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September Roses May 2018
Thick, warm, fuzzy air
Radiates against your skin, making you want to doze off
You sit on the front of a low red car that looks another era, leaning on the glossy hood.
I want to put your lips on mine
The world feels yellow, and orange.
It's as if clear smoke has filled the air
My eyes are dimmed through thick sunglasses, my body absorbing the warmth through jeans and a small black shirt
I'm in a lucid daze
Looking at you through a curtain of straight black hair, not bothered to move it from my face.
You're eyes the crisp refreshing blue in a world tinted amber
Like fresh water, so cooling as I gaze in them.
Like a spray of water on your back
After hours of sunbathing
We sit there
We say nothing
We take in the sun
   We don't need anything else
gracie Mar 2018
Shake me

Til the sad falls away
Til my heart breaks so cleanly
That you can staple it together
With love or
Some kind of metal
That won't melt in the scorching
Heat.

Hold me

Til my hands stop
Quivering
Til warm clouds of
Breath escape my lips
And drift up into the
Smoking atmosphere
Between our
Chests.

Shatter me

Til glass scatters across the
Concrete
Til no amount of superglue or
Soft words
Can fix the wonderful
Damage you leave
Behind.
September Roses Mar 2018
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden

The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may

The distinguishable noise of your parents' doorbell

The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back

The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story

The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night

The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades

The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to

Nostalgia
sir humbug Jun 2018
the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised


and so the job,
our work,
begins
Alex Bex Jan 2018
Through the white, beating Texan heat,
water towers cry out titles
high above the flat land
where kids from the roadside houses
run around in stained tank tops,
dreaming of their own names up there.
The long and burnt grass cuts their ankles
and the dry cement scrapes their feet.
The midday ritual begins in a racing circle
raising dust over the roofs and into the shy afternoon.
Around 5, the roadside families reunite
in front of their houses to watch the daily traffic jam
and observe the variety of faces through the glass windows,
which after a short while do not seem to vary at all.
But today, something else had their full attention.
The sky was never seen this low and the clouds
​turned a shade of black
so dark as to be almost green,
so the eldest women on that single row of houses
declared bad omen. The next early morning,
the closest water tower laid gravely against the ground.
Already, a small boy had climbed on top of the tank,
soles bleeding, and waving
​his shirt into the wide clear sky.

©2018 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
the
opposite of manifest
destiny-

trains running backwards,
everything free, no news

                nothing
                nothing
           ­     nothing
                about us,

         -

raspy laugh
displaced air,

****** meadows
               turning every trick,

               slackening to
  
the pressure.
Bryan Lunsford Apr 2018
With ****** **** in the atmosphere,
And with my fingers rolling down her spine,
I want her to know this is sincere,
That I've never met a goddess this divine,
As I'm lost of words,
With beauty that she has redefined,
I touch every inch of her curves,
With words that I still cannot find,
Where my hands continue to search,
For the words within my mind,
I find a treasure of hers,
With my fingers that try to describe,
As everything from there becomes a blur,
And I touch her like what no words could ever define
Alice Wilde Oct 2017
She was a wilting flower,
Delicately fading
Into the depth of her sorrow.

Her eyes-pooled gossamer stars
Falling from constellation webs.
Bouncing on the tile before losing shape
In the atmosphere.

My soul was swallowed into
Her sorrow,
And stayed there.

And when I held her,
It was like trying to hold on to refracted light.
Ilion gray Nov 2013
if i leave you tonight,
escape to some abandoned moon,
give myself to zero gravity,
would your fingertips
still curse me?
there is a bitter taste
of foreign sweat-
traces of new elements
on your skin-
the kind that explode,
when they touch mine-

if, i stay here-
with you-
we will watch the sea,
swallow the sky-
the atmosphere dissipate-
             rush back to earth
in a grayish blue tide-

most likely-

you, and i-

will die

where we stand,
just from the sight
of god's angry hand-

closing around the sun-

you,
touched me-

i existed,
i breathed,
believing
you exist
for me only-


these days,
iv'e stopped believing
in things unseen-

and though i sleep,
i stopped asking
questions in dreams-
i learned,
hope is not for wasting.

your lips,
were always
only inches away,

you would say
i never wanted to kiss you-
  not enough-

                       well-
suicide, is not for tasting-
                  
drifting breathless.
in,
and out of ******-ness
trying to remember,
if you just said something-
or am i,
                   still
                                                     Alone?
in this
house of wanting
alex Jan 28
you are too good for me
far too much, far to precious
i'm callous and nothing like what i think i am
you are going to do good in this world
and i am just going home.
jcny. one of my friends with whom i could be desperately in love, but he truly is just so much better than me. title from "another night on mars" by the maine.
Alex Bex Aug 2018
At around this time of year I would usually
start dreaming of girls with shoulder high hair
racing their way into warm summer crossings,
under midnight white skies,
following the shadow of giants ahead
that would never ever fade in the distance.
I stared again into long halcyon lights
shooting straight up from dying cities,
and every street corner turning slowly into the night,
enough time to feel I would yet be missing
another love story this year.
©2018 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
Leon Murphy Nov 2018
The rain trickles down the window
as I turn my head to look outside
dusk settles in
the night is on the rise

Just another sound
If I may?
leave the colours in their place
I want to stare a little longer
let me forget all the pain
as the chemicals rush into my brain
now I can forget
and the colours fade away.

I stumble in my bed
falling flat on my face
just a little disgrace
I am.

Now as the lids close over my eyes
darkness seeps through my mind
and I
can rest dreadfully as the nightmares come to life.
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,


the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
Ilion gray Aug 2014
I watched the night collapse
and crush the atmosphere
the light came
pouring down into the earth
Igniting wildfires

people cursed god
In screams and flames
The hands that held
The earth weary, sweaty and
Shaking
The  dragon
Remains untamed
The children are
***** and angry
With a sickness          
That cannot be named
grace snoddy Dec 2017
a new beginning starts here.
when we let the absence of words
sink in our skin and flow through
the red and blue veins.
to let silence become apart of us as a whole.
and to be ridden of awkward
and gently colored with tranquility.
when we are consumed with the most
heavenly stillness,
we appreciate the things
that normally don’t come to eye.

a new beginning starts here.
an interconnection manifested in the
deficiency of conversation.
an ambience that is better than any
formulation of sentences.
our unspoken vowels and consonants
playfully roll around
in the quiet rest of the atmosphere;
it speaks louder than your steady heartbeat
and collected breathing.
Last night I received
a gift addressed to me.
It was a blessing in disguise,
it forced me to open my eyes.

I was quite sure
I would be sad forever more
until I opened this letter
and something inside me felt better.

Last night was the start
to my new beginning, 
a night where I realised
no one was winning.

A letter
hitting me with a new perspective of life
was the unexpected gift
hitting me with what I was long in need of
and making my troubles drift.

It was the first time I had seen how far I'd sunk for what it really was,
the first time I'd seen the **** truth,
and understood why that was because.

I changed my room, my opinion,
my behaviour and my mind
and realised that the person I wanted to become
had always been there
just somewhere deep inside.

And that person was who i would find,
thanks to a letter
from the sky.

I have since taken better care of my mental state:
caught up on sleep,
caught up on my learning.
completed all of my skincare,
and treated myself to what I've long been deserving.

I now know the difference
that taking care of yourself and your surroundings can make,
and what the atmosphere is like
in wherever you take place.

I feel free
now I've let loose of my heartache
to feel more glee
and I am too happy to write about my heartbreak.

I had been so blind, so cross
and lost myself somewhere in the chaos.
It took nature to have to reach out to me,
to show me how to care for myself
and how to no longer carry the weight
of everyone else.
Fix it by being mindful, not having your mind full.
A presence
presenting
a continuous torment
torturing
incessantly
until, even with cessation
only a tenuous self
is present
leaving only the resin

The maniacal
manifestation
is an infestation
festering around in my head
Its existence,
a creation
created at inception,
hacking my brain
Forever a trap
creating a
maniac

Acrimonious
to all mankind
Not acting
like a man
Not one word
that's kind
Committing crimes
and getting oneself
committed
A deviation
creating a deviant
Shifted values
due to a devalued
self

An esoteric
essence
seemingly sentenced
on this journey
by judge and jury,
not by one's peers
because the many
not able
to peer
into this individuality
The duplicity
of duality
that is my reality

Challenging myself
to a dual
One in which
I both
win and lose
But in the end
not breaking even
or coming out ahead
Always ending
further back
instead

Its back breaking
and always aching
Pain from which
not capable of
faking
Effort I’m taking
Of myself making
Time for a new king
For kinsmanship
is aloof
And this man’s ship
has sailed away
Sipping a port
at a shipping port
And yet
slipping away

Deeper still
In the depth
of still water
Sinking
into the abyss
Lost and gone
But not missed
Is this the end
of our fable?
Or will our “hero”
enable himself
and in the end
be able
Deciding who to be?
Cain or Abel?
For the hurricane
is hurrying along
Its aim always the same
Constant pain
A payment he feels
for the displaced
placement
which just in case
is placed
same place
he went

Ink in the face
A disgrace
When suddenly
encased in his brain
are racing thoughts
of a plan
he’s ace’n

A label of insanity
given by those
who claim sanity
when the reality
is their thoughts are free
and optimize
a sanitized
and homogenized
batter
And in the end
it doesn’t matter

Offering suggestions
in which they
feel threatened
Pathways congested
and protested
Testing them
Even worse,
bested
A problem beset
upon them
Time to steady
the flock
Roll n’ Rock
Inoculations we’re getting
Start the injections

“It’s been an honor”
Mounting my Lipizzaner
A disarmer
A charmer
The armor
‘mi amor’
Leaving me
wanting more
But as they keep score
the task is daunting
A life that’s haunting
with such splendid decor
-
Yet, can’t take any more
Their taunting
is leaving me sore
So to the atmosphere
I open that door
and flying up above
I soar

Forever more
Feel pain no more...
Written: August 17, 2018

All rights reserved.
Debbie Brindley Aug 2018
Shattered shards of broken
hearts
crumble to dust
As ghosts of yesterday lurk in the corners
memories of passion and ****
Dust drifts gently through the
atmosphere
Caressing stars as they pass so bright so clear
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them*

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Bipasha Dutt Jan 2018
first rain on dry earth
Petrichor fills atmosphere
with a mild perfume
My first haiku
Malin Nilsen May 2017
I remember the first time I saw him.
His radiance stole the breath from my lungs,
as if I was outside the atmosphere.
I got lost exploring the galaxies of his eyes,
and I got pulled into his pupils
like a pair of black holes.

His smile revealed a cluster of bright stars.
I wanted to explore his body,
as if he was the surface of Mars.
His laughter caused a supernova in my heart,
the strength of his gravity could tear me apart.
We danced and orbited each other all night,
then we went home to learn about the Big Bang.
This Morning
The Golden Sun Rose
With a Midas touch
Smiled at the Skies

In Scintillating Colours
Bedewed the Atmosphere
In a Lush Orange Squash
A Rush of Pomegranate Reds
A Spread of Fiery hot Saffron Threads

Far Away
Billowed
The Feathery White
Pristine Kashmir Clouds

The Mirthful birds
On the wire , Chirped
A Mesmerised me ,
Revelled
In the Early Morning Bliss

Nature Imbues
Taking away the Sky's Blues
Sunrise experience on 21/12/2017
JV Beaupre May 2016
I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, "Who wants my sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." I won't tell you what he really said. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettio's and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month.1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…” 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Deferred, 1964.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness, 1968.

US science jobs  dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. 1972.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border, why?
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

I said, "May be there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

II. In the present century....

And what have I learned? Here's advice for the next ones: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Final retirement. 2015.

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. But I moved on, and came back. There is still problem 12-19 in Becker's mechanics and it still needs solving. 2016 and continuing.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.
ALIEN MOSTLY Apr 2018
Ruler of water
Walking on air
Antisocial Alien
She'll tell you to grow a pair

Not of this planet
She's ready to leave
Bored with human nature
Atmosphere hard to breath

Extraterrestrial
Don't touch her, she's cold
Unresponsive emotions
Can't fit in your mould

Ruler of water
Floating on air
Riddled with anxiety
Life just isn't fair

A Queen, individual
Heart racing, can't breathe
She knows what she can be
She just wants to leave

Anxious Aquarius
Lady of air
Can't breath your atmosphere
And you can't reach her
Hemosphere
Kind of rough, playing around with repeating lines and rearranging them.
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