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D Letwixt Oct 2018
damp grass from the hillside
is cold on my feet as I walk
hands in my pockets and head looking down
legs leading slowly downhill
towards the sea.

There's something about going for a walk
that makes it easier to think
even if you completely ignore your surroundings
or don't go very far.

The sand surprises me
the soft white powder that shifts between my toes
and my feet slip a little with every step.

For the first time in a while, I look up
the sea is darker than usual, it's turbulent as well,
but I stop for a moment on the edge of the water.

Imagine If I fell in
I'd probably turn into driftwood and then just float off
until the water pushed me up onto some deserted beach
and then pulled me back in
and then pushed me up again
eternally caught in the space between sea and shore

the space between here and there
between is and isn't
between impulse and inactivity

I'm already there.
Penguin Poems Oct 2018
Turn the channel but it’s still static
So far away that you can’t hear the panic
And maybe I am a touch dramatic
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not problematic.
Not saying that my whole life is tragic
But having you in it was a little traumatic.
Despite all the times it felt like magic
Looking back now pushes me into a havoc.

I know, I know, I know,
We both made mistakes, and
I know, I know, I know,
We never meant for it to be this way.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
We had told more truths and not buried them,
I wish, I wish, I wish,
we would’ve had more of a grey area.
Meant to be a song... haven’t gotten around to the chords yet though.
Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
Pythagoras taught that reality was
but one among an infinite number

now u've got the quantum multiverse;
& Pythagoras thought of it first,   saying
all it amounted to was a line leading to
& through a point, like a thread through
a needle;             & so the Universe was
stitched together like a multi-directional
dream catcher; excluding no area
in space &  miracles taking place
                                       when the strings
       are manipulated according to preset
               patterns or improvised designs;

what else did the ancient ancients
do that make ur high-tech gadgets
look like the simple-minded toys
that they in truth are; the ancients  
told time by the movement of the
sun & shadows & communicated
w/ unseen higher spirits, conferred
w/ still higher spirits,   higher than
those both above & below;  spirits
taking the form of sacred prostitutes
& poets, geniuses every one of them
King Panda Nov 2015
you in quail feathers means
that your red is my red
and the way that you taste pizza
is the way that I taste it

our
homogeneous brains
hard mother
hard father
the states we were raised in

melt running through
area 41 where the nefarious
Rolando implanted
our splitting
branches

qualia
what it means for you
to have mental states
pure consciousness
perceiving you there
in the corner

your toenails still painted
purple
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
I
In the cold silence of the area
Rose a lonesome cafeteria,
Outside of it hooded forms -
Scaly horns -
Perched on white, plastic chairs
Like fifteen owls on a wire.
II
A grey-green bird in the distance
Sang a three-note song with insistence.
He sang on not to the white folks
But to the cold he tried to coax.
He sang to a spot desolate -
Sure thing, he sang to punctuate it.
©LazharBouazzi, July, 2017
The whole of stanza one is a true story. On the way to my home town, Kasserine, I did see the scene involving about fifteen hooded people sitting outside a café with their backs against the wall, apparently waiting for sunset and the cannonball that would announce the break of the fast in Ramadhan.
Stanza II (with the bird) is pure poetic invention.
Antino Art Feb 2018
South Florida
if you were a body part,
you’d be an armpit.

You’d be a bulged vein
on the side of a forehead
forever locked in a scowl
behind sunglasses.

You speak the language of horns
middle name, finger
blood type, combustible

You're a melting ***
that's boiled over the lid
sweating salt water at the brows
eyes red as the brake lights
in the maddening brightness,
you’re torrential daylight
heating nerves like greenhouse gasses
waiting for a reason to explode.

You’re a tropical motilov cocktail
no one can afford
2 parts anger, 1 part stupidity
melting in place, thirsty for attention
full of yourself in a souvenir glass with a toothpick umbrella
You're all image

You’re the curse words breaking out the mouths
of the angry line mob at Starbucks in the morning
You’re the indifferent silence
in the arena at the Heat games leaving early,
showing up late
due to the distance
from Brickell to Hialeah,
West Palm to Pompano
the gap between the entitled and the under-paid
a skyline of condos in a third world country
You’ve always been foreign to me.

You’re winterless, no chill
you attract only hurricanes
and tourists,
shoving anything that isn’t profitable
out of the way like the Irma storm debris
into the backyards of the Liberty City projects,
onto Mount Trash Can off the side of the Turnpike
hidden beneath Bermuda grass, lined with palm trees
you’re cold blooded
crawling with iguanas
blood-******* mosquitos
parking lot ducks and people not afraid to get run over
you get yours, Soflo
and you'll go as low
as the flat roofs of your duplexes
and the incomes that can barely pay the rent to get it
latitude as attitude
temper as temperature
if you were a body part
I swear you’re an *******

south of the brain, one hour
in all directions,
I’d find you.
You’d impose your way
onto my flight to the Philippines,
to Seattle, to Raleigh
You’d follow me like excess baggage,
like gravity,
bringing me back when asked where I'm from:

That area north of Miami, I’d say
(the suburbs, but whatever, we are hard in our own way)
I'd show you off on their map
as if some badge of grit,
certificate of aggression
I know how to break a sweat
walk briskly thru Walmart parking lots, drive evasive
ride storms in my sleep
I know you, I’d say,
“He’s a friend of mine.”
and I’d watch them light up
and recount
the postcards you've sent them
of the sunrise
welcoming brown immigrants
onto white sand beaches
You were foreign to us
yet raised us as your own
in the furnace of your summers
edges sharpened, iron on iron
the forger striking softness into swords
built for survival
I'm made of you

my South Floridian anger cools down
in your ocean breeze

if you were a body part,
you'd be a part of me
a socked foot in an And1 sandal
pressed to the gas pedal
as my drive takes me north
of your borders, far from home
You in the rear view mirror
tail-gating
like a sports car on the exit ramp
the color of the sun
Chris Neilson Sep 2016
Stopping to write words is my impulsive habit
as hopping grey squirrels cross paths with a wild rabbit

Hedge and tree sparrows creating their fun
tweeting feathered friends under a rising sun

Goats and rowing boats resting by a shady tree
donkey rides advertised that don't come for free

Mother feeding baby upon a tartan rug
a passing loved up couple sharing a hug

Ear flicking deer romping up then down
full leafed green trees turning to brown

For who knows a bell tolls at midday
not for a slight slumbering pony anyway

Passing a multicultural horticultural area
spotting an alpaca who's growing hairier

A soaking Labrador emerges from a small lake
brushing my bare lower leg in its wake

Sitting on a bench dedicated to a lost loved one
taking in the views he loved before he was gone

A picture may paint a thousand words long
but poetry captures succinctly September birdsong
It's my fortune to live close to one of the largest municipal parks in Europe (Heaton Park), this is my account of a stroll through there this unseasonably warm September day.
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2016
As the shape all sun
tore up the curtain
of blood and ululation,
everything in Tunisia,
as stricken by a wand,
came to a standstill,
and slipped away
from the senses -
Even rivers stopped.

Medjerda* froze
halfway
through the descent
to his destination,
as he realized
he’d been making a fatal error:
pouring forth all his passion
into the ocean.

So he stopped,
retracted his course,
re-collected himself,
and started flowing backward,
toward
the source
in the Atlas
that had bidden him
farewell.

In his spear head
there was a design:
start a new chaos
in the valley,
in which there would be
a sweet-water lake
and sailors drunk
with sunbeams, sweat
and pleasure.
Butterflies would flutter
around the scent of mint
and bluegreen rosemary.
Sweet Moon to Sweet Lake
would come, unannounced,
In the rays of the nightlight
of the fluttering night
to watch her self
shoot
the scene
of representation.

The river, now swimming
in his own water,  
carried the sky on his shoulder,
while an ant and a grasshopper,
holding a basket together,
watched the new scene.

As the figure all sun appeared ,
reason melted;
imagination
her hazel eyes opened.

*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.
© LazharBouazzi, June 16, 2016
*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.
laura Sep 2017
got a condo in manhattan
but it's empty unless i want to be
cold in the winter
and alone; comfortable

used to call an old flame up around that
area and just vibe
no words, pure concentration on
the movements of our energies

and how they connect to the stars
above or maybe we were just high
out of our minds and being warm
next to each other watching the rain

was something we both could take
home with nostalgic feelings
silence so comforting and numbing
Ken Pepiton Mar 2018
Anom o ly

Non-named, never imagined much less realized

The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here

We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.

Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?

Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.

Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question,  nor is good or bad. ******* Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.

I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.

First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>

Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notic
Cné Mar 2017
i am your pet, cherished, you bet
from the very first moment, we met

you are my master, tried and true
my job in life is to always, please you

i wander aimlessly alone
when you're gone, so long, on your own

forgive me, if i chew your shoe
i was nervous and i missed you

if i snack some food from the trash
it smelled so good, how could i pass

bark, bark, bark, i cry out alarm
the mailman has come here to harm

when you get home, i'm so happy
wagging my tail with my whole body

when we go for a walk together
if a cat threatens, away i chase her

don't be upset with me, please sir
i promise to protect you from all danger

i greet other dogs, on our way
smelling their butts to just say, hey

i lift my leg marking my place
to find my way back, just in case

i'm not too crazy about the rain
but i'll keep you company and not complain

laying belly up is a sign
scratch me, rub me and i'll be fine

if I lick my area, because i can
please don't be jealous of me, man

sleeping here, my chin on your foot
obediently, my faith in you, i put

though my purpose, i may reach in a flash
compared to your life, my longevity won't last

my loyalty to you, will never sever
unconditionally, i love you, forever
Another artist's statement for a series
of pet portraits I've painted
labyrinths Feb 2015
is the illuminati real?
was 9/11 an inside job?
are we in love?

i keep saying "i don't know" like it's the only thing i do know - maybe i don't have the right answer but i've thought about it just as much as you think about glittery pink nails and tiny red bikinis on the beach in the middle of the day

do aliens live among us?
does reincarnation exist?
are we in love?

and maybe i don't know but i do know more than i don't know like the way you sent me that picture and said i was cute or the way the sky blinks at night a little too suspiciously to be a star. i know the names of all the planets and i know how to kiss like i'm in love

is there a God?
is the fluoride in our water harmful?
are we in love?

but I don't even know what the other side of the country looks like, let alone the other side of the world and i know a little but you know so much more and i don't know why someone so small needs someone so strong but i also don't know what it looks like to die.

is our fate decided for us?
what are they hiding in area 51?
are we in love?

when you look at me i feel like i could tell stories until my teeth cut through my lips and my tongue is bleeding from talking so much. it might not be love but it's blood pumping through my veins and working brain cells and beat beating against my rib cage, sweaty palms in the fear that you'll hold them, the fluctuation of a lifeline, you are my hospital waiting room where most of the people don't have to be there and go home. in a room full of hypochondriacs, i am the biggest one of all, diagnosing myself with a broken heart

was the moon landing staged?
how much does the government keep from us?
are we in love?
lol
Loryn Jan 3
I met this boy, girl? boy.
Gray? D'Arcy.
He wears these **** *** shoes
and god it's hilarious.
He's like my best friend and
he makes me laugh so hard.
But he's leaving soon
and then I'll never see him again.
It's sad, I know.
But It'll be okay I guess,
I don't know.
D'Arcy
Amanda Jean Oct 2016
Long winding
Lost roads
Dead dog
Or maybe mountain lion
(**** roadkill)
Car stopped in the middle of the road
Woman drove off the side of the road
(with the ******* pigs)
Gas station stops
No service area
Keeping me on long winding lost roads!

Now there
Misty fog
Hot steam
As I baptize with bubbles
In this hot tub at Grand Haven
A locked cabin
Enjoyed for a time by myself
Alone.
Are area
Rough
External
Outsider
Leaks
And
Secretes
Can you **** some up
Off my surface skin
Umi Feb 2018
What might it be that doesn't let me compete to three verses ?
Perhaps it is that I tend to write longer poems, perhaps the lengh
shouldn't matter so much as the message is carried through.
From mind to heart, then to ones soul I try to reach out with no goal.
Yet am beaten, brought back down, by three verses which show up
with such malice, ominous, threatful aura, they have approached me.
I pretend not to mind, I pretend not to have seen it, yet the simple,
silly, broken stream in my thoughts has already engaged it.
So that it once again, cannot repress, envy on such a level.
My writing style might have been through changes, might have
come to a disliking to those who prefer a clear, structured, yet well
recorded, beautiful and magnificent rhyme pattern.
That should surely catch one's eye, perhaps fill them with glee and
bliss, happy thoughts that they would miss once they are gone.
But no, I cannot turn, this path was chosen, locked, destined to be
walked upon on an journey which has become endless, by time
which had stopped passing anymore.
So now it became unrecognised, forgotten, left in an abyss without
any light to expose it to the world outside my head.
Such is the fate, which I will gladly bear with, for this, has been
a  route, from which I learn and educate.
So go ahead, you can take my flame thrice, even if I might not be
able to burn this image into your eyes, this ember, about to go out
from the cold, windy, airless area, will only burn brighter.
As it rises from the ashes and yet again, goes ablaze

~ Umi
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