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925 Apr 2015
Cutting across the ice,
Sunlight hair whipping across my face.
With glacial silver blades,
The concern fades.

Feelings erupt as I glide,
Worries set aside.
One foot to the next,
But its much more complex.

Becoming a different character,
But only in the winter.
All good things come to an end,
And I have to say good bye to my best friend.

The feelings come back when I’m on solid ground,
The anger and sadness unwound.
A human who prefers frozen water over earth,
Something obviously went wrong during birth.
em Nov 2015
Anger is a little boy in a ripped jacket
who plays tag with Stability too close to a cliff.

Confusion is a child with tangled hair and a purple shirt
who enjoys running circles around Content turning
her flower crowns into razor blades.

Depression is a pale girl with sad eyes who plays
red light green light with Happiness near that old garden
they called Eden who lately seems to be dying.
Hello lovely people! I hope you enjoy!!!
avalon Aug 2017
your skyscrapers are just overgrown hairs
gaea has neglected to shave.
Ilion gray Aug 2018
The people
Are going anywhere
where they will wait,
Where the aluminum tops of pop
Bottles crash to earth
Releasing one last
Tiiiiinngg!!!((())))))
A kind of
Musical note...
A single sound through the corridors
Of order-
Watching the wind tease the trees/
Like the fastest boy
On the block,
Subtly walking
Over scattered grey
loose gravel
In the parking lot
Of the park,
Running his
Tiny ***** fingers,
Through
The other boys heads
Dusty and
Stagnant,
Filthy with earth and
Hours,
their
Blood black and  smoldering
Beneath a ceiling of skin,
Every pore
Like a window
Open
Waiting for the
One who knows,
To pass by,
All of them
Believing they
Were chosen.
"duck"
    "DUck"
              .........."DUCK
"GOOSE!!!­"

I watch the wind tease the leaves of trees-
Just this way,
At play,
Aloof
To the price of days,
Each one,
Their own.
Yet, both
The tree
And the child
Are Subtly dying,
Whilst also
climbing,
Closer to the
The sky,
Those ageless eyes
watch
their tiny fingers
stretched high
Reaching beneath
The ribs of wind,
the deepest end
Of the Seas of mid-heaven,
Into the sacred
Waves of secrets
everlasting,
Where
God taught his only
Son to swim.

I also watched,
as the wind teased
The trees that held the leaves-
Each decaying
As they rise
They bend forward like,
golden fields of days
Like sun-beaten blades of grass,
Their giant broken bodies
Like stones
So still,
That at times,
unfortunate seconds
Drifting past
Quietly,
wander
Too long
In the sadness,
Then crash
Violently,
In the silence.

If you ask some of the
people,
They will say
"We are going everywhere,
And yet we have found nothing-
Nothing/
While we wait-"

I have watched the wind tease
Everything,
All that I can hold in my eyes,
There
Where there is life everlasting-
Fingerprints,
Left after
the years wrapped it's hands
Around my neck squeezing
Till my skin began
To die and wither,
Like a brown trout
Tired, and weary
Floating way too
Close to the bank
As the edge of March,
Eat the last days of winter,
Now the evenings
Fall like ash,
Slowly arriving,
Hovering,
Softly
covering my shoulder.
The long night has just begun
Solemn and Subtle, sewn with
years
And hours
Of days that dripping
minutes
Never fill,
Arriving always
at the coldest hour
From the woods
That none
Can enter,
Lest you have reinforced your thoughts
With stolen rays of sunshine
Lest you have mapped
Constellations in the
Shattered glass  
From the broken
Windows of your eyes
CK Baker Feb 2017
There’s a silverback haze
on the shallow face
of the Rockwell Ridge
folded brow
puzzled chin
and dark hollow eyes
keeping watch
over the lilies
and crane flies
and will of the wisp

Rust brown ravens
and fisher kings
delight
in the reeds off north bend
(chased by the terraced streams!)
youth blades engrain
on the favoured
and historic
Banka Memorial

Mustard
and pumpkin skies
are clipped
by a call from
the resident loon
the sounds of Buddha Bar
piercing the silence
and shaping the afternoon chord

It’s a time to make way (stream side)
seems the anuran are courting
L B Jul 2018
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick

Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonja Henie--
No, not ever

Lacing my skates
with  snow-ball pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot

to get there
the lake where--

I must get out
I must get OUT!

Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
specific--
gravity of water    
at 22 degrees

Desiring to feel
the motion between ice and steel
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion

Threatening to stay there
always
in its heights-- of speed
away--

from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights

Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
inertia
of what it is to become
undone

at the outer edges, of humanity
A force  
centrifugal unto myself

Avoiding

Pregnant and slow
with years and babes....

The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free

catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180
spray of frost
to the sudden still

Listen to the frigid chill

and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence

Gliding
Once

Forever--

on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water

The wildness of it all

So infatuated with flight
so full of grace

I forgot Sonja

The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded
Wrote this immediately from a dream a couple months ago.  With all the heat and humidity, it sounded good to go today.

This dream was an actual relived memory of being 12 years old and skating at Porter Lake in Forest Park of Springfield, Massachusetts.  22 degrees F is minus 5.5 C --Just a reference
ryn Oct 2014
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.

   Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.

     Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.

         Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.

            Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.

               Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.

                  Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Wake up....Me...
Danielle Suzanne Apr 2017
Hot sun on my neck
Dandelions suffocated
by long blades of grass
Bird's song
and truck's siren
compete for center stage
Floating clouds
keep the light
dappled with ease
laura Sep 2017
midriff cut from the universe
and diamond rings look good on her
every finger except the i'm-married-one
perky ears and silk smooth skin

adept and endearing accent
even when she's mad at me
and the way her shoulder blades curve
she's good at math and ***;

things i like more than the usual
triple threat, face, ****, breast
personality of an office chair.
Shrishty Apr 2017
Your love hits me like waves
Shuddering and shivering we meet
But in the flow I move with you
We repel and depart
Marooned by love and hurt by war
Holding hands with you feels like a sin
That I commit over and over again
Embracing your blades and forgetting the pain
To the river bed we travel
I stay. You leave.
A love that is this way,
Can be nothing but malignant.
tarma-de Jan 2017
Breathe in loads
of innumerable blades
of memory erasers.

Ah, the feeling
of being lost within
your own thought.

Wishing for just
a brief break— from time
and its fast pace (or
if possible, let it
stop. Let the world
stop).

There are familiar places
you can’t get used to
and sometimes
it will all just fade
with experience,
lessons, and

your most beautiful
mistake.
well-rolled joint.
ryn Dec 2014
Blades of grass shivered
As the fingers of the wind strum
A hum ever soft and hauntingly serene
Sweetest song my heart reluctantly would welcome

I stare into the minuscule expanse of land
The horizon does not exist far here...
But still my eyes would stretch
To see the obscured very clear

All alone save for the company of a lone tree
And the jovial chirps of annoying birds
On this island with very little space
Trying to find comfort in ill-arranged words

My eyes do see but my heart remains obstinate
Beauty of the universe would always invite
I could just jump and join in its merriment
But... I am just a tethered kite

I'd want to rise to the highest skies
To be one with the nature's song, composed and tuned
Alas bound to a string, I can only go so far
I am my own island,
                      *helpless and marooned...
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.

Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.

Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.

Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.  
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Robert Cayne Jul 2017
Reminiscent of a dream:
    (The mirror, the ghostly figure,
    The long, loving grass.)

    The infinity mirror, for all its fury
    To Smooth over the untamed roughess
    Of Humanity's core,
    Draws blood with shaving blades,
    And magnanimity in masquerades.

    And still the pallor of blush,
    And the discoloration of adoration,
    Are but servile to anticipation.
 
    The reflector of infinity
    The eery promise
    Reaching towards divinity
    Or a torturous, blind ****-bent path

    The blind mirror promises
    Infinity, duality
    The shattered, puerile ghost caught between
    The Ubiquitous, sterile host of magisterial illusion

    The fragmented stone beneath him
    Like a altar on a monestary
    Grounding him to the magestic illusion
    Of groundless deceit, Of Boston's conceit

    Reverse that curse! Oh arrow-bent skies
    Of intrepid, oblique, malleable time
    That bends about paths through human hearts
    To human marrows, to decay, to remorse

    The skin, like a cage like a gibbet upholding the body
    Knows not the force of infinity's grasp
    Until it overtakes him in a moment of intrepid deceit.

    In these hallowed halls ghostly particles dance,
    Ghostly bodies collide and recombine into once visible
    Charades of macabre cavemen.

    Once, always visible in the mirror, unknowable is the heart.
    In this illusory rebirth, is the ghost in the machine,
    In deed through imprints the duality of despair's duplicity
    Onto a parched heart's never-fingerprint

    Identity is unknown to the mirror (clearly)
    Vanity is unknown to the self
    How transparent the mirror makes
    Blood-meat of a man!

    Gushing listlessly, he retraces the mirror's arrows
    Onto the lines on the page.
    He retraces the chalk on the lines.
    He becomes just the vane words on the page.

    Words, and the mirror of language
    The potency lost to fragmented duplication.
    The mosaic is born,
    Unseen, to vague, blurred visions of a fragmented nation.

    But language outcasts him,
    Him tangled deeply within its moat,
    Its dubbed deeply embedded within him,
    Ah, again the duality!


    His mirror-image, the words
    Against the page, untold sillhoutes
    Of a dark, flickering, menacing display
    Of brash omens.

    The words, his craft of silence's
    Burrow, of despair's unlaundry,
    Of an empty room without
    Any charge at all.

    The words, against the words.
    But that he sees not.
    The words against the self.
    He sees not.

    Blinded by narcissism, by that mirror.
In this poem the mirror is personified as an artist. As a reader, the quest is to evaluate him/her/it (the mirror) and discover your relationship with her.
Apathy Jul 2014
The storm has gone
It's eerily quiet
As darkness creeps in
I try not to fight it.

My body is broken
****** and mangled
I hug my knees closer
My heartstrings all tangled.

My skin is stripped away
Taking my protection
My thoughts are dull rusty blades
Cutting deep, horrid infections.
Please, don't leave me alone...
typhany Jan 2014
my arms remember razor blades and spiked needles
and my veins ache to feel the warmth of her
swimming perfectly through my bloodstream
and engulfing my every fear, my every desire
until i am nothing but a pool of sticky tar

my nostrils burn without the powder
flying into my brain, and dripping down my throat
keeping me awake for days on end
and opening up my mind for my pen
shaking as i hold it to the paper; scribble

my tongue dwells on the bitter taste of hallucinogens
that made me dance in the coldest rain
and swim in the smallest pools of warm blood
that erupted from the belly of an orange tiger
who held my hand, and danced to the beats

my stomach remembers the feeling of pill bottles
emptied out; the tablets dissolved
coaxing me into warm slumbers, and forgetfulness
i miss the feeling of letting go
of love, of pain, of regret
King Panda Jun 2016
the artistry in you
snapping bubbles
through your hair
resting feather
the coop
the hibernation
every bit of your work
a statement of
beast and sacrifice
sweet mother
holy sister
undying scientist
like windows
like soil
in which life grows
good earth
good prairie
miles and miles of you
swaying in the wind
inculcated within me
this immortal passion
to watch you sprout life
to watch you work
to watch you love
a blissful void
a simple kiss
a wonderful purple
this incomprehensible galaxy
makes sense
when I see your eyes
scanning billions of blades
of grass
when I witness the tortuous
beauty
of your smile
when I hear you
read your poetry
it’s the gift of nature
unprecedented
unexpected
un-censored
unlike anything I’ve ever
experienced
your love
Jessica
your love
is ineffable
Owlman Jun 2014
They throw me in the name of god
Throw me in the name of freedom
Use me to sharpen their blades
Carve to make beauty that never fades
Use to measure, find assumed treasures
With all the radical measures
Use me to build shelters and shatter bones
Calling me god, he bows and bends
Cull animals and humans alike
With ****** hands, holding rituals
Some one ask him! what is it you truly sacrifice?
I marvel, at this creature
Ponder upon every feature
After ages and ages of gazing
To me, It is still amazing!
still life and the way they might look at us.
CK Baker Jan 2017
He filled his week bag
with quick picks
from the commissary
cover blades
and skull caps
canned goods
and half stated pearls
liquor bills
and bleeders
for the flight of weary

Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana
and nurture sage
past the pomp
and ceremony
out of robe
and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas

Light infantry
and yelling men
muscled
and scorned
fly boys high
in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners
filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape

Tarrant tabers
and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands
grease the mill trap
carnage makers
mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers
and pile bags
and earth pack)

Trench helmets
and metal backs
under machine fire
minefields burn
in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel
and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold
despair

Slouch hats
and burning rats
kerosene lamps
and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken line
and limb
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped pipe
and beam

It was an all in
end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the
fokker pursuit
over rolling hills
and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
near the brae corbie road
Grace Dec 2015
Maybe this is what trust is
Your scorching hands
Searing my shoulder blades
“I could if I wanted to”
Turned my insides gray

Thirteen year old skin
Stretched thin
Ached to peel away
Where your fingers had played

I was an instrument
But that’s not how I preform
I can only make symphonies now
Alone

I loved you
With every pulse behind my skin
Family
Blood didn’t have to make the bond
My protector
Becomes the predecessor to all my fears

If you’d press your ear against my chest
A reverberation of no’s would pound your eardrum
Freshly thirteen
Stolen firsts
I can never right again

“Don’t act like you don’t want it”
But it was you
Who mastered in pretend
Every word I write makes you more and more fictional.
CA Guilfoyle Feb 2018
In this park there are birds atop ice cakes
stiff mittened kids, cold nosed and half froze
they slide on paths of glass, toward home.
A small stream cuts through this place,
black water humming with coots and ducks.
Long toothed icicles waiting to impale the earth.
Beneath our feet, we ***** and shatter tiny frozen ponds,
revealing muddied blades of grass, green as in summer.
A myriad of birds in the sun, come to puff and quiver,
but soon the mountain clouds will come to shroud
the day, the sky so cold, a frost in grey and silver.
Grace May 2017
Nimble fingers
Across shoulder blades
Strumming collarbones
The sweetest sound
To touch your ears

Lips made to stitch
Where bumps and bruises
Decorate
Peach thin skin

I bet your body could blush
A deep sunset red
Blanketing my favorite skyline
So picturesque
Even Picasso would hold his breath
spacewalker Sep 2017
I have my grocery list in my hand,
a pack of razor blades
a gallon of bleach
a bottle of *****
an egg
I have my grocery list in my hand,
but I am listless.

Sometimes I ***** a smile
when my dog wakes me up with his kisses
Sometimes I make eggs
for him, of course,
I would never waste them on myself
With this list, I'm gone
I make my dog eggs and me a bath
For me, bleach, *****, razor
soon to be listless no more
I open the bottle and welcome the burn
at first, I really hated how it had no clear flow but it kind of captures the sense of pointlessness and awkwardness  I was trying to portray
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