated walk-up
in an older part of town,
The photographer waits patiently
for her to shed her gown.

His output decorates his studio walls.
Please don’t be confused.
These are pictures, without exception,
of tasteful female nudes.

Some are done in sepia tones,
others in harsh light,
Each girl eyes you wantonly
with the promise of delight.

His model for this evening
is an old grand-dame in pearls.
Her eyes, half blind with cataracts,
have seen the wonders of the world.

She reclines upon the bed
in his suggested pose.
Her arm is draped across her *******.
So many men had fun with those.

He has a special camera,
unique of all its kind.
It has a special lens
that takes its subjects back in time.

The old girl, there on the divan,
In this lens is twenty-three.
Her eyes are clear, her silver tresses  blonde,
Her youth restored miraculously.

Her fingers play with her string of pearls.
She enjoys the cool air on her skin.
Once more she knows the pride she felt
when she could tempt a priest to sin.

Their time is short, soon she must dress
And face the world as a withered reed.
She gladly pays the photographers price
for this great service in her hour of need.
A little piece of science fiction about a photographer who makes his fortune with a very special camera.
MARIO Sep 2018
The white billowing funnels of purely antiquated fluff rolled by like wind in a lazy sail. The syrupy cirrus disasters dripped heaven unto passersby. Everyone watched and waited, but not a wretch took even an instant to notice that a malevolent tempest brewed south. Mortals went on with their days, hell's revenants. Constructing sin and suchwhat. All was lost before it had begun. God's master plan. Flaming meteorites launched spectacular displays of warfare and catastrophe in the firmament. Corpses showered the celestial Terra for years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. Only when hot hate ran through the streets of humanity was it finally forgotten. Over and done with. Then a new day began, a purplish-pinkish day, complete with stiff greens, cool blues, posh reds, and the occasional stygian black. A conclusion before there was even a conception. There was a sky.

And suddenly, the sky made love.
if he were not
the president of a superpower
     that claims to be the beacon of democracy
we all could laugh more easily
     and openly

about the way he lies with almost every utterance
uses foul language, insults & invective
openly shares his racist views
lowers the level of accepted public speech
     like no U.S. president before
snuggles up to monarchs and dictators
and does not understand
     they play him for a fool

antiquated ideas of trickle-down economy
add nothing to his silly promises
of making his country great again
     (no real need, has never been small)

after two years in office it is clear
his retrograde policy
leads what once used to be
a democratic nation of great promise
    quite independent will
    and vital multicultural diversity
into a world of yesterday
    not to a better future

all it does is make him
     and the whole nation
the **** of wary global laughter
the kind usually given to the joker
in superman movies
I promise not to write about (U.S.) politics for at least a month ...8-(
Eva Aloezos Nov 2018
all the self destruction,
rhetoric available on loop,
tucked away in the mind
of those idly chasing a self fulfilling prophecy

Notions of false speculations,
antiquated thought patterns
plummeted out of my window mid day,

as I was forced to face
the unfortunate disorder hijacking the neural pathways

which reside in the ***** of my skull
No sacred book,
Or talisman,
No prayer,
Or synagogue
Or mosque,
Can ever change this truth,
Ancient and antiquated:
When two are in love,
No matter the gender,
Or identity,
The earth moves in wonder;
The mountains bow down in awe.

— The End —