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Stephen E Yocum Nov 2013
In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around nine or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.

She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the nations
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.

Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects  
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.

She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was prechilled as if
It had been waiting only for her.
She pounded that first one down,
As if the stem wear was a shot glass.
Another full stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed glass rim.

Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I couldn't tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.
The close chopped hair cuts
giving us away.

Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A ****** just back from The Nam,
A dark scary guy of few words.

She opened her fur trimmed cloth coat,
exposing two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better shot.

She announced her name,
like as if we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.  
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.

Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.

She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We didn't have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days, long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so?  I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was gay!
Still is.”

It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big baby blues,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a large hand lettered sign.

I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.

Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she seemed,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.

Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports
and the Daily Duty Lists.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosey-goosey outfit.

Once in a while now I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film Noir stuff,
And there she is, a much younger her,
Looking pretty **** good,
Not real big roles they were,
Claimed she was in the chorus
Of "Singing In The Rain" in '52.
To this, I can not attest,
watched that film several times,
But I never saw her there.

Had parts Playing damsels in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll a time or two,
Or unhappy Play Girls on a bar stool.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth..
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life ain’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
A smattering of fame, apparently worth,
Nothing at all.
True stuff from an old guys past.
She had called the Company Office
once or twice, looking for Hutch.
He told us to tell her that he had
been Shipped Out, when he actually
hadn't.

She no doubt found someone else to
tell her story to.

I saw that woman the other day on TV,
an old film on Turner Classic Movies
doing her thing. I sort of wonder what
ever  happened to her, but refuse to
Google it to find out.
Some information you don't need
or what to know.
It did inspire this little Poem Noir write.

Got a letter from Hutch in '70, we were
both out of the Corps. He was headed to
the Arabian Desert as a hired gun, to guard
some pipe line operation. Have no idea what
became of him after that. Hutch was a real hard
case, 14 confirmed kills through a ****** sight.
I hope he made it out of the desert all right,
maybe sitting on a beach someplace recalling
his back in the day three nights with a once
upon a time B movie star. Actually I doubt he
recalls her at all.
Polar Aug 2017
There's a ghost in the machine
A distant heartbeat
An echo
A recollection of tides pulled by the rhythm
Of the moon
A lunar cycle
Of leaves swirled
And now settled
By the whisper
Of the breeze
A message repeated
But not audibly heard
Remembered and understood.
You are in the right place
Where you need to be
All you need now
Is to breathe and be.
Thank you everyone for the likes and comments, my poem being chosen as the Daily has made my day!! :0)
Abigail Madsen Jun 2014
I want to make the world a better place
but
Poverty is a disease on its own
the prerequisite to depression
U
S
A
only trying to stay
stay rich
and sway
sway money in front of those who are just out of its reach
and then they preach
“If we give handouts they wont know how to work and they will wait for us to do everything for them. it’s not our fault they ****** up their life, theirs.”
it’s their fault
nineteen year old mother
cares for 3 week old baby
“cut loose” for missing two nights on the street corner because she couldn’t handle selling her body when
when years from now
her daughter will call her mommy
and her **** will call her sloppy
and she
will look scrawny
and now as she puts 3 week old baby to sleep in her
cardboard box crib
and think to herself
“this is my fault, I couldn’t find any other work. So I had to sell her mother to nothing more than an object.”
well now that cardboard crib kid is
eighteen
and fresh out of school
fresh on the streets
fresh flesh enmeshed
tangled in the rich mans net
starting the cycle over again because
at eighteen
on her own
she cant afford college
at eighteen
on her own
even if she has the knowledge
at eighteen
living in the streets
at eighteen
pregnant
--------
Mommy wasn’t there when she took teenage boy in the ally for the first time
taught it was okay because they needed money
and she knew no better way
baby had nothing to say
baby just needed the pay
now there is no way
she now is her mother
and baby is now inside her
and poverty has tied her
and the government denied her
mother never to guide her
and as she lied down her her bed all she could think of is
maybe if I wasn’t so poor
the government might care about me
-------
future baby
cradled in the mind of loving mother
regretful for choice of father
hoping
“maybe this will all go away
maybe if I pray
I wont live another day”
Poverty a disease on its own
the prerequisite to depression
because
U
S
A
is the only country who has the
power
freedom and ability to change the poverty rates and chooses
to only offer jobs to those who own a house
instead of those who need them
ignored by those who could help
because they are the ones who need it
poverty is a disease
and you better believe it runs in the family
poverty begets poverty
believe me
I’m not suggesting communism
but when a man can have a ninety dollar glass of wine
but that eighteen year old can’t even afford to buy something to eat
Change is needed
people getting cheated
don’t tell me there is freedom
when I see how the poor are treated
not eating
they are human
and we pass by and ignore them like animals
tangible
pass by graves
candles
people killed by a government disease
leaving parents absent
children abandoned
and don’t tell me
there is nothing we can do
because seeing men live in 100 million dollar mansions
when someone out there
eighteen years old
is left with no more chances
chances are this wont change anything
but to stand by
and allow people to die
is ******
and poverty
is genocide
we can’t hide
the inequality
or when given the affordable health care policy
call it comedy
honestly
its time for an apology
and to stop the hypocrisy
because poverty is commonly
in large quantities
and logically
poverty shouldn’t be an unborn child’s prophecy
just because their a impoverished mothers progeny
doesn’t mean their life couldn’t be quality
so pardon me
while I speak audibly
when I say the government has no monopoly
on poverty
jane taylor Jun 2016
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor
this poem is dedicated to fellow poet chris who just passed away
we love you chris!!!
http://poetfreak.com/705083/chris-vaillancourt-rip.html
In these rapid, restless shadows,
  Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
  Walked in beauty at my side.
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.

Pallidly the moon was shining
  On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
  On the mountains far and high,—
On the ocean’s star-lit waters,
  Where the winds a-weary die.

Slowly, silently we wandered
  From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm’s long branches
  To the pavement bending o’er;
Underneath the mossy willow
  And the dying sycamore.

With the myriad stars in beauty
  All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
  Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
  Of the Night’s irradiate queen.

Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
  Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
  Of unquiet, lovely seas;
While the winds were hushed in slumber
  In the fragrant flowers and trees.

Wondrous and unwonted beauty
  Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
  ’Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
  Love that was its rarest dream!

Instantly away we wandered
  In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
  Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
  All in beauty, all in pride.

Vacantly I walked beside her.
  On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
  Bitter memories of the past—
On me, like the rain in Autumn
  On the dead leaves, cold and fast.

Underneath the elms we parted,
  By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered—
  Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.

Slowly, silently I loitered,
  Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
  That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
  When the Night’s first dream hath flown.

Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
  Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
  Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
  Mock me in the nightly breeze.

Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
  Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
  Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
  And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
My life is a brilliant and vivid mosaic of failures. If depicted horizontally, it would span countless walls, each with its own tapestry. Intertwined in each image would be a visage of myself in yet another battle of me, metaphorically David, and the vastness of the woven problem, here named Goliath. The only difference however, I don't succeed. My slingshot, as it were, isn't good enough.
     "Almost" is a callous and cold word, however it is the most veril word I know. It shouldn't just be something on my body like a tattoo, but rather etched painstakingly into my hardest bones. Always. Always "Almost" is not a fulfilling way to live.
     My Father once said something along the lines of "The only way I wouldn't be proud of you or that I would be disappointed in you is if you did something or made choices that lead to your unhappiness." With that, I feel as though he couldn't have been proud of me in quite some time, and further, there is no evidence that it will change. I am unhappy all of the time. I am disappointed in myself.
     I am afraid, fearful, of the hatred inside myself at times. I try and use it to my advantage, to prove my "worth", to try and do better at the current task (whatever it may be at the time). But as it usually happens, I get so angry, even vengeful, with no explanation. I sit and think about it, come to nothing, and am scared of what I am becoming.
     I am breathing, organic garbage that, because of sentience, assumes too much of, and from, my existence. I am a ******* paradox. I am realistic but full of wishes, longing for what I know does not exist; I am pessimistic, yet full of hopes, or false hopes rather, that I know fullheartedly are hubris and lost time. Whenever I need logic, emotion takes control. Whenever I look for my heart, my mind conceals its help.
     I believe in absolutely nothing but who I think I am, but I doubt myself to my bitter, black core.
I have achieved nothing with what I have been given (everything) and therefore deserve nothing that I have.
     I Am A Fake. I Am A Lie. I pretend to understand, to know, to help, to listen, but I have no idea what the **** I'm doing, who the **** I am, or why the **** I'm even here as undeserving as I am. With that, what right have I at all to "help" anyone else when I, myself, have no idea where my words will lead them? That itself makes me worse than half of the people that have killed others because at least they know who they are and what they were doing.
     I find it hard to believe that I, personally, was crafted in the image of God because I can't imagine that I resemble (in spirit, mind or matter) anything like the Perfect Being that I love and pray to. I am handcrafted debris, trash, attempting (out of place) to be something more.
     I was once told by someone I truly loved, "How can you love someone if you don't love yourself?" It's pretty easy. You first look at them, think of all the things they do and all the things they represent that lead to them making you happy, and you fall in love with that. it isn't a choice, you just do. I do nothing that makes me happy successfully, in the end, I try and fail consistently whereas someone I love is victorious repeatedly just by being them self. Why wouldn't you love someone for making you happy, yet love yourself in spite of your inability to do so?
     I don't believe anything I've ever encountered or experienced in my, as of yet, short life has prepared me for the utmost feeling of loneliness that creeps like the most dark and shadowy oppression. No cigarette is long enough, no vat of bourbon deep enough to escape that thought. Even in upbeat company that fact lingers, and of it, I am afraid.
     Why must I settle and "stay the course"? Why hold onto a sinking ship? I don't mean in terms of living versus dying, I mean in terms of living in insufferable struggle versus changing the reality. Why is this made to seem so impossible?
     Why am I in constant debt before even being old enough, experienced enough, or brave enough to even make decisions with that debt as a possible outcome?
     Since I was old enough to formulate my own opinions of the world I live in, it's been the epitome and meter of one resounding conclusion: "I will try my best and fail, suffer, but in doing this, I will have no choice but to think one day it will get better, and I can hope in my time of struggle that when that day comes, I Might Be Able To Be Happy.
     I'm in love with someone who is half a country away. She even knows, She might even feel the same, but it is for naught. I justify this by telling myself every "writer" needs a Muse.
     I lack the natural talent required to achieve my dreams in this current world. I was born with a gift I should have kept the receipt with; something I could have traded for something more realistically useful.
     Those closest to me have no idea who I am. They are the only thing that glues my sanity, and I'm fearful if they fully knew what I am, they'd leave.
     I've condensed some of these thoughts and feelings into spoken words to those I trust the most, hoping and praying they might say this is normal, that everyone goes through this, that we are all fighting the good fight. Their deaf ears betray their silent mouths.
     The rhythm in music, the voices in plays, the words to poems, the flow of my pencil, are all I have to escape this solitary confinement. But upon realizing the only things I have to help me feel "normal" are inanimate and incapable of understanding, it only further drives me into the chasm.
     I have become everything I hate. A petulant, assuming, and undeserving child ******* about his life when it's not even fully begun, and worse, has been given everything along the way and pitifully has done nothing with ******* any of it.
     I look at my Father and my Mother, and mouth agape, am stunned at their character, their perseverance. Compared to the two people who made me, I am grovelling ****, with absolutely nothing to complain about.
     I have never made a serious decision in my life unless I fully knew the only outcome before the decision was made. This makes me a coward. Logically it might make sense, but this is real life, you shouldn't do that, and **** logic.
     I always have an excuse, I'm not a real man, I'm afraid to take a fall because it's just another piece of the prosecution's evidence pointing to the guilt I possess in relation to my long record of failures.
     I'm cast outside "normalcy" because I don't believe in society. I'm not afraid to die, death actually intrigues me, a lingering curiosity. I adore the macabre because I believe there is truth of humanity in the darkness that everyone ignores exists. We profit and capitalize on procedures that **** thousands, but because it's not us they target, and usually not until the long run, we pay no mind. I believe that more than half of our so called "society", myself included, are no better in most senses than Dahmer or Panzram. At least they were honest about the monsters they were.
     I'm obsessed with thing that don't matter; theories that wouldn't make a difference in the world if proven true, questing for a Love that I rightly don't deserve and that likely doesn't exist, searching for acceptance of anyone but at the same time and equally, in paradox, caring about none of it, especially myself.
     Most nights instead of praying to God as I intend to do, I find myself wondering if I deserve His forgiveness. I know, on some level or another, if the Holy Father, Himself, came to me at any time during those sleepless nights, I would not have an even close to decent answer arguing for His forgiveness, but rather, a full of tears and chopped up, pathetic plea for it anyway.
     I dream of someone to love romantically just for the sake of being able to love someone for exactly who they are and because doing so makes me happy. It has been so long passed of this being even close to a chance of reality, that the thought of ***, or even intimacy, without that love does not even interest me anymore.
     I'm twenty years old and every job I work wants one-hundred percent of my soul and time. Is this normal? Am I not allowed to be a responsible but stupid kid for a while before I have to settle with the reality of a mundane and mind/body numbing job that takes so much of your day that at night you can only imagine the freedom of sleep rather than having a spare few precious seconds for thinking that dying has the upside of never having to show up to that ******* place again? I have no problem with working at all, in fact, I appreciate anything that has a general task and goal that is monotonous enough to keep my mind focused just enough that anything I've written here, the things that upset me, don't leak in and ruin the day, but realistically, how can I give my soul to cutting lawn? To stocking a ******* shelf? I am part of the worst generation on Earth so far, I have potential to be better than ninety--nine percent of the drooling unfortunate vertebrae we call "society", and this is what I'm supposed to wake up for? If this is what I need to accept and I'm just going crazy, fine, I accept it, but in doing this, you need to accept that if I'm crazy, you're batshit ******* nuts.
     I find myself not ever wanting to wake up. I'm not even close to suicidal, I don't want to die yet, I just can't see a logical point, or an emotional reason for any of this nonsense to continue. Can anyone identify with that? Don't misconstrue and worry yourself with me being honest with myself, I DO wake up. I wash my face, but I look in the mirror afterwards and ask "Why?", and I get the day over with anyway so I can hurry up and get home to get ready to do everything over again exactly the same the next day the exact same way, the only difference being the date on the calender and the minutes of the one life I get slowly building themselves into hours and days that will now be an empty black void of memory in my head that could've been used for something worth remembering. Why? Why settle to sulk and squander in ***** and depression when you haven't even tried to bathe in gold and happiness?
     I hate almost everything. The way things are, have been, will be. I hate the faceless sheep that complain yet attempt nothing to change their circumstances. If there is one thing to look on with pride, it is at least I'm better than that. At least if I failed, by default it means I ******* tried.
     I lack the capacity and the capability to voice these kinds of thoughts. As well-spoken as I am, I choke the hardest when I try to speak about any of them. I have to scribble and usually type them, and further, put them in a format a possible reader might be able to understand. Alas, I have failed at that as well. I put my heart and thoughts into my poetry, but anything resonating from within me that I've pounded into the countless pages I've written is lost in a sea of meter and rule-abiding rhetoric as well as aesthetically and audibly pleasing metaphors and rhyme-schemes rather than just blunt structure. No one reads anything with nothing left to the imagination. And justly so, why would they? Why try to decipher someone's heart if it doesn't also apply to you? Why read an ending if you know you won't like it unless it has "happily ever ******* after"? Why not emulate the thoughts and endure the cramping in the thumb an forefinger if it's not something you already know or something you clicked "like" on to impress the friend with the independent mind that was the one who told you to read it in the first place? I may sound bitter, I am, and hateful, but at least I am not a liar.
     If I had one absolute thing, one pure thought, one controversial heading, one cry to all who have ever asked me and I have failed to explain it better; If I can leave you with one thing; If it were possible for me to speak one line to the empty church at my funeral when I die someday and move on to peace, it would be this:
The Words I Seek With Which I Wish To Express My True Misery Elude Me.
Austine May 2014
i just want to find myself staring
at the bedroom wall with nothing
but your chest as my cushion
revealing nothing but our affection

i won’t even be in sad thoughts way too deep
because you’ll be there as i try to sleep
in my dreams, i won’t even dare to roam
because on your chest is where i’m home

we’ll just lie there in peace
who knows, maybe we’d even kiss
i won’t care, really
because with you, i can be silly

at times, i’ll even take a chance
at you, i’ll steal a glance
i’ll trace the curves of my face
that’s reflected on your captivating gaze

i’ll touch your hair with my free hand
and adore each and every strand
truly there’s not a piece of you
that will ever fail to keep me anew

maybe - no, of course! - we’ll cuddle
oh, how we’ll enjoy the snuggle
then we’ll find ourselves on the floor
oh, darling, you’re the one i’ll endlessly fall for

i’ll listen to your charming snore
that solid sound, i’ll spend time to explore
i might even laugh as you audibly breathe in
you’ve no idea how happy i’ll be within

as i hear your breathing and mine
i’ll know everything will be just fine
we’ll create our own piece of beautiful melody
to the lonely past, it’ll be our remedy

for it’s all that i ever long
our own version of a happy song
just let me hold you once more
and i promise, i’ll never ask for more
Julia Aug 2013
She had an explorer's intuition
and a head full of dreams
that would suffocate
in this one light town.

I'd seen it since the beginning

and had to suppress
my selfish urge
to clip her wings
and keep her here.

But even so,
as we said our goodbyes
my eyes filled with hot tears.

I'll miss you so much
My voice cracked audibly.

Don't worry, Love.
I'm only beginning a new adventure.
Turning a new leaf.
Starting a new chapter.


I'll be back before you know...

And with that she was gone.
I waited until her plane took off,
and thanked God that I knew her.
The blessed damozel leaned out
  From the gold bar of heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
  Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
  And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
  No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary’s gift,
  For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
  Was yellow like ripe corn.

It seemed she scarce had been a day
  One of God’s choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone
  From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
  Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years.
  . . . Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o’er me—her hair
  Fell all about my face . . .
Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.
  The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God’s house
  That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth
  The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence
  She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in heaven, across the flood
  Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath the tides of day and night
  With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
  Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly met
  ’Mid deathless love’s acclaims,
Spoke evermore among themselves
  Their heart-remembered names;
And the souls mounting up to God
  Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped
  Out of the circling charm;
Until her ***** must have made
  The bar she leaned on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep
  Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of heaven she saw
  Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
  Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
  The stars sang in their spheres.

The sun was gone now; the curled moon
  Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
  She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
  Had when they sang together.

(Ah, sweet! Even now, in that bird’s song,
  Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be harkened? When those bells
  Possessed the midday air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side
  Down all the echoing stair?)

“I wish that he were come to me,
  For he will come,” she said.
“Have I not prayed in heaven?—on earth,
  Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
  And shall I feel afraid?

“When round his head the aureole clings,
  And he is clothed in white,
I’ll take his hand and go with him
  To the deep wells of light;
As unto a stream we will step down,
  And bathe there in God’s sight.

“We two will stand beside that shrine,
  Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps are stirred continually
  With prayer sent up to God;
And see our old prayers, granted melt
  Each like a little cloud.

“We two will lie i’ the shadow of
  That living mystic tree
Within those secret growth the Dove
  Is sometimes felt to be,
While every leaf that His plumes touch
  Saith His Name audibly.

“And I myself will teach to him,
  I myself, lying so,
The songs I sing here; which his voice
  Shall pause in, hushed and slow,
And find some knowledge at each pause,
  Or some new thing to know.”

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say’st!
  Yea, one wast thou with me
That once of old.  But shall God lift
  To endless unity
The soul whose likeness with thy soul
  Was but its love for thee?)

“We two,” she said, “will seek the groves
  Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens, whose names
  Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
  Margaret, and Rosalys.

“Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
  And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
  Weaving the golden thread,
To fashion the birth-robes for them
  Who are just born, being dead.

“He shall fear, haply, and be dumb;
  Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
  Not once abashed or weak;
And the dear Mother will approve
  My pride, and let me speak.

“Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
  To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
  Bowed with their aureoles;
And angels meeting us shall sing
  To their citherns and citoles.

“There will I ask of Christ the Lord
  Thus much for him and me —
Only to live as once on earth
  With Love—only to be,
As then awhile, forever now,
  Together, I and he.”

She gazed and listened and then said,
  Less sad of speech than mild —
“All this is when he comes.” She ceased.
  The light thrilled toward her, filled
With angels in strong, level flight.
  Her eyes prayed, and she smil’d.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
  Was vague in distant spheres;
And then she cast her arms along
  The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
  And wept. (I heard her tears.)
Juliana Feb 2013
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.

Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.

Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.

Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.

Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
This is written only using the first half of the dictionary.
http://poemsaboutpoetry.blogspot.ca/
judy smith Sep 2016
When I was chief creative officer for Liz Claiborne Inc., I spent a good amount of time on the road hosting fashion shows highlighting our brands. Our team made a point of retaining models of various sizes, shapes and ages, because one of the missions of the shows was to educate audiences about how they could look their best. At a Q&A; after one event in Nashville in 2010, a woman stood up, took off her jacket and said, with touching candour: “Tim, look at me. I’m a box on top, a big, square box. How can I dress this shape and not look like a fullback?” It was a question I’d heard over and over during the tour: Women who were larger than a size 12 always wanted to know, How can I look good, and why do designers ignore me?

At New York Fashion Week, which began Thursday, the majority of American women are unlikely to receive much attention, either. Designers keep their collections tightly under wraps before sending them down the runway, but if past years are any indication of what’s to come, plus-size looks will be in short supply. Sure, at New York Fashion Week in 2015, Marc Jacobs and Sophie Theallet each featured a plus-size model and Ashley Graham debuted her plus-size lingerie line. But these moves were very much the exception, not the rule.

I love the American fashion industry, but it has a lot of problems and one of them is the baffling way it has turned its back on plus-size women. It’s a puzzling conundrum. The average American woman now wears between a size 16 and a size 18, according to new research from Washington State University. There are 100 million plus-size women in America, and, for the past three years, they have increased their spending on clothes faster than their straight-size counterparts. There is money to be made here ($20.4 billion (U.S.), up 17 per cent from 2013). But many designers — dripping with disdain, lacking imagination or simply too cowardly to take a risk — still refuse to make clothes for them.

In addition to the fact that most designers max out at size 12, the selection of plus-size items on offer at many retailers is paltry compared with what’s available for a size 2 woman. According to a Bloomberg analysis, only 8.5 per cent of dresses on Nordstrom.com in May were plus-size. At J.C. Penney’s website, it was 16 per cent; Nike.com had a mere five items — total.

I’ve spoken to many designers and merchandisers about this. The overwhelming response is, “I’m not interested in her.” Why? “I don’t want her wearing my clothes.” Why? “She won’t look the way that I want her to look.” They say the plus-size woman is complicated, different and difficult, that no two size 16s are alike. Some haven’t bothered to hide their contempt. “No one wants to see curvy women” on the runway, Karl Lagerfeld, head designer of Chanel, said in 2009. Plenty of mass retailers are no more enlightened: under the tenure of chief executive Mike Jeffries, Abercrombie & Fitch sold nothing larger than a size 10, with Jeffries explaining that “we go after the attractive, all-American kid.”

This a design failure and not a customer issue. There is no reason larger women can’t look just as fabulous as all other women. The key is the harmonious balance of silhouette, proportion and fit, regardless of size or shape. Designs need to be reconceived, not just sized up; it’s a matter of adjusting proportions. The textile changes, every seam changes. Done right, our clothing can create an optical illusion that helps us look taller and slimmer. Done wrong, and we look worse than if we were naked.

Have you shopped retail for size 14-plus clothing? Based on my experience shopping with plus-size women, it’s a horribly insulting and demoralizing experience. Half the items make the body look larger, with features like ruching, box pleats and shoulder pads. Pastels and large-scale prints and crazy pattern-mixing abound, all guaranteed to make you look infantile or like a float in a parade. Adding to this travesty is a major department-store chain that makes you walk under a marquee that reads “WOMAN.” What does that even imply? That a “woman” is anyone larger than a 12 and everyone else is a girl? It’s mind-boggling.

Project Runway, the design competition show on which I’m a mentor, has not been a leader on this issue. Every season we have the “real women” challenge (a title I hate), in which the designers create looks for non-models. The designers audibly groan, though I’m not sure why; in the real world, they won’t be dressing a seven-foot-tall glamazon.

This season, something different happened: Ashley Nell Tipton won the contest with the show’s first plus-size collection. But even this achievement managed to come off as condescending. I’ve never seen such hideous clothes in my life: bare midriffs; skirts over crinoline, which give the clothes, and the wearer, more volume; see-through skirts that reveal *******; pastels, which tend to make the wearer look juvenile; and large-scale floral embellishments that shout “prom.” Her victory reeked of tokenism. One judge told me that she was “voting for the symbol” and that these were clothes for a “certain population.” I said they should be clothes all women want to wear. I wouldn’t dream of letting any woman, whether she’s a size 6 or a 16, wear them. Simply making a nod toward inclusiveness is not enough.

This problem is difficult to change. The industry, from the runway to magazines to advertising, likes subscribing to the mythology it has created of glamour and thinness. Look at Vogue’s “Shape Issue,” which is ostensibly a celebration of different body types but does no more than nod to anyone above a size 12. For decades, designers have trotted models with bodies completely unattainable for most women down the runway. First it was women so thin that they surely had eating disorders. After an outcry, the industry responded by putting young teens on the runway, girls who had yet to exit puberty. More outrage.

But change is not impossible. There are aesthetically worthy retail successes in this market. When helping women who are size 14 and up, my go-to retailer is Lane Bryant. While the items aren’t fashion with a capital F, they are stylish (but please avoid the cropped pants — always a no-no for any woman). And designer Christian Siriano scored a design and public relations victory after producing a look for Leslie Jones to wear to the “Ghostbusters” red-carpet premiere. Jones, who is not a diminutive woman, had tweeted in despair that she couldn’t find anyone to dress her; Siriano stepped in with a lovely full-length red gown.

Several retailers that have stepped up their plus-size offerings have been rewarded. In one year, ModCloth doubled its plus-size lineup. To mark the anniversary, the company paid for a survey of 1,500 American women ages 18 to 44 and released its findings: Seventy-four per cent of plus-size women described shopping in stores as “frustrating”; 65 per cent said they were “excluded.” (Interestingly, 65 per cent of women of all sizes agreed that plus-size women were ignored by the fashion industry.) But the plus-size women surveyed also indicated that they wanted to shop more. More than 80 per cent said they’d spend more on clothing if they had more choices in their size and nearly 90 per cent said they would buy more if they had trendier options. According to the company, its plus-size shoppers place 20 per cent more orders than its straight-size customers.

Online start-up Eloquii, initially conceived and then killed by The Limited, was reborn in 2014. The trendy plus-size retailer, whose top seller is an over-the-knee boot with four-inch heels and extended calf sizes, grew its sales volume by more than 165 per cent in 2015.

Despite the huge financial potential of this market, many designers don’t want to address it. It’s not in their vocabulary. Today’s designers operate within paradigms that were established decades ago, including anachronistic sizing. (Consider the fashion show: It hasn’t changed in more than a century.) But this is now the shape of women in this nation, and designers need to wrap their minds around it. I profoundly believe that women of every size can look good. But they must be given choices. Separates — tops, bottoms — rather than single items like dresses or jumpsuits always work best for the purpose of fit. Larger women look great in clothes skimming the body, rather than hugging or cascading. There’s an art to doing this. Designers, make it work.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Salmabanu Hatim Aug 2018
Never heard about a working of a court,
I was on the stand,
My counsel was a good lawyer,
The prosecutor had a fiery temper,
There was a minor chaos,
The judge banged his gavel
"Order, Order".
I whispered audibly,
"Chicken hamburger,chips,salad and a can of coke".
david badgerow Jan 2015
women say they want a sensitive man but they mock me when i sit at the piano crying for hours holding a lighthearted paper candle and a smile tucked in between my lips

they say they want a hard working man with ***** fingernails but
they claw at me if i turn a sun-browned shoulder against them in bed

they say they would love a cultured man but they cringe when i kiss them with lips tasting of whiskey & cigar smoke or touch them with fingers gentle as soft old paper

they say they dig the cold but they huddle in blankets when i stay up all night dancing naked across the lawn listening to joni mitchell in january

they say they want their own sugar space but turn sour when i linger and wake up dreaming of becoming an astronaut

they say they're comfortable with my past imperfections but it's my fault when i have a nightmare about being strung out on the perfume of another woman

they want a man who can write a song but they struggle when i anchor a poem to their delicate ankles and fill their empty rooms with shamefully broken pencils

they love my beautiful tattoos and piercings but shake me when i spend days wrapped inside a coral shell singing a lullaby

they want the idea of a man they've read about in books but won't tolerate me when i read them the atrocities in the sunday paper under the lampshade of an oak tree

women say they'll take me as i am but get lonely when i wander for a week and come home buried in the scent of a rock and roll bar

they say they make friends easily, like me, but can't stand to come home to talking & laughing cynical & drunk in a house full of strangers

they want a quiet man who loves them like the stars but scream when i learn to fly at the mercy of the weather & can't be captured

they want to live naughty with the thick musk of a man but act bewildered when they're caught soaking wet and weak in the knees

women say they love men with a tolerance but get jealous when i'm dizzy drunk at dawn on cheap tequila and the memory of my mother

they want a man who lives inside a corridor of words but hate me when they realize artful compliments are only cages of pretty lies

they're helpless for a man with grace but hate me when i'm pitiful and clumsy in the dark after blowing out candles and closing windows in the middle of june

they say they'll only fall in love with a lover of music but audibly cough when i hush them as Coltrane makes dazzling sodium fall across my face

they all wish for a man with careful eyes
but mine are blue and empty in the end
& it gets lonely
so i will no longer carry a song for them in my heart
like a trail-weary cowboy
no lust
no memory
no guilt
no cups
no whistles
or jewels in my vulnerable shadow
I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man’s disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man’s firm obedience fully tried
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.
  Thou Spirit, who led’st this glorious Eremite
Into the desert, his victorious field
Against the spiritual foe, and brought’st him thence        
By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire,
As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute,
And bear through highth or depth of Nature’s bounds,
With prosperous wing full summed, to tell of deeds
Above heroic, though in secret done,
And unrecorded left through many an age:
Worthy to have not remained so long unsung.
  Now had the great Proclaimer, with a voice
More awful than the sound of trumpet, cried
Repentance, and Heaven’s kingdom nigh at hand              
To all baptized.  To his great baptism flocked
With awe the regions round, and with them came
From Nazareth the son of Joseph deemed
To the flood Jordan—came as then obscure,
Unmarked, unknown.  But him the Baptist soon
Descried, divinely warned, and witness bore
As to his worthier, and would have resigned
To him his heavenly office.  Nor was long
His witness unconfirmed: on him baptized
Heaven opened, and in likeness of a Dove                    
The Spirit descended, while the Father’s voice
From Heaven pronounced him his beloved Son.
That heard the Adversary, who, roving still
About the world, at that assembly famed
Would not be last, and, with the voice divine
Nigh thunder-struck, the exalted man to whom
Such high attest was given a while surveyed
With wonder; then, with envy fraught and rage,
Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air
To council summons all his mighty Peers,                    
Within thick clouds and dark tenfold involved,
A gloomy consistory; and them amidst,
With looks aghast and sad, he thus bespake:—
  “O ancient Powers of Air and this wide World
(For much more willingly I mention Air,
This our old conquest, than remember Hell,
Our hated habitation), well ye know
How many ages, as the years of men,
This Universe we have possessed, and ruled
In manner at our will the affairs of Earth,                
Since Adam and his facile consort Eve
Lost Paradise, deceived by me, though since
With dread attending when that fatal wound
Shall be inflicted by the seed of Eve
Upon my head.  Long the decrees of Heaven
Delay, for longest time to Him is short;
And now, too soon for us, the circling hours
This dreaded time have compassed, wherein we
Must bide the stroke of that long-threatened wound
(At least, if so we can, and by the head                    
Broken be not intended all our power
To be infringed, our freedom and our being
In this fair empire won of Earth and Air)—
For this ill news I bring: The Woman’s Seed,
Destined to this, is late of woman born.
His birth to our just fear gave no small cause;
But his growth now to youth’s full flower, displaying
All virtue, grace and wisdom to achieve
Things highest, greatest, multiplies my fear.
Before him a great Prophet, to proclaim                    
His coming, is sent harbinger, who all
Invites, and in the consecrated stream
Pretends to wash off sin, and fit them so
Purified to receive him pure, or rather
To do him honour as their King.  All come,
And he himself among them was baptized—
Not thence to be more pure, but to receive
The testimony of Heaven, that who he is
Thenceforth the nations may not doubt.  I saw
The Prophet do him reverence; on him, rising                
Out of the water, Heaven above the clouds
Unfold her crystal doors; thence on his head
A perfet Dove descend (whate’er it meant);
And out of Heaven the sovraign voice I heard,
‘This is my Son beloved,—in him am pleased.’
His mother, than, is mortal, but his Sire
He who obtains the monarchy of Heaven;
And what will He not do to advance his Son?
His first-begot we know, and sore have felt,
When his fierce thunder drove us to the Deep;              
Who this is we must learn, for Man he seems
In all his lineaments, though in his face
The glimpses of his Father’s glory shine.
Ye see our danger on the utmost edge
Of hazard, which admits no long debate,
But must with something sudden be opposed
(Not force, but well-couched fraud, well-woven snares),
Ere in the head of nations he appear,
Their king, their leader, and supreme on Earth.
I, when no other durst, sole undertook                      
The dismal expedition to find out
And ruin Adam, and the exploit performed
Successfully: a calmer voyage now
Will waft me; and the way found prosperous once
Induces best to hope of like success.”
  He ended, and his words impression left
Of much amazement to the infernal crew,
Distracted and surprised with deep dismay
At these sad tidings.  But no time was then
For long indulgence to their fears or grief:                
Unanimous they all commit the care
And management of this man enterprise
To him, their great Dictator, whose attempt
At first against mankind so well had thrived
In Adam’s overthrow, and led their march
From Hell’s deep-vaulted den to dwell in light,
Regents, and potentates, and kings, yea gods,
Of many a pleasant realm and province wide.
So to the coast of Jordan he directs
His easy steps, girded with snaky wiles,                    
Where he might likeliest find this new-declared,
This man of men, attested Son of God,
Temptation and all guile on him to try—
So to subvert whom he suspected raised
To end his reign on Earth so long enjoyed:
But, contrary, unweeting he fulfilled
The purposed counsel, pre-ordained and fixed,
Of the Most High, who, in full frequence bright
Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake:—
  “Gabriel, this day, by proof, thou shalt behold,          
Thou and all Angels conversant on Earth
With Man or men’s affairs, how I begin
To verify that solemn message late,
On which I sent thee to the ****** pure
In Galilee, that she should bear a son,
Great in renown, and called the Son of God.
Then told’st her, doubting how these things could be
To her a ******, that on her should come
The Holy Ghost, and the power of the Highest
O’ershadow her.  This Man, born and now upgrown,            
To shew him worthy of his birth divine
And high prediction, henceforth I expose
To Satan; let him tempt, and now assay
His utmost subtlety, because he boasts
And vaunts of his great cunning to the throng
Of his Apostasy.  He might have learnt
Less overweening, since he failed in Job,
Whose constant perseverance overcame
Whate’er his cruel malice could invent.
He now shall know I can produce a man,                      
Of female seed, far abler to resist
All his solicitations, and at length
All his vast force, and drive him back to Hell—
Winning by conquest what the first man lost
By fallacy surprised.  But first I mean
To exercise him in the Wilderness;
There he shall first lay down the rudiments
Of his great warfare, ere I send him forth
To conquer Sin and Death, the two grand foes.
By humiliation and strong sufferance                        
His weakness shall o’ercome Satanic strength,
And all the world, and mass of sinful flesh;
That all the Angels and aethereal Powers—
They now, and men hereafter—may discern
From what consummate virtue I have chose
This perfet man, by merit called my Son,
To earn salvation for the sons of men.”
  So spake the Eternal Father, and all Heaven
Admiring stood a space; then into hymns
Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved,              
Circling the throne and singing, while the hand
Sung with the voice, and this the argument:—
  “Victory and triumph to the Son of God,
Now entering his great duel, not of arms,
But to vanquish by wisdom hellish wiles!
The Father knows the Son; therefore secure
Ventures his filial virtue, though untried,
Against whate’er may tempt, whate’er ******,
Allure, or terrify, or undermine.
Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell,                    
And, devilish machinations, come to nought!”
  So they in Heaven their odes and vigils tuned.
Meanwhile the Son of God, who yet some days
Lodged in Bethabara, where John baptized,
Musing and much revolving in his breast
How best the mighty work he might begin
Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first
Publish his godlike office now mature,
One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading
And his deep thoughts, the better to converse              
With solitude, till, far from track of men,
Thought following thought, and step by step led on,
He entered now the bordering Desert wild,
And, with dark shades and rocks environed round,
His holy meditations thus pursued:—
  “O what a multitude of thoughts at once
Awakened in me swarm, while I consider
What from within I feel myself, and hear
What from without comes often to my ears,
Ill sorting with my present state compared!                
When I was yet a child, no childish play
To me was pleasing; all my mind was set
Serious to learn and know, and thence to do,
What might be public good; myself I thought
Born to that end, born to promote all truth,
All righteous things.  Therefore, above my years,
The Law of God I read, and found it sweet;
Made it my whole delight, and in it grew
To such perfection that, ere yet my age
Had measured twice six years, at our great Feast            
I went into the Temple, there to hear
The teachers of our Law, and to propose
What might improve my knowledge or their own,
And was admired by all.  Yet this not all
To which my spirit aspired.  Victorious deeds
Flamed in my heart, heroic acts—one while
To rescue Israel from the Roman yoke;
Then to subdue and quell, o’er all the earth,
Brute violence and proud tyrannic power,
Till truth were freed, and equity restored:                
Yet held it more humane, more heavenly, first
By winning words to conquer willing hearts,
And make persuasion do the work of fear;
At least to try, and teach the erring soul,
Not wilfully misdoing, but unware
Misled; the stubborn only to subdue.
These growing thoughts my mother soon perceiving,
By words at times cast forth, inly rejoiced,
And said to me apart, ‘High are thy thoughts,
O Son! but nourish them, and let them soar                  
To what highth sacred virtue and true worth
Can raise them, though above example high;
By matchless deeds express thy matchless Sire.
For know, thou art no son of mortal man;
Though men esteem thee low of parentage,
Thy Father is the Eternal King who rules
All Heaven and Earth, Angels and sons of men.
A messenger from God foretold thy birth
Conceived in me a ******; he foretold
Thou shouldst be great, and sit on David’s throne,          
And of thy kingdom there should be no end.
At thy nativity a glorious quire
Of Angels, in the fields of Bethlehem, sung
To shepherds, watching at their folds by night,
And told them the Messiah now was born,
Where they might see him; and to thee they came,
Directed to the manger where thou lay’st;
For in the inn was left no better room.
A Star, not seen before, in heaven appearing,
Guided the Wise Men thither from the East,                  
To honour thee with incense, myrrh, and gold;
By whose bright course led on they found the place,
Affirming it thy star, new-graven in heaven,
By which they knew thee King of Israel born.
Just Simeon and prophetic Anna, warned
By vision, found thee in the Temple, and spake,
Before the altar and the vested priest,
Like things of thee to all that present stood.’
This having heart, straight I again revolved
The Law and Prophets, searching what was writ              
Concerning the Messiah, to our scribes
Known partly, and soon found of whom they spake
I am—this chiefly, that my way must lie
Through many a hard assay, even to the death,
Ere I the promised kingdom can attain,
Or work redemption for mankind, whose sins’
Full weight must be transferred upon my head.
Yet, neither thus disheartened or dismayed,
The time prefixed I waited; when behold
The Baptist (of whose birth I oft had heard,                
Not knew by sight) now come, who was to come
Before Messiah, and his way prepare!
I, as all others, to his baptism came,
Which I believed was from above; but he
Straight knew me, and with loudest voice proclaimed
Me him (for it was shewn him so from Heaven)—
Me him whose harbinger he was; and first
Refused on me his baptism to confer,
As much his greater, and was hardly won.
But, as I rose out of the laving stream,                    
Heaven opened her eternal doors, from whence
The Spirit descended on me like a Dove;
And last, the sum of all, my Father’s voice,
Audibly heard from Heaven, pronounced me his,
Me his beloved Son, in whom alone
He was well pleased: by which I knew the time
Now full, that I no more should live obscure,
But openly begin, as best becomes
The authority which I derived from Heaven.
And now by some strong motion I am led                      
Into this wilderness; to what intent
I learn not yet.  Perhaps I need not know;
For what concerns my knowledge God reveals.”
  So spake our Morning Star, then in his rise,
And, looking round, on every side beheld
A pathless desert, dusk with horrid shades.
The way he came, not having marked return,
Was difficult, by human steps untrod;
And he still on was led, but with such thoughts
Accompanied of things past and to come                      
Lodged in his breast as well might recommend
Such solitude before choicest society.
  Full forty days he passed—whether on hill
Sometimes, anon in shady vale, each night
Under the covert of some ancient oak
Or cedar to defend him from the dew,
Or harboured
Hollis Aug 2022
TW : eating disorder, suicide attempt, abuse

In my phone
There’s a contact name that’s just swear words
The occasional bad bad word that I can say in therapy but don’t in public
And it’s my mom’s contact name
I changed it after our 1millionth fight
Right before I left for uni
Because she called me fat
And at the time I was five months sober of my eating disorder
Maybe sober isn’t the right word but whatever
And my brain snaps
I scream and cry
She screams back at me
I call her “fat” back because I’m mad
And I spend the night sobbing
I even call my abusive dad who chose to leave therapy because he thinks he’s getting better
He hasn’t left his girlfriend who restricted food from me yet so, are you sure Dad?
And he tries the whole facetime while I audibly cry to not sound mean about her
And I thank him for trying in my head
Because my mom only refers to him as slurs or Satan
I eat the entire cake she got me in the fridge the next day
Before even noon
I feel bad immediately after but at least she can’t have any
And then I’m suddenly jealous that she didn’t have any
So no weight gain
I drink two cups of iced coffee with that extra calorie Starbucks syrup
And then my sister gets me Popeyes
She gets me this after yelling at our mother
Because we don’t really talk that much openly
But we both have our own scars from her words
Mine developed into eating disorders, cuts on my legs, and just general mental illness
Hers just developed into being a rock solid wall
When my mom comes home and sees me eating
She takes a bite
The girl's beautiful's
Not enough
Gotta check
if she suits me or not
Says Swamy Downey

Is she (a) cloth?
Wondered SIRI
Audibly
SIRI: Apple's SIRI, the voice assistant on the iPhones
Victoria Queen Oct 2013
We sat on the couch, snuggled in blankets, watching "The Iron Giant." I was only eight and realized that my older sister had let me stay up past my bedtime.; it was almost 10:30 PM and the neighborhood had settled into a sleepy silence. My parents were out to dinner and a movie, a date-night that they rarely ever indulged in, and my sister was babysitting me instead of going out with all of her pre-teen friends. It felt nice to actually hang out with Sam, and bond with her.

A little more than halfway into the movie, the snacks caught up to me and I needed a drink. "Sam, can you pause the movie? Come with me to get something to drink really quick." Such a simple request, yet I could have never imagined, in my childish state of mind, what was coming within the next five minutes.

We both walked into the dark kitchen, and to this day I wonder why neither of us turned the light on. I leaned against the doorway that lead to the kitchen and watched as my sister went to the fridge. I asked for chocolate milk - the craving for it came unexpectedly. As she opened the door to the refrigerator, the light from the inside of it spilled into the short hallway leading to our front door. I followed the small pool of light with my eyes until I was suddenly looking at the door - and also looking at Him. I saw His figure looming on the other side of the door, His shadow moving slowly and quietly. My entire body froze; I felt paralyzed and lost the ability to hear anything except for my heart pounding within my chest. My small, fragile body stood completely still, and remained still even as I watched my front door open. The way He walked towards me seemed like slow motion, and He looked like a giant in the small hallway. I felt like I couldn't move a muscle or else I would fall apart, like a game of Jenga. Finally, He stepped into a sliver of light, and I stared into His mostly hidden face; He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood covering His head and most of His face, except for His eyes. I felt shredded by the look in them - full of confusion, rage, and maybe even fear."You're never gonna believe this - but it was a giant metal man." I could hear the movie blaring from the living room. I felt the way the boy in the film did; I was staring at this Man who was a giant compared to me, and He must have been made of metal - no human, made of flesh and with a beating heart, could encounter a terrified child and still proceed to attempt to destroy her. He was a Giant Metal Man.

When my eyes met His in that moment, it shook me and tore me out of my frozen state. Finally, my muscles contracted as I took a step away and backed into the other side of the doorway. My chest opened up and drew in just enough air to let out a scream, and my eyes were darting around the room, looking at everything, because I didn't want to look at Him. Within seconds, Sam reacted. I had almost forgotten that she was in the room with me - all I could feel was His presence. I watched as she threw an entire gallon of milk at the Man; it made contact with something, but I'm not sure if it was with Him or the walls of the hallway. The carton exploded, and milk was gushing into the air like a volcanic eruption, washing over the walls and the floor and probably over Him. When the milk settled, all I could see was His dark figure running out of the same door He came in, leaving it crashing against the wall. His feet were audibly slamming down on the sidewalk outside. Then, there was darkness.

My senses shut down completely after He disappeared from my sight. I was moving, but my mind was somewhere else. My sister grabbed me and basically dragged my confused body into our bedroom; she ordered me to get on the floor and she shoved me under our bed. From the floor, I could see her feet moving frantically around the room. Things were being moved and thrown, and she was breathing heavily. Finally, she grabbed something and ran to our window that looked out onto the street. I saw a flash and heard the snap and the print; she had taken a picture with our Polaroid. The picture fell to the floor just next to the bed, and I watched as it developed slowly. I could make out nothing in the picture but a black, beaten-up Volvo. It was as if I was looking at a still-framed picture from a movie, and that everything going on in that moment was fake; but the sound of a car peeling ferociously out of my driveway outside snapped me right back into reality, and I knew that it was Him. I was angry that He was able to drive away from the nightmare that he created, and that I had to stay.

Still under the bed, my body began to recover from the state of shock it was in, and I cried out for my sister. She grabbed my hands and pulled me out from under the bed and asked me if I was okay, and if I could tell her anything that I saw. I couldn't form the words to tell her about His eyes, about His hidden face, and about how slow He was walking towards me, an innocent child. All I could do was cry and I began begging her to call our parents. She carefully lead me back into the kitchen, where the door was still swung open and the milk was flooding over the floor. She picked up the phone and first called our Aunt who lived on the floor above us, explaining in short what happened and asking her to please come downstairs. She immediately came with her son, our cousin, who is the same age as Sam, and she offered to call our parents and the police for us. I stood in the room trying to tell everyone what I saw and what happened, but I kept telling them that it happened so fast and I couldn't see His entire face. "His eyes," I said. I repeated it dozens of times. I was shaking uncontrollably, and could not calm my breathing.

The rest of the night is a blur. Police officers were coming in and out of our home, asking questions that I couldn't even understand or comprehend. My parents came home and were panicking, my mother on the verge of tears. At some point, I laid down in my mother's bed and fell asleep - when I woke up in the middle of the night, my older sister was in the bed as well. Then, I laid there and listened to the sounds of the night - the crickets, the late-night commuters that drove by once in a while, and creaks and cracks of the floor. The sun eventually came up, and I was still awake, almost waiting for a new day and new feelings. However, the shock was still there, and it hung over my head and lingered around me like a ghost.

Within the following week after that night, four different homes were burglarized on our street. Finally, we received a call that the cops had caught the Man, and my parents hoped that it would bring some relief to my sister and I, who were sleeping in our parents' room every night since our break -in. It didn't. It left me feeling nothing except more fear; I constantly thought of Him returning to our home and finishing His "job." I sat in the bedroom, where I hid under the bed that night, and watched out the window for hours on end every day, waiting for His car to appear. But the worst feeling that I had was when I finally let myself wonder why He had come that night, and what His plan was. I pictured the things He would have done to me and my sister if I hadn't screamed and triggered my sister's reaction. Would He have ***** me? Beat me? Kidnapped me? Killed me? The possibilities were endless because it was as if the story had no ending, and I had the option to write my own. I could not silence my imagination, or stop myself from thinking about what He was thinking about doing to me when He saw me in the doorway. It occurred to me that the look in His eyes was not fear, or confusion, or even rage -it was malicious intent. It haunted me for days, and then weeks, and soon enough, years.

12 years later, I have come to terms with the real-life nightmare that I experienced that night. I have accepted His presence in my life; He exists in the footsteps I hear late at night outside my house, the inexplainable noises that echo in the walls of my kitchen and living room and bedroom, and the pressure from the wind that causes my house to constantly move and settle at night. He has no name and no face in my head; the only thing that He has is eyes. His eyes watch me from the inside of my mind. He exists in my kitchen, as if a ghost in a haunted home. He exists in the disorders that He left me impaired with for the rest of my life. He exists everywhere around me. The only thing that's different about then and now is that I have learned to live with Him haunting my dreams, and my reality. I will always feel the fear - but it no longer paralyzes me. I suffered through the sleepless nights, and the nightmares when I actually did sleep; I dealt with the uncontrollable screams for help in the middle of the night when I was only dreaming. Now, all I have left to do is live; not without fear, but with fear and also understanding that there is a reason for everything. I have accepted the fact that I will never be able to separate myself from the memory or the terror that I have been subjected to living with, and to me, that is the first and biggest step that I needed to take.
This is a true account of one of the most terrifying nights of my life from my childhood. Writing this took just over 12 years; It's incredibly hard to relive the images and memories of that night. I was recently diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Panic Disorder, all stemming from this event. It's a big bite to swallow, but I've learned to live with all of it. Part of the coping process has been telling people and allowing my experience to exist outside of my head, and it has helped the most to write about it. I live freely and I'm not stuck in a world of fear - and I believe this kind of expression of the scariest moment of my life helps me with that.
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2018
Starting way up north from
from fair head in Antrim to
mizen head in Cork there is
not a Border Collie in the 32
counties wishing for a return
to The Troubles before the
Good Friday agreement when
meat was forbidden by the
Catholic Church because fish
is for felines and it was seen
by many canines as a blatant
act of segregation, racism and
even discrimination for which
the animal kingdom of Eire
(In the absence of a Monarch)
has been audibly vocal in all
of the four provinces, many of
the nations kennel clubs and
at last years Crufts Show in
Earls Court London, a Kerry
Blue refused to stand on the
winners podium with a Poodle
who shared first place, because
she was a vegetarian and not
at all sympathetic or supportive
to a universal diet for all breeds
on the island of Ireland.
SassyJ Jan 2016
The snow set in the barn,
Where the horses once laid
On a cold night, ice spiraled
We tossed,turned, all packed

The troops tamed to acquiesce
Rifles silenced, bullets sacked 
Stocks in deficit, awaiting ambush
Sores overturned and edged in holes

Our nerves dead in the silent night
Risking an aching machine, a body
Pushing to extremities, thrill seeking
My mind numb, body ignited in dumb

Left, right… series audibly recurred
Halting to reflect the extreme valour
A salute to quench and honor a reality
For I once sacrificed my "liberties" for "others"
A reminisce ...........
ghost queen Apr 2020
It was getting dark when I exited the Port d’Orleans metro station. The cold air hit me instantaneously, seeping in between my clothes and skin. I tighten my long coat around me, readjusted my back pack, and pulled out my phone to confirm the address of Tango à Paris. It was only two blocks north of where I was standing.  

It was my first date with Séraphine. I had suggested dinner. She suggested something less formal, a bit more active, how about tango, explaining her studio gave a hour long introduction before the milonga. I agreed, as I had taken a year of tango, and felt confident I could keep up, maybe even impress her.

I’d wondered how she kept her 5 foot 8, 130 pound-ish physique, swimmer lean, and now I knew, she was a dancer.

I liked this part of Paris, the 14th arrondissement, L’Observatoire, clean, tidy, having the look and feel of a Nordic city like Olso or Stockholm. The sidewalks were full of interweaving professionals, eager to get out of the cold, the drizzle, and home to their loved ones.  

I walked up L’Avenue du Général Leclerc till I got to No 119. I pressed the buzzer and heard back, “oui.” “I am here for the milonga,” I said. The door buzzed, I pushed it open, entering a small foyer with sign pointing up a staircase to the first floor. I could hear the muffed sound of music and feel the movement of bodies dancing upstairs.

I climbed the curved wrought iron staircase, the old wooden stairs creaking softly with every step. I saw the studio immediately: two traditional French doors swung open, exposing a gymnasium like dance studio, with clean, golden yellow oak hardwood floor. Men and woman dancing, swinging and spinning about.

I entered the studio, paused, and looked around. At the far of the room was the DJ, sitting at table, with two loud speakers on stands pumping out music at just the right volume: loud enough to feel the music, low enough to talk your partner without having to scream in her ear.  

To my left, people gathered around a table. I walked over, they were writing their names with a felt tip pens on self adhesive name tags and placing it on their chest. A woman turned around and smiled at me. “Bienvenue,” she said, “I’m Jolene.” and extended her hand. “I am Damien”, I replied, shaking her hand politely. “Is this your first time here,” she asked. “Yes,” I replied, “I am waiting on a friend, Seraphine.”

“Mais oui,” she replied with a smile, “she is one of our best dancers, talented, if not gifted.” Her head turned slowly towards the doors, my eyes following.

In the door stood Seraphine, wearing a spaghetti strap, damask black on maroon tango midi dress, slit high up her right tigh. Her shoes, opened toe, black thin strap heels, showing off her matching blood red toe and finger nail polish and lipstick. Her eyelashes thick, black, eyelids smoked dark, giving her the stereotypical look of a femme fatale tango dancer.  She was gorgeous, seductive, awe inspiring, like Bouguereau's The Birth of Venus. How could a man resist such a siren. She was goddess among women.

She walked over to us, said, “Bonsoir Madame,” and kissed Jolene
twice on the cheeks (faire la bise) as is customary among Parisian friends, then  turned to me, touched her cheek to mine, making the mwah, kissing sound.

I was intrigued. The kiss implied no longer an acquaintance, but in her inner circle of intimacy. It had subtle implications that set my mind racing about the meaning; it was also maddening, like trying to see a completed jigsaw puzzle while only holding one of a thousand pieces.

“Ca va,” she asked, bypassing the formal “comment vas-tu” greeting. “Ca va bien,” I replied. “Your dress is stunning,” I said. “Thank you,” she replied, with confidence.

She sat down, ruffled through her bag, and pulled out ecru opened toe tango shoes. I couldn’t help notice her feet, delicate, feminine, absolutely exquisite. I also couldn’t help noticing her tigh, exposed through the slit of her dress.

Before she could get up from the chair, an older man approached, extended his hand, which she accepted. She stood up, looked me in the eyes, and said, “it is rude to refused a dance when asked.” They walked to middle of the floor and started to dance to a slow, sultry, Spanish guitar piece. I sat down and watched. She didn’t just dance, she pranced, shook, and swayed her hips as only an accomplished Latin dancer could. It was amazing to watch.

The music repeated, slowed, and concluded. They walked off the dance floor, to the beverage table, topped with a variety of multicolored bottles of wine. He poured two glasses, offered her one, as they talked, she smiled and occasionally laughed. He bowed his head slightly, touched her upper arm, and walked away, as a cortina started.

Seraphine poured more wine in her glass and poured another glass, walked to me, and offered it. I took it, deliberately touching her hand as I did. She sat down, crossed her legs, the dress sliding aside, exposing her tigh, and asked me, “do you dance monsieur.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” I replied, as a new tanda of spanish guitar played. She stood up, extended her hand. I took it, stood up, and lead her to the middle of the floor, dodging couples along the way.

“Tango”, I asked. “Yes,” she replied. I move in close, wrapped my right arm across her back, pressing her body tight against mine, extending my left arm out in position, palm open. She carefully placed her hand in mine, her forefinger on my thumb, her thumb on the radial artery on wrist, as if feeling my pulse. It struck me as odd and was curious as to why.  She’d done it in a such a methodical way.

Her hands were warm, soft, supple, dewy. She closed her grip and waited for me. I swayed gently to the beat of Tango D’Amor by Bellma Cesepedes, as she rhythmically matched my body. I stepped back on my right foot, holding her tight, bringing her with me, then left,  then forward. My chest pressing into hers. My leg brushed against her tigh as I moved, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow of the basic 8 count. I paused for a second, for her to cross then pushed forward, slowly turning to avoid couples.

I sensed her body heat, felt the wetness of perspiration on her back, smelled the earthiness of her scent. She radiated animal magnetism. I couldn’t, nor wanted to resist her. I knew I was a moth, she the flame.

New music started to play, Fuego Tango by Athos Bassissi, a traditional fast staccato accordion piece with a distinct beat for walking, turning, and swaying. I placed my my hand between her shoulders. I couldn’t feel a strap. She wasn’t wearing bra. It felt intimate, seductive, only a thin layer of cloth between us.

She pulled her head back, looked at me in the eyes, and said, “Tighter, I need to feel you, your body, your moves, so I can respond to your body.” I wrapped by arm completely around her, pulling her tight against my me. My primal urges welled up. I wanted her, to kiss her, to protect her,  to provide for her, have and raise kids with her. I felt stronger, more powerful, like a man. I wanted her in my life before she disappeared forever.

She placed her forehead on my temple. I rocked back and forth catching the beat, stepping backwards with my right, and we started to dance, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, in a vertical expression of horizon desire.

Bending my knee, sliding forward, my chest pressing against hers, pushing, stopping, shifting, subtly twisting, I signaled a backward ocho. I waited for her, than slide to the left bring her with me, waited for her to pivot then slid right, bringing her with me, then waited for her to center. I walked forward, stopped, signalling for her to cross. I waited for the beat then finished my eight step basic.

I could feel her breath on my cheek, fast, hot; felt her breathing, her chest rising, falling sensuously. She felt good in my arms, as right as rain. I liked holding her, feeling her so close to me.

I started an eight step, stopping at the cross, signaling her to move right in preparation for a scada. As she moved, I stepped between her legs, pivoting her and me 180 degrees, repeating the step 3 times, bringing her back to cross, and finishing the step.

I heard her audibly exhale, relaxing in my arms. She was giving up control, learning to trust, surrendering to me. And I, was one with her, nothing else mattered, all else had disappeared. I was in a state of deep mediation. She was the now and forever.

The music stopped, I looked at her, noticed the glow in her cheeks, felt the warm moistness on her back. But most of all, I noticed her dilated pupils. The glowing sapphire blue of her eyes, replaced by a fathomless blackness, which I fell into.

She looked into my eyes with a gentleness, a knowing, and smiled. A new piece started, Rain, by Kantango, clean, crisp, staccato. I moved, walked, slid, in step with the beat, losing myself in the sensuality of the music and the movement of the dance.  I pressed her tight against my chest, sliding forward, rock stepping backward, holding her tighter as I did a single axis spin. I heard her sigh in my ear and felt her body relax. I slid forward to the staccato rhythm, dramatic, forceful, almost charging.

I stopped and lean to my left. She extended her right leg back, and planeo-ed as I walked her in a circle, side-by-side rock, then to neutral. She tighten her hold, pressing me into her chest, her touch telling me so much, screaming her arousal.

I slid forward, to the side, staring an 8 count to the cross, going into a backward ocho, I shifted my weight, taking her into a moulinette, twisting to the right then to the left, as she elegantly danced around me, back to 5 to complete our 8 count.

I was no longer thinking, just feeling, one with the music, lost in the sensuality, in a type of bliss. I walked forward then back, turning her to the right. To my surprise, she extended her left leg, whipping it across the floor, then back, wrapping it around my leg, slowly sliding her calf up my leg, then unwinding to neutral. I walked forward, she spun around, and slowed her walk. My body colliding, pressing into her’s as we slowly stopped. She turned her face towards mine, raising her hand, touching my face, my cheek, gently turning, bringing it towards her’s, towards her lips. Just as we were going to kiss, she turned her face, my face plunged into her hair, the back of her neck. I could smell, Poison by Dior. I kissed the back of her neck, squeezing her slightly, as she moaned ever so slightly.
CJ M Sep 2015
A new day's breeze can be the wind flowing over a dawn's night, or it could be vice versa.
But what is a new day?
A time frame maybe? Or perhaps a general lighting period....
Or perhaps it's a way of telling the warmth of your breath as it breathes pleasure on my neck as I lay beside you, leaning over with warm ****** kisses spanning from your milk chocolate forehead to your cocoa colored inner thighs, down to the creme colored bottoms of your **** soles.
I can raise a tingle as my hands lightly graze over your body, causing goose-bumps on exposed flesh, my tongue sliding over you, lips puckered now and again to place a calculated kiss in an area in need of ****** love.
Lips bitten, cheeks reddened even inder your skin tone, eyes closed yet still at attention, I begin to rub you, easing hands down and fondling your reproductive jewels, ******* in first and index finger shortly follows, acompanied by sensually tangible senses. Fists clenched, legs gaped, toes curled, I enjoy the sight to its fullest.
Fingers being soaked in ****** juices and noises formed from the loosed friction of you, I pull both fingers out, but not too far, and plunge them into the warm, wet abyss once more. Heavy moan, ***** bone, soaking fingers forced to slide out once more, being colder because of the temperature difference.I place the cool soaked tools over your mound and rub it furiously, questioning your enjoyment.
Seductive smile, swaying hair as you nod, hands once balled now on my hand guiding my hand in motions fantasized. Thick hips moving and bucking as our gazes lock in an eternal emotional interconnection. I kiss your lips and playfuly bite the bottom of one now and again before my tongue probes between both lips.
Tangled tongues, scratching skins, you slow me down and push me away, keeping eye contact. You unzip me and climb on to, scraping warm, attentive skin agains it, jolting me with pleasure.
From this point, both of our bodies connected as one, you on my baren lap and me deep inside of you, you begin to softly and slowly bounce, shaking clothed cleavage and abruptly bumping my ****** a few notches sooner.
Bouncing *******, hands in hair, head leaned back with moans escaping in small gasps directed at the ceiling, I grab on the back of you and grip tightly, moving you faster up and down, forcing your gasps to audibly increase.
grinding like coffee, shaking with sincerity, we do this for what seems to us to be an infinite forever of **** pleasure and ***** helplessness that makes us both ******, gushing mutual ****** juices everywhere. The warmth of my seed sliding down slowly inside of you, your wet juices leaking and lubricating.
Love was made, yet we were ****-frozen, once we leave there is no going back, no having that feel once more.
Gone like the winds in a short breeze...... And thus I know now what you are.

A New Day's Breeze
I've decided to one-up my last piece as best I could, so here it is.
Victoria Kiely Nov 2013
The wind blew through hollowed out buildings like lungs taking in air in shallow breaths, rattling through the skeletons of forgotten structures. A gust kicked up loosened dirt from the path beneath his feet.  Alone and desolate, the streets of this lost town looked as though they had not been traveled upon for many years now, but still they managed to look almost full – like the space could not contain the contents of what it used to be.
Here stood the ruins, a place Kieran had come to know quite well since his discovery of it in his first year of high school. Though it meant something different to him now than it had then, he still kept quiet of its whereabouts to many.
He used to come to stop feeling, to stop thinking of the things he was surrounded by each day. Now, some days, he had trouble remembering how to feel at all. To him, this place was the only way he could feel what it was like to be himself, or to remember the things that had comprised who he had been in the past years.
Things had changed now, of course. The years had crawled past, many without making very much of an impact on anybody or anything. He felt that the only thing that had gotten him through the tougher times was his first love, Briardale. Briar had been the only person he had shown this place.
He could still remember it now, the first time he had brought her here. He remembered seeing her while she took it in for the first time, wondering what she was seeing; how the ruins had looked through her eyes. Unlike most people who he had known to have seen such a dead place, Briar had surprised him.
“I like it,” she had said, with a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “It’s as though nothing outside of this is real. It’s like a dream”. Her dark hair bled into the still darker scenery, her composite disappearing into the outlines of the tall building. He knew then that she had understood.
“I like it, too” Kieran replied, watching her without shame as she admired the look of the skyline in the late day. He knew she was completely alone in her eyes, and that she probably didn’t hear his response, that she was hardly listening.
Finally, she turned to him. She opened her mouth to speak, and time slowed. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked, still smiling with wonder.
He knew that he had to tell her, that she probably already knew of his feelings towards her. She was toying with this thought – perhaps even considering it.
He moved closer to her, pacing slowly, intentions clear. He licked his lips. He swallowed audibly, the nerves defacing the moment and nearly spoiling it. He drank her beauty in, allowing his eyes to wander greedily over what he wanted but did not yet have. He wanted her, but it was more than that. He needed her. He realized then –
“I love you”, he whispered almost inaudibly, sharing another secret with her, the woman he had watched grow since they were but youthful and naïve children. “I brought you here because I love you”.
She replied by taking his hand and leading him closer, pushing her into the frame of the broken building behind them. He inched closer, looking at her, beginning with her eyes and slowly moving towards her lips. Their noses brushed and he smelt what he knew to be her scent: burnt cigarettes and pine, a winters evening.
She stared just as intensely at his lips. She had inclined her head so as to become closer still. Kieran could feel her soft breath on his chin. She raised her eyes to meet his and whispered “I love you, too”, and finally, their lips met and crossed the line between friends and lovers.
Kieran steadied himself, reminiscing on the moment, but reminding himself that things had changed. He began walking towards what used to be the old school, the flag still billowing in the autumn wind. He traveled up the stairs, creaking under his every step.
Finally he had reached the top. Standing on what passed as a roof, he looked down onto the desolate town. He watched the dust overturn and fall, the unstable buildings sway. He edged closer to the verge of the building, all the while still watching. Kieran looked directly below, wondering what it would be like if he jumped, wondering if he would survive the fall. Wondering how anybody had survived, and weather anybody lived in this life at all.


Rhianecdote Apr 2015
Isn't it funny
How you dismiss the love
Of those who are probably
the most sincere
I've done it quite a lot in life
And I can't even pretend that I care
Cause I don't
When I think about it
There's rarely any stirring feeling there
It's more of an annoyance
That I don't take seriously
Crush your silly crush!
I've audibly told one to just
"Get over it" once

Isn't it funny how
You miss the love of those
that never gave it.
I've done this quite a lot in life
And I can't even pretend that I don't care
Cause I do.
When I think about it
the despairing it stirs just seems unfair
It's an unhealthy preoccupation
That I take too seriously
Weighs heavy and crushes me
Audibly looked in the mirror
And told myself to "Get over it"
Once, twice, or more.
Lamar Lewis Sep 2011
Across and abound to the sounds of fire, they lurch and leap toward the river bend. The twilight is thunderous and bold, a fragmented frown upon this calamity of calamities. It's jagged, smooth streaks of light passing judgement from the heavens above. God himself looks on.

Bright Blues to blend with Grim Greys upon such an all encompassing canvas of green. I hadn't known the extent in power of the color Red before this night, in overpowering; in swallowing up, smothering. Exploding in iridescence and irony, in trite translucent tragedy. It sinks into the ground. As it sinks into the bones of myself and my posterity.

I shivered and clutched my chest, that my heart did still beat. Noticing to my relief, it was thudding quite audibly amongst the quiet stir of grass and leaves beneath my feet. It was then I noticed the haunting silence of it all. I was alone.

But I was not alone, my eyes could see the smoke rise, they could almost feel the bullets whip through the wind. The chill of which caressed my skin in sensation. But sounds of gunfire, bombs bursting, yells yelping, the riotous roar of it all, were absent as a shadow. My veins turned to ice, my skin to stone.

In one particularly magnificent mingling of light, in one irradiating instant; I stumbled as sound met my deaf ears. Lightning and Fire danced in the sky. In this soulless shimmer, the slow shuttering lens of humanity captured the essence of something much beyond the present frame of existence. Breaking glass and pouring out of corners, a transcendental photograph. Reaching out through the pages of time to be acted out in accents yet unknown, by peoples yet unborn, to scream with insoluble resolve. The heart of man beats as one, we shall overcome.
I am many things. Although I am only 20, I consider myself an up and coming amateur historian. These are some of my feelings culminated about a scene in my mind of a Civil War battle. From the perspective of an introspective onlooker. Also, the term acoustic shadow refers to the eerie inaudibility some witnesses experienced when in close proximity to the battle. As sound waves fail to propagate, but people a bit further away can hear explosions with clarity.  Thank you for reading.
the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of  interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space
howard brace Feb 2012
Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.

They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.

Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.

Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.

...   ...   ...
Why do we grieve the heart of God
With the things that we men do
If God audibly spoke
He might say these words to you

Men talk about intolerance
Yet I still give mercy and grace
Men change the definition of marriage
And slap me in the face

Men bicker and argue and fight
About a waving flag
With all that's still to be done
About enough I've had

Men **** unborn babies
Yet I hardly hear a prayer
But the pleas of the unborn
They rise to me through the air

Men have taken me out of school
No longer there am I allowed within
Men have left me at the door
Of a place where once I had been

This list goes on and on
Men know the things I mean
Why can man not read my word
And from its pages wisdom glean

There is on the horizon a day
When every man will understand
When I come down from heaven
To give justice unto men

So go upon your merry way
Push the truths of God aside
Your guilt is not upon me
For to gain your obedience I tried

I will give unto men more time
I've an abundance of mercy and grace
But know within your heart o man
You will someday see my face

RLB
Cass Jan 2018
So, if my vocal cords can't collaborate to produce sounds to communicate audibly to your beautiful mind that I have an endless mission of loving you, can't there be another way to articulate this feeling?
What are my tongue, lips, alveolar ridge, hard palate, and velum doing?
I never knew that emotion could effectively shut down my speech tract.
How I wish my voice could play a melody into my heartbeat, and my heart have an audio port above my skin, so you can plug in your headphones in and listen to the lyrics of my love, because you have rendered me speechless.
I had it scripted in my mind how I would tell you eloquently how beautiful and charming you are.
Yet when I drew nigh, I decided to start with hello, to show some decorousness.
But I soon realized that my lungs couldn't even draw forth the air necessary to widen and narrow my vocal cords, and I stood ultimately voiceless, except for having stammered those 2 solitary syllables, let alone the remaining dozens.
Should I comply with the belief that actions speak louder than words? That I might employ charades to better convey my feelings?
I always thought I was one who could speak with the power of a warlord, yet here I am before you squawking like a sick parrot.
But what could render a spoken word artist so totally silenced?
Maybe let's try establishing causality.
The first time I saw you, you blinked.
When you opened your eyes again, I saw a vibrant blue universe I wanted to explore.
Is that what silenced me? Well maybe you could do that again? It might set me free.
Don't wait for me to ask,
I can't speak.
I hope you never go to an event where the performer needs to concentrate, cuz you'll distract them and they might actually die.
It's because of what you carry,
More mystical than mermaids, you shroud me in Medusa's curse, your eyes communicate to mine, and I am now petrified.
I came of my own volition, but now I'm at your mercy.
Look away and set me free.
Instant infatuation within me converted into electric surges and fried my speech tract.
From a distance I was in great haste to meet you. Up close, I slow to a halt and stand like a big, dumb pillar.
I wonder why I am speechless.
I wonder why I am speechless because I am a man with a silk tongue who can stand before a woman and captivate her with words.
I wonder why I am speechless.
My negative lips attract positive kisses. Maybe we're both negative, so we repel.
How I wish my vocal cords would comply at least enough to produce a sputter of some kind, so at least you know that I'm stricken.
My hobby is to speak, and I am well practiced, so I wonder why I can't even stammer.
My phonetics cannot produce a squeak, let alone weave an elaborate syntax to melt your heart.
How unfortunate it is.

I am speechless because

I am in love
Sometimes I wonder
I wonder
Why's everyone looking at me?
Is it because I'm so pretty?
Than my other half says to me
As annoyed as a street musician
On a sunday
Nick your talking to me
..And quite audibly
Just a thought.
www.eugene-moon.weebly.com
Baylee Sep 2015
Much like being trapped in an elevator,
Awaiting your rescue,
Wondering if you should be the one to save yourself,
But you start panicking once the doors wont open,
You feel yourself shrinking,
Drowning in your thoughts,
Internally collapsing from the stress,
You begin to hyperventilate,
But not audibly, no, it's completely silent,
The utter silence itself is deafening,
You question the stability and structure
Of the suspended room that your life is being held in,
Back to the silence, was that a creaking sound
Or are you just starting to become paranoid now,
Is someone on the outside trying to pry the doors open
To help rescue you, and get you out,
Or is someone simply mindlessly hitting the elevator button
Waiting for it to come, though it never will,
Surely they'll become annoyed and just take the stairs,
But how are you supposed to get out of this situation,
This state of complete panic, you start to sob,
And that's when you realize that this is what anxiety feels like.
After a recent experience of getting trapped in an elevator, those minutes you're waiting to be saved seem like the longest moments of your life, specially for someone who already has an underlying fear of elevators. Not to mention the fact that you're someone who has serious anxiety problems, so this situation only makes you reflect outward and even further inward on yourself.
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
He wasn’t a boy,
He was forty years old
But they called him boy;
A habit born of old
Bigotries and behaviors
Difficult to defend
But that doesn’t mean
They came to an end

The shoeshine boy
Mostly shined the shoes
And if anyone listened, he had
Good advice they could use.
But most read their papers
On the busy city street
And paid no attention
To the wisdom by their feet.

The people read the news
And ******* about things
And gave their confusion
Talkative wings.
One day a guy asked
Why do people do
The horrendously crazy
Things they seem to do?

The shoeshine boy looked up
And gave the man a smile
And said a pithy sentence
After a decent while.
He said it often,
Sometimes audibly,
“Most people die
Of plain stupidity.”

The fellow thought this wise
And shared it with his friends
And that’s how a catchphrase
Or idea ultimately begins.
It’s something that is simple
But makes a lot of sense
For those looking for answers
If they are not too dense.

Sometimes it’s the only answer
That seems to apply at all
When madness is afoot
And morality seems to fall;
When people waste money
On toys instead of their kids.
That is often how they take
A ride down to the skids.

If only they heeded the things
The shoeshine boy said,
They might have grown wiser
Fewer rocks inside their heads.
But instead they sided with
Maddening mediocrity
Never realizing most folks
Die of plain stupidity.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Wherever peaches grow I go and pick 'em.
When they get ripe I try and swipe 'em.
The farmer runs out with a shotgun and wonders where's the
      varmint gone?
I'm hiding by the railroad tracks stacking the peaches I've
      found.

Then a freight train about a mile long rolls by hauling a bucket
      of rain.
I hop aboard while beautiful clouds gather to the north.
I put my peaches in the bucket and lug it to a hidden part of
      the train.
The rain begins, the night looms in, it's summer and it's
      thoughts and warm.

To the clacking rumble and the patter I close my eyes and
      dream.
An earthquake swallows up the people who wear horrible
      masks of fright as their daily tasks are trampled.
In a favorite movie theater an illumined lady puts her hand in
      mine, warm mouths, breath, skin, hair wing-soft, whole
      bodies, wind, bare.
I open my eyes at sunrise there's a steady glow of light
      around.

If you can believe in God, you can believe the mountains go
      from purple to green.
While the last partier meanders home to bed the first farmer is
      up to milk his bread.
Fruit of the world ripens audibly and cities make a silent,
      distant sound.
Lonely guy stretches, rubs his eyes, pees out a passing train,
      has a breakfast of peaches and rainwater.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
John Stevens Dec 2013
My Father was my example.  I have a lot of my father's traits.  He was a man of few words but his actions of caring carried much weight. Growing up on a farm in Western Nebraska, it seemed that it was a place where sandburs knew no bounds.  They were everywhere.  My father wore bib overhauls that had big pockets in the back. When I was little, the pockets were just right to fit my feet.  When we came to a sandbur patch, he would pick me up and carried me over the sandbur patches.  When I was tired after being with him on the farm and hot from the scorching summer heat, he cared for me.

My heavenly Father is my teacher through prayer, his word written and spoken and through the lives of others like my Mother and Father and many others.

Jesus is our example.  Growing up and even today, the 4 words that keep me going in the right direction are: What Would Jesus Do.  There is no better example to follow.

As a father, I try to follow the example of my heavenly Father.  There are times I fail miserably and must ask for forgiveness from my family.  My heavenly father never fails me.  He carries me through the sandbur patches of life.  He loves me unconditionally.  Some day I will set foot on the heavenly shore as He carries me over the last of life's sandbur patches on my final journey of life.

Even though I have never heard my earthly father say, "I love you son", I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved me.  When I would say to him, 'love ya Dad" his reply was always "uhuh".  I can't hear my heavenly father audibly say "I love you" but I know from all He does for me His love for me is beyond words.  His love transcends the audible and speaks directly to my heart.
              
I tried hard to not bring shame on my mother and father.
Fifteen and questioning everything, I said, I don't believe in you.

If you are real...Touch me. Speak to me. Give me a vision.

Is this not how it works?

If I obey, will you not...Prosper me? Bless me? Make me known?

I was confused. I misunderstood.

If you are never to physically touch me, nor audibly speak, or ever give me a vision...You are the realest thing in this universe to me.

Though scientism rule everything around me, my faith in you keeps me; poor but my soul prosperous, broken but blessed, and known by heaven.

God, you are the realest!
After I read that a once close friend converted to scientism from faith this came to my heart.
When Susan’s work was done, she would sit
With one fat guttering candle lit,
And window opened wide to win
The sweet night air to enter in.
There, with a thumb to keep her place
She would read with stern and wrinkled face,
Her mild eyes gliding very slow
Across the letters to and fro,
While wagged the guttering candle flame
In the wind that through the window came
And sometimes in the sentence she
Would mumble a sentence audibly
Or shake her head as if to say,
“ You silly souls, to act this way!”
And never a sound from night I would hear,
Unless some far-off **** crowed clear;
Or her old shuffling should turn
Another page’and rapt and stern,
Though her great glasses bent on me,
She would glance into reality
And shake her round old silvery head,
With-“You!—I thought you were in bed!”
Only to tilt her book again
And rooted in Romance to remain

ባልቴቷ ሱሳን

ሱሳን ሥራዋን ሰራርታ
ትቀመጣለች ወፈር ያለ
ሻማ አብርታ፣
መስኮቷን አርጋ
በሰፊው ከፈት
ባለግሩም መአዛውን
የማታ አየር
በደንብ ለመሸመት!
ገፁ እንዳይጠፋባት
አልባ በአውራ ጣት፣
ሻማዋን ንፋሱ እያንገላታት
ተመስጦ በሚስተዋልበት
ቅጭም ያለ ፊት
እየተደመመች ታነባለች
ዓይኗን ከዚህ ወደዚያ
ወደዚህ ከዚያ
በፊዴሎቹ ላይ
እያደረገች ሸርተት፡፡
በዛ ኮሽታ አልባ ፀጥታ
ይሰማል በለሆሳስ ስትናገር
የሆነ ነገር
ወይ ጭንቅላቷን ነቅንቃ ስታበቃ
ስትል ‹‹ምን አይነት ናችሁ
እንዴት ንደዚህ ታደርጋላቸሁ?››
ከሩቅ አውራ ዶሮ ኩኩሉ
ረጭ ብሏል ሥፍራው ሁሉ--
አይሰማም ምንም ድምፅ
ካልሆነ መፅሐፍ ሲገለፅ፡፡
በትልቁ መነፅሯ ልታይ ዙራ፣
ሥፍራውን ማትራ፣
ሽበት ቀመስ ጭንቅላቷን
እየነቀነቀች ወደኔ ያየች
‹‹አንተ ገና አልተኛህም?››
ትለኛለች
ዳግም ወደመፅሓፏ ተመልሳ፣
በተመስጦ የፍቅር ታሪከ ውስጥ
ራሷን ልትረሳ!
(በዋልተር ዲላሜር)//
A descriptive poem you may like as I did.I think translation plays quite a role in introducing poets across all ages to those who are a bit lacking in understanding English
David Nelson Jul 2010
All of a Sudden

I was on my way to work, standing on the corner
waiting for the walk like to flash before crossing
I glanced over my left shoulder to check the traffic
before proceeding forward, when all of a sudden

there you were, a double-take if ever there was
eye-grabbing, breath-taking golden-haired goddess
I could not help but stare at her, even though I audibly
told myself do not stare at her you bumbling fool ...

Ir was 2 am when I awoke in a chilling sweat. The sheets
were soaked as my body was drenched. I had been having
this horrible dream, no nightmare. I was trying to evade
these South Equdorian rebels, who though I was some
sort of spy for the CIA, the FBI, NSC or something.
I had ducked in some heavy brush, when all of a sudden

there you were, the golden goddess I had seen this
morning while waiting to cross the street. You were
signaling to me to stay down, with your finger over
your lips telling me to stay quiet...

Ah Friday night, two tickets to see the Boston Red Sox
at Fenway park. What a way to spend an evening.
A co-worker who I had dated several times had scored
two box seat tickets from her boss at the Bank.
At the end of the 3rd inning, I told Emma I was going
to get us a couple of dogs and beers and strecth my legs
I walked up the ramp to the concession stand and got
in line. I looked over at the next line, when all of a sudden

there you were, this was the third time in 3 days that
we had crossed paths. Coincidence? What's the odds?
Something was going on and I needed to find out
what that something was. I decided I was going to
stop her and ask what was going on. I took my eyes
off of her for only a brief couple of seconds, but when
I looked back, she was nowhere in sight. I mean nowhere...

Gomer LePoet...
Stephen E Yocum Feb 2014
The third day of sitting vigil.
He lay so still,
Eyes closed,
Shallow breathing.
How small and in repose he looked.
His skin taunt and sunken,
So pale and grey.

Long had I loved and respected
This grown ancient appearing face,
Now pain and sickness changed.
His hands barely covered,
With a thin veneer of grey skin.
The finger bones so plainly visible.
Holding his hand, it felt ice cold.

I had watched some men die,
Understood how sudden,
Death could come.
Eyes open and voice speaking,
And a second later, they were gone.
An empty shell of what they had been.

For days now family and friends,
Came and went,
Seeing no change,
Tired or bored,
Needing Nicotine,
Or food left that room.
And yet I stayed,
Vowing to myself,
That he should not die alone,
To be there to the end.

He had fought the good fight,
Fending off the inevitable,
Brave and stubborn was who he was.
The results of all that,
Turned his departure into a
Protracted reluctant journey.

He had not opened his eyes
Nor said a word in days.
Still once in a while a shallow
Breathe was taken,
And the Life Monitor,
Beeped and abated.

Alone in the room,
I said my goodbyes,
Professed my love
and kissed his forehead.
He stirred and weakly,
Opened his eyes,
The most he could offer in reply.

His eye lids fluttered twice and
One last breath was audibly taken.
74 years of living and just like that,
My Father’s worldly existence ended.  

The Heart Monitor toned,
A continuous flat line death song.
I reached up and unplugged it.
All these years later,
In my mind I can still hear it.

How brief and fleeting,
This gift of life,
Never to be taken for granted.
To a young person 74 years seems
like forever, take it from me, it is not.
I seldom ponder this memory,
I choose to remember my Dad
as he was in life, bigger than life,
my mentor, coach and dear friend.
My strong and some times flawed
and all too human Father.
And when I do, I always smile.

— The End —