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CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
King Panda Dec 2016
the birds sifting through
the clouds
there is no chance
of rain
only sun
and the rarefaction of
wings against
molecules
ah
the simple things
when the morning is quiet
and I see
an imagined crane
perched on a branch
in the lake
we used to walk
around
the benches we used to
sit on
the black mist
that sometimes sits
around our
feet like a dog
we are not maquettes
but sculpted
made of marble
the stone birds sailing
overhead
the toy boats
the water
the lack of tears
and the machinery it takes
for me to say
*fly, fear. fly.
bring home my birdie.
Lizzy Sep 2016
I find myself pacing
Or staring at nothing,
While i can't slow my thinking
Or find a pattern in my breathing.

I'm no less lost
Than I was last month,
And no less terrified
Than when I broke
All the promises
I had made to myself.

My tiny room
Can't hold me
For too long.
My expansive thoughts
Bounce off the walls
And back into me
Until I decide to
Find some place open to think.

And I walk all alone
I lay in dark open fields
Or on benches by water,
Hoping my thoughts will get lost
In the landscape
And forget to return to my head.

My eyes fill with anxiety
As I forget to breathe.
I make sure no one
Can see me
Than I let the anxiety
flooding my eyes roll down my cheeks.

The cold breeze
Reminds me to breathe
And I'm back in the grass
Hoping you're thinking about me.
Nicole Dec 2016
the only view i have ever truly loved is disappearing in front of my eyes
it steals away my friends
and it forces me to see the things that are my fault

i find myself crying on the darkest of nights about how it's precious leaves have ceased to make me happy
it's not the same as 3 years ago, and it's taken away every person i
longed to have known

i cry on its broken benches at 11pm, when stars are raining down on trees and my mum isn't here to take me inside
i am ****** to think  was ever needed

i pathetically wish i was 6 again, when i didn't stream tears over the absence of stems
i remembered being happy before,
when my thoughts were just the roses hanging from your door
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
Antino Art Apr 2018
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows

cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over Nash Square at daybreak
We grow here

with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation

seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march

downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They sprint toward their cars on work week mornings in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing
On the shoulders of this giant collective, we hold our heads high

to see that this is home now.
We cross into the unfamiliar
at the walk signal's cue,
breaking new ground, gazes meeting one another
as their counter-culture
coffee kicks in
to add this defiant bounce to each step
this rhythm to hop over puddles as they appear

We don't mind the way rain lands here
and its baptismal effect
We like how its capable of reinventing itself mid-fall into weightless snowflakes, then taking flight
We walk without umbrellas to see it

wearing the greyest pieces of their winter sky the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, mumbling last-mimute prayers for our salvation under our breath
We'll wear their dreams

at night, the moment the streetlights flicker on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking

past the lights of apartment windows as they dim behind us
the doors storefronts closed for the day
the paid parking meters as they clock out and become free
We'll wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders and we'll walk while they sleep

under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Classy J Jan 15
Run rotten, for things have gotten out of hand.
Turn coat ducking, torture got him singing and eating outta my hand.
Getting scraped by the beater like youse a percussion instrument;
maybe that’s why a group of people are called a band?
For we all play our part to either be an influence or to be influenced.
Yet we won’t know anything if you never venture into the forest and meet the temptress.
When one experiences all six senses, when in present tenses, which then puts the body through stresses.
That makes the mind flood with guesses that clouds up our lenses.
But that’s just what war is like for one is always in the trenches.
Whilst other’s sit on benches, but each choice brings rewards and consequences.
Which bears questions on what your quest is?
To run free or to be held back by white picket fences?
For being hard pressed brings out either killers or medics.
To choose to be real or synthetic.
To become abstract or symmetric.
However, things aren’t always so metric.
So be wary of being a critique for just like branches of mathematics in arithmetic,
We have many great qualities but when in a group we can become manipulated.
I like to drift aobut the oprah show

with my laptop open, sipping bourbon, it smokes my eyes

and stings my tounge

I like to drift about like this,

I like it when the benches to the barstool are sepraated by groups of three

and I like itwhen the tender leans towards my direction

I like the  laptop open in a giant kazooo, in an inredibly modest church

I like the laptop open while I'm searching for pens and pencils

while I'm picking roses

Iwhile I am farting

now listen,

I like the laptop open because I am flawless,

yes
Revolution civilwar Drag The traitors from the Benches. Destroy the mosques & build more homes & shelters. destroy the Islamic-****-EU-tyrants
"Their end is nigh"
Says the 17.4 Million & I.
It's time for the brits to rot or rise.
What say ye, I say rise.
We've been at war with the EU before, it's just changed names and strategies, that's all.
The war we all thought ended
Clearly didn't end at all,
****** still fights from beyond the grave, still pushing to over throw us all in haste, The fourth ***** has arisen with its allies of isis and many more sects and divisions, the EU modern "Xerxes" the rulers of all rulers that have army's of slaves ready to fight us. And here we British stand yet again, a few against many" giving up is not part of our gene-pool, nor in any part of our history, we are the British and these colours never run. We will never stop fighting, we shall never surrender, we may be small in land mass & numbers,
but our fighting spirit & will to defeat our enemies is big & strong. Don't mistake our generosity & kindness for weakness. We will defend our people culture identity & land, From all that wish to destroy it. Be warned we are the brits. No retreat no surrender. We'll fight until the very last breath and the very last one. © Vincent Von ellesmere 2019.
We shall never surrender
Ceida Uilyc Mar 20
Corners of your room,
Knows me more than you.
Because that’s where I was lost
When you talked about leaving.

Bushes beyond the wall,
Knows the promise more than us.
Because that’s where we first lit passion
When we took a walk the first night.

Mushy park benches after rain,
Knows us more than the campus.
Because that’s where we kissed
When we first felt love beyond ****.

Veiny edges of my wrist,
Knows you more than me.
Because that’s where I tried writing
When your name started fading.
marianne Oct 2018
born into an ethic of separate
and apart, knows nothing of the promise of oneness
and the slow release of held breath when I glimpse
that I’m not.

my foremothers in the summer kitchen, preserving
(1 part berries : 1 part sugar, splash of lemon)
lived the kinship of shovel sun soil hands
jam on buttered bread.

heads bowed under kerchief, shushing children, devoted
(1 part fervour : 1 part obedience, splash of sorrow)
sang the hymns of their mothers on hard benches in one voice,
one breath.

but the air is made of argon too, and contains
the breath of all others, the ones not on hard benches, or making jam
no lines in the sand made of belief or blood
not them, just us.

today with my own shovel, sifting through roots and buds
(1 part rage : 1 part faith, splash of sorrow)
I sing “Ain’t got no, I got life” at full volume with Nina, two voices
same breath.
Because we are part of something larger than just us.

Here is the awesome Nina Simone song I mention:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5jI9I03q8E&t=0s&list=PLkbO-DIg2u3X0gIUVKrjY4mV7YRg9rJCL&index=24
Johnny walker Nov 2018
Now I walk a lonely
path where before my
wife a similar path I'd
walked
I've slept on park
benches In field over
looking the sea, bus
stations railway
too even slept In a
zoo
I've lived 6 weeks alone
on the street but nothing
even comes close to
lose one wife but now
for me Its a only a lonely
path now that lays
ahead
To walk alone In life where once this was nothing nrw
When there were no T.V's or cell phones,
When the sky was sequined with stars.
After dinner,family members and neighbours would gather outside on stone benches and chairs,
News and gossip would be shared with keen interest......
Whose wife ran away with whom,
Who delivered a baby,
Who was getting married.
Songs from the latest movie would be sung,
Stories and anecdotes  related,
It was fun.
We shared one apple and drank from the same bottle,
Are  fruits like mangoes and guavas from the fruitcarts without washing them,
Nothing happened to us.
We never went to a playground,
We played football,cricket, marbles, seven stones  and other games on the streets,
And if broke a window, we would run for our life.
We just popped in at our friends' house and shared their food,ate what was cooking in the kitchen,opened their fridges,
No formalities,
You didn't need a nanny to look after your children,
Extended family and neighbours helped out.
Everybody called the grandparents dadi or dadu,
The whole neighbourhood was one big happy family,
Those were the times.
In those days in the 50s 60s life was fun in E.Africa
ymmiJ Apr 23
smoothly worn benches
people recalling their loves
now resting above
flowers adorned, closer by
those forgotten, turn away
Whether appointed by a Democrat?
Whether appointed by a Republican?
Just be a judge of common sense.

Leave your perspectives at the corner.
If others are trying to control your views.
They simply seeking you to be a tool.

Be religious.
A person of faith.
But remember to there is a time and there is a place.

If using your outlook on race and can't be fair.
Then don't decide a matter if clouded by it.
If weak in spirit not to stand up against politicians seeking you to be their voice.

Honest admit, you not there to be a robot.
But a judge of common sense.

Sure we have liberals and conservative minds on courts benches.
But you there to be fair and not base religious views upon your decision.

Whether she decides to keep it?
Or not?
Search your heart to why we are people with minds of our own decisions?
Nekron Nov 2018
By the discarded pile, a visible crease of a newspaper shows the grown perceived image of a lost child missing since 2013. Corrugated marks with a small scissor between the lines surround the advert space, as if I was to cut out the description, and put it in a wallet with my other gathered markings of missing people. Perhaps they’d expect me to lift the paper up with one eye, and compare the supposed 25 year old boy with the other souls, shuffling across the metro with their heads down and turned, leaning on the benches sleeping,  and carrying slings and canes and neck braces. What would I do if I was ever to find him? “Michael. Come home. Your mother worries about you so much.”
Certainly I couldn’t pin him. How to find someone who is certainly lost, and may not want to be found. Or long dead, there face strewn in sticks in a bush somewhere, a quiet overdose, or a night to cold, a placid end for an unfortunate, all to long suffering individual. What happens to those who disappear. Their names are whispered, until there grows a time in which no one remembers. I’d like to keep it together, his memory, as my pressing finger traces his face, and I imagine his mind racing out there. I’ll remember the lost, I’ll try, I say to myself as I tear his face from the page and into my pocket. A grandiose and otherwise futile gesture. I’ll keep them all, sure.
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