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ryn Sep 2014
Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds

Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay


Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through

Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon


A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day

**We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever
Deeply honoured by the fact that the amazing "The Girl Who Loved You" would even consider a collaboration with me! Such an experience! Thank you TGWLY for this opportunity! Awestruck!
IZ J Mar 2019
It’s crisp and it’s shallow and it’s deep
It moves softly and swiftly
It disappears, it wasn’t made for you

The clouds disperse as planes and birds move transparently
Little kids spinning in circles
First elephants, then flowers then people

You grab onto your hair as you walk in the direction of the wind
The world disguised in fog, then a quick puff and everything changes
Even with just the windows open, you can see your breath

Somewhere three bears set their food out to cool
A scent fills the air
People are drawn to it, a girl with golden hair

You grow up and you learn
Stratus, cirrus, cumulus
Soft long fortune tellers

Your not a child anymore,
These clouds aren’t served with meatballs
You're on your rocking chair now

There’s lemonade and ice and a straw
You think money, you think friends, you think summer
The nice ones would pull over in their car and stop

It’s hot outside, yet when they roll down their window
They are hit and they feel it
Life changes when the sky breathes
#growingup #gettingold #life #childhood #society #nature
Shane Leigh Jul 2018
There's only so many hours in a day;
only so many words in my vocabulary;
only so many breathes to take
before I am dead and buried.

Therefore, I laugh,
I giggle and smile.
I live in this moment
if only for a while.

If breathing was infinite,
like life itself,
there'd be no point in worrying
about my sense of self-
righteousness that creeps further away
because no one knows what will happen,
not even today.

Because there are only so many minutes,
hours,
words;
because there's only so many breathes
and so many turns;
because I fear that it goes by so swiftly
I'll miss
whatever is lurking
if I'd take one more risk.

So, because all the things that I've said above;
because I forget what I said it was;
because I fear the swiftness of spring,
I will savor all moments
and do one last thing ...
Hello!!!
I've been gone a while ... I'M SORRY !! I'm sure I've missed some AMAZING poems while I've been gone and I can't wait to play catch up hahaha
I hope you enjoy !!

© Shane Leigh
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
The night sounds of fallen angels
Building stairways back to home
And the radio plays softly
Like a crooner left alone
As the night falls into the velvet shades
And beats down the bedroom door
Of all the visions that come to me
It's of one I'm hoping for

The postman closes up the station
And the buses get cleaned with rain
The asylum rests and barely breathes
As the countryside goes insane
Prophets speak of peace
On the dim hue of TV screens
Of all the moments that seem real
I still wait to watch my dreams

Imposed upon the westward wall
Are the silhouettes of weeping oaks
Swaying in the wind that talks
But they only tell me jokes
Swept beneath the silver stars
Sleeping on blanket clouds
Of all the space above me
I feel as if I can't get out

Headlights and passing trains
Sound like time passing by
Gone are the hearts inside
Like the years beyond my eyes
Sounds from the suburb city
Blow like sirens in my mind
Of all the thoughts within me
Only one freezes time
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
Blind Willie Johnson strums six strings a day
He drinks with the woman who taught him to play
He spells out his secrets in the songs that he sings
And breathes his life onto six rusty strings
Blind Willie Johnson brings home the blues
Blind Willie Johnson will wail the blues to you

The brothel he grew up in is tearing down the walls
He's got so many memories of those smokey halls
His mama could be there or she could be dead
He's got no pictures, just anecdotes instead
Blind Willie Johnson said he don't know a thing
Except for the truth in the blues that he sings

Blind Willie Johnson ain't really blind at all
He's just got those gray eyes from years of alcohol
He stares into the smoke of a Friday night crowd
Who stare back at him as his stories ring out
Blind Willie Johnson doesn't cover up a thing
Listen to his pain in the blues that he sings

"Blind Willie Johnson" reads the graveyard stone
Under the blanket of the sky, Willie rests alone
Though his voice is lost underneath the ground
The world will never forget Blind Willie's sound
Blind Willie Johnson sang the way he felt
He never complained about the hand he was dealt
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.

The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
       a
           beast
                      crashed
                                       in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.


"FERMIN!"






















He hurdles the stares
and explodes
when it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.

He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass,
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering

pavement

It


peters


off


into





the







street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





Hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.

"Podria haber sido peor"
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
CA Guilfoyle Feb 2017
These winter trees
cold and shouldering winds
their bending branches unhinge
falling limbs crash and break the snow
further still a secret world of mud and bulbs
that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns
and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms
this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
Chivalry rests under a lonely soul
No one seems to get where he goes
He doesn't sleep as he dreams
About beauty queens

He's a fire under ice
In search of paradise
When he finds it in the mist
He will always remember this

Nothing breathes here in the cold
He must die before he grows old
He can pull out your chair
And still pull your hair

His boasting comes from you
As he is proud of what you do
And when you smile and sway
It takes his breath away
Bee Dec 2017
Pathetic parasite
of a woman
perpetuates
love indefinitely,
a plague
upon hopelessly
romantic people.
A performance.
Smiling, always.
Hates
good news and
sleeps around,
sleeps
surrounded
in black light.
Wearing sunglasses.
Her day is
nighttime.
She breathes
aesthetic,
instagram posts
to survive.
But thrives, only.
The numb gummed
princess cries
every day and
yes. She said it,
even
a hundred times
but
language
proves flexible.
Same words mean
different things
and we
obviously don’t
speak the same
language.
I meant mine.
I didn’t know
she’d sell hers
for snow.
Fame.
Attention from strangers.

Welcome home.

Winter came and stayed,
love never lived here.
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
I'm a lying, cheating loser
With a gun pointed at my head
I still remember everything you said
Maybe I'll be worth more to you when I'm dead

There's a summer sunset I haven't seen
And it's haunting my dreams
The daylight breathes and blows away
The scent of you and everything you'll say

I can still hear the words
But I'm still unsure
If you really meant them
And why I resent them

Daylight, dead of night, any time
The thoughts don't stop in my mind
I think and talk about it too much
Everyone around me has heard enough
Jordan Rowan Nov 2015
As the choir breathes and fires freeze
As the sun kneels on the highways of what's real
There's a soldier of broken love
Standing on the King's Landing above

There's dim lights on his skin-tight
jeans, and it's reflected in Ray-Ban eyes
He stares off as the coffee drops
Into her cup and she doesn't even look up

And now is now somehow

The night cries as the winter dyes
The windows in frost and loss
The LED is bad company
Its arms aren't warm and it dies in storms

And now is now somehow

Words inside the head are never said
Life beyond the grave is never saved
The door is never opened by the wind
Love never fought for never begins
Joseph Miller Jun 2017
I feel
the infinite connection
lives and breathes
filling the forest with wind
and my heart with joy
in this timeless moment
beyond the mystery
the power of the universe
together in me
without a trace of doubt
the spark of truth burns bright
the warmth of the fire
will never die …
in the dust of stars
I am light that sees
a vision of love
glowing for eternity
However this Stag Tradition breathes thus far
Which works in all cases of Merriment
That Ring is no Joke; And Youth points a Star
To where your Heart will land in Sentiment
He only Encourages, Dreams and Promotes
As no Singer sang such Octave before
Mark him Stranger; Not a Contest he connotes
To challenge what had been Promised once more
Such tell, that Woolen Strings are Postulate,
A Theory already penned into Law
That Fixed Hearts are veined in Mutual Rebate
And Cupid signs both your names into Straw.
Go to Her. She has sung Poems better Written
This Bard resigns; Knowing he was Beaten.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Isabel Aghahowa Oct 2018
i look at you
you look up and away
you're ready to flee
from this deserted place
sow your seeds, grow your roots
somewhere else

i inhale the dust
circle the discoloured wood
the bitter taste of your drifting eyes
made the living room floor even colder than usual
as the air grew thin and sharp

i know it's real, your face is here
but it breathes
along with the tress
on the outside
separate from me
Emma Jul 2018
The land breathes so shallowly
It seems to snooze beneath a cloudless sky
Content and inhuman

Peaceful as a sleeping infant
Resting in blankets of cool air

As somewhere far off, a star explodes
With flaring light we'll never know

One push and time falls
Like soft and endless dominoes
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.

The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.

Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.  
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.

Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Autumn Quatern.

All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Joe Bradley Jul 2014
I
a flicker of warm light
and your face is all that I see.
Thunderclouds are silenced,
burned away and
my chest is left open to
our place under the opal sky.
The light is our soft romance
and our candlelit meal for two...

II
'Spiritui Sancto'
A Benedictine Monk
alone in
cold stone chambers sees
an ascending soul,
holy company,
a solitary light in all the
emptiness.
'Sed libera nos a malo'

III
Scorch-marks
drip
love - bites
drip
but please don't stop...
drip
In his lust,
Mould moments of my skin
and keep them
forever.

V
'Waxy fingertips!'
'Put that down,
PUT THAT DOWN!'
Mum told us
If you play with fire
you're going to get burned.

V
30 miles
they say
is the mathematical distance
you can see a flame in the dark

VI
This is the symbol of our nation.
'Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit'
This nine branched lamp symbolizes that our Israel.
has courage, those may be their Qassam rockets,
but those are our sirens.
and that humming you hear is our drones
over their heads.

VII
buuuuzzzzzzzzzz
What enchanting light...
zzzzzzzzz
what God are you? Oh
zzzzzzzzzzzz
wondrous beauty
zzzzz
what magic do you hold, what glory...
zzzzzzzzzz
come closer str.....

VIII
What died so I could read?
The tallow is a pig
the squealing embers
fat pig.

IX
here comes the candle to light you to bed,
And I curled, vulnerable to the shapes in the window
with my feet creeping further under the duvet.
The shadows were melted, cut, distorted on
my bedroom walls.
A primal evil will danced by the light of the flame
until I shut my eyes so tight,
that I slept it away.
here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

X
'No Jennifer, I just feel candlelight just adds a certain

ambiancé

to a room

No?'

XI
'Quickly, before it turns septic.'
'This wont hurt boy'
'The fire, pass the fire'
'Quarterise it quick or he won't last long'
'bite down hard my lad, bite down hard'
'AHHHHHRRRGGGGHHHH'


XII
Children hurtle down,
a Bombay slum to hear that.
'King Rama has returned,
light his path!'

The open sewers adorned in Ghee lamps
find such intense beauty as each quivering flame,
although so fragile, breathes the story
of the power of human spirit
unshakable against overwhelming odds.
*'The King of Ayodhya
Has Returned
Show his path for the Festival of Light!'
Perhaps Bread or Boon, Wine or Concubine
Will satisfy your Thirst for Hunger's sake
That Tomorrow lends her Hand for your Define
Are what your Efforts took to form your Make
See? How persistent that Winged ****** goes,
Pointing his Heads to where they don't belong
Or, at least, what the Dogma-Tribe bestows
Out of their Tent the Patriarch breathes strong
Really? Such Oppressive Moves they decide
To tell whether the Tune was Right or not
That Worm, called Ego, from Adam's Bite, Pride
Twisted Futures which their Love has forgot.
Easily that my Wheels can just frustrate
To know what's Right, but realise too late.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Lyn Senz 2 Aug 2017
Death is dreadful
hides in shadows
seethes and battles
grim the night

Beth is bedful
rides in saddles
breathes and prattles
trim and tight


©2013 Lyn
Caro Jun 2016
You lied about my sweet weight,
And you lied about my arches,
You lied about your love for the depressions in my skin,
You faked that sincerity
Of course you lied, because how else
Could you make love to my demise?

You lied about your moon and my tides,

But you tread upon on my land,
Cheer as my salt beats my rocks into sand, I never flinched at your hand,
I never quaked at your voice,
But I should’ve,
I would’ve if I had known that you would run my rivers dry,
That you would lick your lips and sigh

You’re sick in that the only thing I hold dear,
You craved to hunt.

You rip into the throat of my wild and reckless stag,
Watch it bleed as it cranes to see by whose hand it falls,  
As it breathes its last breath it catches sight of your thumb,
It knows, but consciously it forgets, because
It is with this abandon that I die for you daily,
And you **** me anyway.

I should’ve quaked at your voice,
Hearkened to the screaming that ripped away my choice,
You never loved my mountains, fountains of lies I threw back and back,
You lied about my ocean that you don’t care to explore,

It was critical and fatal,
You lied about my sweet weight and that I cannot forgive.
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