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ryn Nov 2014
Forget chivalry
Forget familiar nicety
Best tread carefully
I'm not my usual me

I'll not be the hero... Doing good
Simply because I'm in no mood
I'll go about my business
Steer clear, don't be careless

No sweet chirping of birds
Only sarcasm laden words
I'll wear no smile... Only smirks
Behind which may hold sharpened dirks

Don't waltz into my space
Like you know your place
Don't think I won't lash
Don't think I won't be brash

No 'Mister Niceguy'
Just let this day go by
With no alarms, no surprises
No incidents, no clashes

I might be back tomorrow
But today you must know
As I lace my steeltoed boot
Today I don my antihero suit
Steve Page Jul 2016
There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;

legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.
Inspired by Peter Jackson
Ashwin Kumar Sep 2018
You are a guardian of the law
Your duty is to keep crime at bay
And bring the criminals to justice
But, as I watch you,
Wearing a khaki uniform
And swinging your baton around
As you go about on your daily rounds
I am filled with such a rage
That I hold my hand up in prayer
And desperately wish that thoughts could ****
Because you would then be dead
Before anyone could even say "police"

You are a guardian of the law
Your duty is to keep crime at bay
And bring the criminals to justice
But instead, you abuse the immense power
That you wield in your iron fist
As people come out in hordes
To protest on various issues
You swing your baton around
As wood clashes against flesh
Democracy dies a thousand deaths
However, your lust is unsatiated
A pistol replaces the baton
As it rains bullets
Bundles of cash change hands
As you quietly pocket them
You yell to the world
That justice has been served
Even as the bodies pile up
And Humanity waves a white flag
As she bows to your iron fist
This is my rant against the brutal and corrupt police force of India.
RCraig David Apr 2013
From my "Bestifreadaloud" series about a girl that got away that Spring because I waited too long.

Part 1 The Past
A case made now faded of a simple place, a time, a space,
a perfect moment let pass in haste.
Clasped in clashes,
brash in passion,
rose from ashes,
desire fires every second's essence as it passes,
a ton amasses.
Fast bloom,
Blast!! Boom!!
The past relapses.
Notably lesser song notes float hopeful, emotional ends and remember whens.
Sent us spinning, then spin adrift again.
Sprung in spring, we fell,
Some are reasons to recall.
Summer's season breaks, we fall.
Flocks fly down and fallen callings fade to Winter's south.
How fate related still debated.
Re-Sprung the next Spring' rise, chance misses fate this date.
I weighed and debated and waited too late

PART 2
Still all these years alone, the "one", the "purpose" unsought.
Capturing thoughts,
The ones I caught and tossed,
Things I was taught and lost.
Proof framed and embossed for a cost.
Coping through the unabashed hopes to one day cash in on all this stashed trash I clash with.
"Smash it?" ...the thought crossed.  

Unimpressed by my evidence of self-less requests,
pursuit of self-evident truth proves a most ruthless abuse.
Even less are my skewed protests for “selfish quests" at the behest of the very strangers I sought to impress.
I digress.

The years compound, bossed around, kicked down but soundly employed,
I turn cold, blaming Freud for defining my non-violent, intolerance threshold on page 23 of some textbook I should have resold.
I go silent. Grow old.
"While your whining and shunning your shinning,
They're sinning and winning." Bad timing.

Girls come, go and follow this shallow, hollow fellow on the run.
While preyed upon...I paid a ton. I play.
The sum never more than the cost of rented fun.
Without insight but consent forthright,
my 30 years of intent were spent in a fortnight.
Still bent on shedding every pound of one first-moment's ton I lost not won.
Can't buy happy for less than the cost of your one-ness.
While prayed upon...paid a Son, they say.

part 3

Ohh the wait....
Ohh the weight...
My set-adrift-soul's mending depends solely on tossing
lost cause cost-spending into thrift.
Well it's a beginning.
All the amassed notes, quotes, boat-floaters,
and sailboat hopes spun in one 1-ton loss moment sprung that one Spring.

Now and again, it creeps in,
like slowly growing stinging nettles around a squelched,
once steaming scorched dream kettle.
Still stays packed away in my heart's darkest parts.
Blurred by time and place,
this burning, misplaced furnace space lays in wait.

Such compiled cold-case denial files from other life trials, lay piled in haste on my proverbial, "less pressing" messy desk of "not ready to face."
Too scared or daring to date, try to relate or contemplate
how to best equate this great weight.
Wait?... Wait.
Elation brewing from pursuing future fruition or ensuing
pure ruin gates these fates from moving, year-to-date.
For the sake of trying or dying forsaken,
another day awake is another day gained or taken.

I found her again,
the town's she's in
but she is taken and then
She learns of my wait, it's weight, my fate, she's shaken,
another ton amasses again. I pretend.
Lay down.
Drown the score of sounds surrounding.
Furthermore, slow the pulse-pounding abounding your core.
Fill your breath.
What is less is gone, tomorrow more.  

by R. Craig David-Copyright 2012
Eryri Sep 2018
Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.

Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.

But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.

But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.

Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!
pigment clashes with pigment
and I, the lazy tyrant, try to pull
a crown from their oblivion.

you asked.
Onoma Oct 2018
my illusions

create gods...

which beget gods.

they keep steeling

one another's thunder.

never was there such

bold-faced entitlement.

silvery sworded severances

charge the air...hand to

hand clashes trying to

advance on cloudy territory.

it's too electric, and appetites

too whet...illusion's gonna

go.

i/they can taste it.
Green goomba backpacks,
Extended busses,
The kids only ride one stop,
Folk music in my headphones,
Playing with the hopeful heat,
Of rainy day rides.
Where are we going?
On the one driving the bus knows,
And even they have their stop.
Societal soliloqal differences,
But here we are,
Cultural clashes melt away,
With,
"You can have my seat."
Falling into souls with just sideways glances,
Cases of, "what did you want to be when you grow up?"
****,
What did I want to be?
A longing nostalgia of places in memories that never existed,
Luckily,
The bus has no rearview mirrors.
Phoenix is grey,
So is Reno too,
Hawaii had it's days,
All have their riders,
And their drivers,
The stop is requested,
But I don't need to get off.
As he waited for the bus at the stop,
The light reflected raindrops,
And for a moment,
Even if he was late,
He was alright.
farthest star Dec 2018
Twist and turn, avoid the blackberry vines
as I
                   descend
                                 down
                  the
staircase
As my sneakers touch the freshly cut grass,
I run past the thorns and shrooms
the atmosphere filled with soft piano notes
but my heart pounds like a drum aching in suspense
the gravity of eonic stars demanding to be seen
while I pray I remain hidden from everyone

For once in my tedious, shelled life I let myself
Breathe
in the humid air of summer
Breathe
in the midnight ocean breeze
Breathe
in the smell of his skin
Breathe
in the first taste of freedom.

The ocean waves back and brings forth
  alluring new minerals and crystals for me to indulge
The stars are laid out upon a swirl of ebony and indigo clouds
Tonic daywalkers and the king-queen owls of midnight
but we are neither yet birds of a feather
I hear the whistle and barreling of a cargo train
we watch as the tracks screech and embers fling into the air like
hysterical fireflies, O what sights to see!

Time clashes it's whip against the fantasy of this world
for mourning is to come, as anticipated
But I look into your eyes and I see the ocean and it's gems
endless and shimmering with affection and acceptance
I press my sneakers between the railings and screech
embers fling from my mouth for I have found new love
a new beginning for me to take on.
I don't regret a thing, my love. The distance and the time between us will never change my mind about you.
Anya Oct 2018
Category 2,
not too bad...
Swirling, whirling
Pounding, hounding
Rolling, Spinning
But
Manageable

Category 3...
Freight train,
coming from every direction
Major, but nothing new

Just an hour
Hold on,
We'll pull through

Pressure suddenly
DROPPING
Ears constantly
POPPING

Category 4,
...
Too late
My father's sharp
Breath

Pieces of homes
ripped off like flakes of skin
Leaving the ground barren
Only the bear bones
possibly remaining
Till they too,
are forcefully wrenched
apart,

A majestic structure,
now reduced
simply,
to *******

Mother nature
hurling trees
in her
wrath

All-
...
Gone,
in
a
matter
...
of seconds

The roar
mirroring the one,
in my head-telling me to
get
Get OUT
NOW

The world...
a symphony
of rage, ferocity, passion
Violent reds,
splotches of
orange and fuchsia
That,
I unfortunately,
seem
trapped within
As the clashes and roars
Waves and cutting wind
Swirl around me, I wonder,
is this,
what an insect feels like,
stuck in a washing machine?

Come to bed,
my father calls
I go,
reluctantly,
to the pillows and covers
that should be warm and soft,
but to my touch,
appear frigid
stiff

My eyeballs
practically popping
until at
some unknown time,
they shut
and I
SINK
Sink
sink

...

...

Sunlight streams in,
A dream?
Perhaps...
Possibly...
Maybe...
Oh, if only...

Unable to contain the hope,
I leap up to my window-      And freeze

Debris-
not trees,
not homes,
not anything
Just a mass of objects rendered useless and stamped with the label of
-DEBRIS
...
My father says,
No more running water

My neighbor's little blue
shed,
...
in shambles

Yet,
as I step outside
After what seems,
like a long arduous battle
I was an unlucky
Bystander
caught in the middle
of

Yet,
Despite the
churning feeling
in my stomach          The broken battered *******,
the ruined property       The, miserableness
Of the situation

But then again...
As my father,
fervently
prays
praises
Thanks the Lord
...
My mind,
is blown away
As I stand,
In awe
as my eyes take in the majesty
of those few,
solitary,
hundred year old houses
...
still standing
To clarify-I was not in hurricane Michael, this is only my attempts at imagining what happened coupled with you-tube videos.
catherine rogan Dec 2018
I cant remember my dream.
I cant breathe.

Her thin painter hands open the door to the stairwell, the smell of fresh paint replaces that of a spring rain.  Skipping the clean stairs two at a time, she reaches the studio.  Walls of glass flank the empty white hallways that weave in and out, remains of torn masking tape shrivel on the walls like dying flowers.  The door looks like it belongs to a prison, too familiar.  

The sun barely moved, if at all, outside the window.
Tracing the outline of his body, she let the colors tell the story.


A stroke of shadow

Walking to the center of the room, limbic resonance.  A vaguely masculine figure melts into the painting.  It's silent as he dies.  

Her feet hit the pavement.  From the familiar soft dirt path through the woods, she crosses the courtyard to the doorway of the stairwell.  Memories flood her mind under the dull lamplight amidst the rustling dead leaves.  

Moving a stone from the crumbling wall of the school, she places her letters to you beneath the rubble.

Blinding white

I'm holding the keys but I can't find the right one
and the sun burned itself down,
the rain receded into the clouds

nothing is the same


He lies down in the stream
water rushing over him
relaxing, water replaces air

everything is different now.

Blistering Blue

I can't remember my last dream.
Out of space, out of time.  Unnatural surroundings.  
Muffled screams float in from the hallway.
Golden seam of light from the doorway saturates illuminated stitches.
He couldn't remember the last time this had happened.   When he almost lost himself in the pain---
It's like seeing her for the first time, over and over.

Suddenly his hands were covered in their blood.

But I remember them,
telling me to be quiet, not to fight it.  


Blush of Crimson

I've lost concept of time,
time to be quiet
I need to schedule my time
need to go away
Ophelia covered in glass
veins like kite string
he breathed in the water
I never said goodbye.

You know that feeling like everything's the end of the world
Next to the campfire, stars carved into her upper thighs
crossed like constellations as she moved closer to the flame,
gaze drawn up
The flight before the fall

He hasn't yet hit the ground, green flannel still in suspension.  Dew collecting on the leaves slide down to the earth and surround his body.
His eyes are already closed, a moment of vulnerability.  Still on the surface, cold blue water saturates his cuts and seams.

For the touch of a vanished thought caressed the back of her mind, like birds balanced on a live power line.  Digital ripped walls, lights leading to the intervention of the other side of the ghost city, building brick school, and infinite nowhere.  She lit her candle in the studio, watching the wick burn down and melt the wax, a ring of liquid growing from the center.  Strange to drown in heat.  It seems there's a wall of glass between her mind and this supposed reality, without any sound but her breathing and the occasional crack from the slowly burning candle.  She mixes her paint and doesn't think about anything.  The sun sets and rises and sets and rises again.  Sitting in the same place, the candle frozen in perpetual burning.  The room was clean.  And she was painting.  And the birds on the wire gently cawed against a white sky.  The echo returned to the blank room.

I remember that night she stopped answering my calls.  She doesn't pick up anymore.  Curled up in the doorway scrawled with tick marks from when we grew extra inches overnight, phone clutched to my chest.  I looked up and saw old Chinese fortunes folded above the doorway, hot tears spilling down my cheeks.  A feeling of helplessness, guilt.  If she answered I would have driven up there, taken her home.
It was 2am when I left.  I grabbed the keys from the counter, my coat, some chocolate, and a book.  walking to the car, I could see my breath suspended in the air.  Frost coated the sides of the windshield but I didn't stop driving.  I forgot my mittens.  There was a foot more of snow as I ran towards the old door to her dorm, yanking the handle hard enough that the lock slipped and I didn't need an ID to get in.  Warm stale air enveloped me as I gazed over empty security desk under fluorescent light.

Muted Undertones

The painting took up a whole wall of the room.  There wasn' any money to frame it, so it would have to always stay here.
Sunlight leaked in from the window like a steading dripping faucet against a clogged drain.  Her hair was turning blonde again, like when they were younger.
Humming, she was
remembering his hands
as they gripped the wheel loosely
at 5am in the morning
reflective and
coated in glass
in the back of
his black pickup
the sun slowly
bled from behind the clouds
dripping like honey
illuminating blonde
eyelashes,
the dirt on
the windshield.
warm golden
air filled the truck
as he turned the heat on
one hand on
the wheel
the other
reaching backwards to
twisting metal,
broken limbs.
Connected below
the surface
of broken glass.

In between the falling leaves, she whispered 'see you' and kissed his eyelids as he fell asleep.

Neutral Tones

I knocked on her door.  Her roommate answered.  He hadn't seen her at all that day.  I've grown indifferent about my own problems.  So I walked in her room and picked up the scissors from the corner.  Put on her coat for her.  Walked her through the snow to the car.  Cecilia sat between the driver and passenger seat, hand in mine.  I wish I could heal her arm through our layers of jackets, taken some of the sadness away.   We didn't say anything as empty pavement and trees passed in every living moment.

I was thinking about him.

Occasionally we touch, but only in passing.  Shadows, we cover from the heat.  

Ridicule gnaws at these connection, scrapes paint strokes until the threat snaps, the pillars bow
And we take shelter in the cleansing water.  The clashes of flesh.   The segregation of interactions for fear of having ours be known by anyone at all.

(But still they talk, recite the script)
'Cecilia tried to **** herself and her clothes need to be washed'
(Look now, do you see it?)
'It looks like her soul
left her eyes'


Purple Haze

I knew it was a nightmare.  It's stuck to me.  These alien emotions; like a sickness or a burn, interdepartmental rhythms of my brain I'll never fully grasp... not artistic or poetic.  or anything fake and useful.  Just nebular, inhibiting, distressed.
I'm always trapped in something.  A heaviness.  A natural declining, dissipation, entropy.
A brutal and sterile resistance, inviolate and soft to the touch; a lapsing despondency.

He was the sea that he drowned in.  And he was the riverbed in the trees, too.
Swept in whirlpools and ripples and age rings, whispers of fallen leaves in the lucid water.  
Silenced by hushing rage of stone cut rapids.


Ultraviolet Love


He's not seeing normally.  Through the rippling surface her face is reflected into a million moving pieces.
Lines of tape surround his body, they shrivel in the heat of the sun.  This is not natural death.  There are no birds circling overhead, the stream continues to trickle over the rocks.

I drove her home from college started to run a bath.  The hot water faucet turned all the way.  I put my feet in, trying to avoid eye contact with the parallel lines.  Familiar to what i had stitched before.  Pale blue - green water kissed our skin as she closed her eyes.  

We are not creatures of visible light.
Christ took a spear to the breast
You can take one too remember that
When they crucify you.
We walk upon this land
He walk on water and turned it to wine  
Yet we know not what what we do
Remember that when they crucify you.

And the sea parts,
And the clouds make way,
And the land trembles,
And the thunder roars loud
As to the lightning clashes
Its the most horrific story that we've heard to date.

His death, painted on a child's face.
Anointed like David and those before him
And those restless eyes,
Who tears have baptized them
My fathers watching over me.

And we the people hack each other down,
As we have done to our brother Abel
Have we not tired of the mark of Cain
have we forgotten we were brothers
Have we forgotten we breathe and bleed the same
I still hear the horrid hellish sounds

Voices that spread love and peace fall on deaf ears
Till innocent blood has spilled too much
Shall we heed or glare till it happens near
How much more should we slaughter
Paul Glottaman Nov 2018
All my little life I've been lonesome
waiting for permission to feel like someone.
I've taken late night cab rides to nowhere
looking for something I still can't describe and it's unfair.
Have you ever felt like life was living you?
Have your days felt forever rather than few?
Have you ever wondered when you'll find out?
Have you started as a song and ended as a shout?
And my ears are ringing with the clashes
of late night cigarette ashes.
I'm trying to look at my hobbys
as something that'll save me.
But I know it hasn't worked lately.
I'm writing discarded definitions
in tired lines of worthless ambition.
I've spent half my time in finding,
but came up empty in reason.
All the endless searching is hurting
and lack of cause is my demon.
I'm tired of waiting on sunrise
and I'm always finally belonging when I'm leaving.
Kismet is ******* and I'm wondering how long until I get it?
I got six puzzle pieces from the wrong set
and making them fit isn't making ends meet.
I'm trading mental health for gas receipts
and living just to be seen.
I'm trying not to think of hope in a vacuum,
but I'm lost for reasons why not to.
I'm not looking for favors,
or easy ways out for good behavior.
I just wanna put down this hammer
cause the noise is making me crazy.
iCRY Nov 2018
Let us play words with our words like swords that clashes in hordes of warriors, gnashing every breath and life. Let us write poems that arouses roses, spout curses beneath the leaves and cut it in half, losing what we have, we value what we love, forget when we have enough. Fight me, ****** your sword in me as I've trusted you with my sword. I fought giants and dragons, gods and demons, hordes and legions. yet for what reason we continue to fight? For what reason we continue to follow the light? Have I hoped too much? Or lies ate me as such. But at least **** me with your arrow and behead me with your sword.
astraea Aug 2018
my treasure map on your skin
-soft stars and dots,
i connect them with my fingers,
and they become constellations.

and your voice, my fingers,
playing a soft melody,
as i drown in you.

a thousand dancers -we watch them,
and i ask them to dance for you,
they swirl and laugh and then
they disappear.

i wait for the music to start before i say my words,
because then, only then,
maybe then they’ll be worth it.

if only i could convince you to stay,
because you make me feel lonely
-suddenly i can hear the soft moan of the sea,
see the waves dance to it’s voice.

and now i ache,
because as time passes,
your song grows weak.

your voice and my song, it’s being swallowed
among all those other ones,
more beautiful than my call to you.

and now that you’re gone, i hear them
those drums of the sea,
the angry clashes that make the storm that brought me to you.

and now i hear it, the sorrowful moans,
beneath the soft songs that all those lovers sang,
that day we fell in love.
based on the song mermaid (by train)
Rhiannon Oct 2018
We alternate between the ashes,
Of a Father in past tense,
With blood, bone and family clashes,
A wolf pack of a different scent.

A hierarchy deformed in nature,
My eye colour confined,
To those who left us a broken hater,
Slaving away to time.

Our fortunes forbidden to show and tell,
You'll find it in a luxury drink,
Thoughts and feelings your face repels,
So you let the words sink.

A carrier of the family gene,
One we do not accept,
As we mop the floor of the dirt and gore,
then carry on with all we have left.

— The End —