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King Panda Aug 2017
an abnormality—
deep prints left by
heavy boots filled with water
and washed away by
summer’s end.

a metal
sensation denude of
coldness—swelled up again
and again from life’s ***** driving

I suppose you couldn’t
help but steal away.
you (now endangered
ghost) left your
trace fossils moted,
gray and cold.
our memories of you
divorced from the
mountain’s path—
a wound raised
higher and higher
to a crystal peak
where your soul
was plucked cleanly out.

we built cairns to
mark your going
and stories to signal your
inevitable re-arrival.
we welcomed the heavy contact
of fire felt in the
middle of the chest
and watered
arches cut beneath
the eyelids.
we felt the frigidness of
lit feet gliding
above mountain frost
and set forth your
eternal journey
to the solar eclipse.
but somehow
we lost your trace fossils
frozen in the rock.

where did you go?
who found you?

these are the questions
of extinction of the
physical body
but the soul is
unmatched in
its uncertainty.
if it exists, it leaves
upon time of death
and reenters when looked
at through shielded glass.

a mountain
view, black and polished
by an unfurled moon. its
brother sun not far
RIP, my dearest friend. You will be forever missed.
Left Foot Poet Jun 2017
I, (Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself)

how I would, honor this with ecstasy joy effervescent,
the simplest of methodologies, if only I,
reasoned how one safely permits  
to love myself, if only I,
knew how to love an

to self love well,
not a university course,
no simple answers like thirst, yet how I thirst,
hunger, burst, curse for this peculiar wisdom, please,
instinct me to navigate murderous shoals of take but give

who teaches this to the children?

I, parents, teachers, not ****** or pastors or
TV the great substitute for all of the above,
myself is not a selfie, no glorying got in I,
I, burdensome, never comprehended,
love thy neighbor better, love actually, no mere pretense,
if well executed, perhaps is when the trapeze line is at last

cleanly indistinguishable,

your I, my I,
both wicks will be joined, brighter lit for it,
one flame, one godlike burning, fusing,
with neither consumed, wax fusing,
but teaching easy loving
to explode the


9:24am EST
airborne over the Western US of A
see I, published May 31
gracie Mar 2018
Shake me

Til the sad falls away
Til my heart breaks so cleanly
That you can staple it together
With love or
Some kind of metal
That won't melt in the scorching

Hold me

Til my hands stop
Til warm clouds of
Breath escape my lips
And drift up into the
Smoking atmosphere
Between our

Shatter me

Til glass scatters across the
Til no amount of superglue or
Soft words
Can fix the wonderful
Damage you leave
onlylovepoetry Jul 2016
for Sally, Bex and Tonya, Denel and my beloved


gods do not seek forgiveness,
or comprehension,
desertion, desecration, ascension
or condemning condescension

but how how they crave
just a good conversation,
to get a word in edgewise,
a nice chat,
entrée à, la tête-à-tête,
entre deux, deluxe-amis

a casually talking,
absent of
words of need and beseech,
reason and causality,
and no I or We pronouns,
sans enunciations and annunciations,
false hopes for incarnations, incantations,
set asides for life's grievous aches
all human requests, and some of God's commandments
for now, set aside,

just a talk,
some repartee,
but mostly an open ear lent,
an early morn quiet listen
over tea (he/she) and coffee (me),
paying attention to
both sides of an interactive story

as recompense for my willingness to be,
his engaged counter party,
my mourning gloomier cloudiness,
quick exchanged for instant,
rising sunshine warming glorious

my vista
of a bay dancing
to Tchaikovsky Swan Lake ballet music,
deftly inserted between
an Agnus Dei and an Ave Maria

mood music he said,
and we chuckled,
he/she was god and orchestrated
my tastes,
Adele et Dudamel,
comprehending my undesirable apprehension,
by granting my needy wish for
poetic inspirational composition contentment

all exchanged,
for just a good listen,
no judgements, in either direction

I am the god of love,
the one who makes you weep,
when you study your beloved's rising chest,
each uplifted breast heaving,
a confirmation blessing,
that her life is present
for at least the next second,
ready for your magi adoration

be not fearful,
this day we talk only,
as I pass by,
I have no business to conduct,
on your island of sheltering redoubt,
but to engage and unburden
for even gods
are required to confess,
and aging godheads do adore
a human shoulder
upon to rest,
a great invention,
(If I may say so myself)
and to whom better to address
than my only love poetry
poète personnelle

here he off-guards me
with a favorite injection,
Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings,
music so sweet that it never fails
to weaken my knees,
sweeping my eyes unto weeping
priming me with this first coat of
sounds so elementary soothing

he half-bows before me and says,

forgive me human, for I have sinned

in Dallas and Nice,
just this past week,
with forays here and there,
doing god's work

read your bitterness and struggle,
anger and forgiveness all in one crust,
furious curses and wails so plaintive,
my heavenly musicians weep from jealousy,
at the cries emanating from the fired fury song
of human hearts torn and love plundered

I am the god of love


the god of pain and all that is the


(and to make me better understand,  
Schindler's List score, so sweetly,
he plays for me,
to clarify the atmosphere,
that death and love -
and the courage of understanding,
so oft go hand in hand)

write me a love poem for me,
no hymn or sonnet do I require,
for love is essence of forgive,
there is no perfect union,
that cannot stand,
with out this emotion of
conciliatory intermediation

tell me you understand
that the scales
of bereft befallen,
disparate chance interrupting randomized,
must periodic perforce
sometimes weigh more,
than the good of simple

balance tip that creative god spark within,
of which you write,
away from my bloodied, unsightly hand

write me one more love poem
a frisson semi-sweet and cleanly neat,
of good things sad,
but worthy of remembrance

you are not the first for this bequest to receive,
other poet's before and after,
will Jacob-wrestle with my angels,
battling to find the...

no matter

"my love to thee is sound sans crack or flaw"^

let your love poem
to me
be of whole healing,
for these disarrayed feelings
cannot forever persist,
the perfect balance you desire
is not on your Earth existent,

these cracks and flaws must and will come

and yet

love poems
will be our common language

and then he/she left,
leaving this poem behind,
born from my mind, yet,
carved on my skin,
written with the nib of my rib,
sealed and signed,
future undefined,
but dated upon my
cleansed hand's lifeline,
hand held outstretched
as if to say

“and yet"
^ "my love to thee is sound sans crack or flaw".
William Shakespeare

Sunday, July 17th 2016
Anno ab incarnatione Domini
Wk kortas Feb 2018
Once (not that long ago, perhaps, though we likely know better)
The summers were languid, liquid things without end
Each day fully equipped with a high sky,
The blue so all-encompassing, so all consuming,
That lazy fly ***** seemed to disappear
As if God had scooped them up like so many routine grounders.
We played, in a field long since abandoned
To crownvetch and scrub grass,
Twenty one--five points for those *****
The celestial powers had bobbled
And we were able to catch on the fly,
Three points if we took it on the hop,
One if we safely trapped it before it rolled stone dead,
And so our Julys and Augusts fluttered by,
Every bit lazy and aimless as butterflies or knuckleballs,
With the exception of the de riguer tribunals
In which the assembled debated and determined
Where bounce ended and roll began,
Where shoestring catch was reduced to single-point trap.

It all came to an end, of course;
At some point, we crossed a line
(Undelineated but firmly established nonetheless)
Where it was no longer advisable to attempt this at home,
Mere joy no longer an acceptable substitute for proficiency.
Find something else to do, kid, we were told,
And the bats went to the back of the closet,
The gloves and ***** consigned to a spot
(Where we would surely remember to find them)
Behind some canned tuna and Christmas lights,
The fastball blurring by us now,
The field a warren of subdevelopments and cul-de-sacs.

And so you’d forgotten,
Or perhaps just suppressed, the whole notion;
There were, after all, a gaggle of coupon books
With return addresses from an ever-changing confusion of banks,
Sales on pasta and milk, other fees and foundations
Politely requesting ones attention,
So you couldn’t be sure
That it was really the crack of an old thick-handled Adirondack,
Or the comforting thwick of the ball landing squarely
In the pocket of a Wilson A-2000,
Yet when you wandered to the window and peered out,
There they were, looking straight up at you,
Waving their hands like childlike Prosperos
Gesturing to reveal some fairytale glen.  
Come on back, they are saying, and you go down,
Powerless to resist, even if you had wanted to,
Returned instantly, seamlessly to a time and place
Where a shout of I got it! I got it!
Was all the prerequisite or vitae that was required,
And you are unable to bring even mock-edginess to your voice
When you insist I got that cleanly on the hop.  That’s three points.
The Great American Game is back in Florida and Arizona--not that it ever actually left.
Graff1980 Dec 2018
History is a pendulum
swinging perilously
back and forth
over our shared humanity.

Slicing bitterly
at the air above me
with a visceral hatred
for all the good things
I hoped we could be.

Kinder to hater,
forgiving to denier
loving to crier
sharper it slices
cutting the air cleanly
leaving me feeling it keenly.

Wild rhetoric
going viral,
virus of ******* words
spreading like the plague,
a poisonous and bubonic phage.
I struggle to stop it,
this rising tide
of tired tirades,
republican charades
turning different skin shades
into the enemy.

These neighbors are our family,
but the pendulum sees them
separated by the serrated blade,
exhausted by the hate
and violence that blazes.

History returns to sicken
my sorrowfully stricken
Classy J Sep 2015
welcome to classy productions, this is the beginning of my classy movement, so enjoy this ride with me, and please keep your bias opinions to yourself, thank you. Yeah started from the bottom unlike, I ain't no phoney fake, I have a for you all; spoiler alert it may be honest and hurt your ignorant minds. This is my interlude but we haven't been formally introduced, my name is classy j, it's my privilege to make some sick mind blowing rhymes just for you. Grew up in a broken home, only child all alone, yeah just me and my mom, if I could go back and change things I would, but life sadly life has no rewind. I only have the road in front of me, so I  chase it, trying to find out my destiny, trying to figure out the real me. Started life, grasping for life, I've been a fighter my entire life, because I don't take **** from others. Left with my ironic name, left with a messed up family, left to walk the darkness of life, trying so hard to see. Life happens man, humans are idiotic fiends, survival of the fittest in the war zone of life, no where to hide, no way to find cover. Bonafide native that has a talent for the creative, not an alcoholic, not some drug addict, but yet society and police doesn't seem to want to accept me yet. They tell me to go to nativia, quickly let's do some trivia, to see how really stupid you all are. Illegal genocidal aliens mad about other foreign aliens, natives were here first, so I don't want to hear you fret. If you don't like it leave, when become a discriminated minority, let me know about it the next time you go by my bar. You have no clue what true classiness is, because indigenous people still are alive  and are now ready to challenge your privileged view. We used to be quiet and contempt with taking all your lie's and *******, but now we are ready to fight for what we stand for, so beware the upcoming storm. You tried to **** us, you tried to make us white, but it didn't work out for you, government you may be ******, but we will no longer be your jews. This is reality, you've been warned, it doesn't need to become a race war, cause if it came to that, would you be prepared to combat against our final form. This is a real issue, that you can no longer hid in your dark past. It's time to stop your lie's, it's time for honesty, it's time for class, so sit your white assess down, because we are now in session. You lucky this is just an interlude, because I'm not close to being finished with you, you may not enjoy this, but I'm having a blast. Evidence all over the place, why go to court, when you should just tell your guilty confession. NO more half fast apologies and no changes being made after that? What is up with that? I ain't having that! No way to truly slice this issue cleanly, because I promise there will be some after math in this habitat you bunch of tardy cats.
Tommy Randell Aug 2017
I'm a man who waits for buses
Sitting peacefully and calm
I have no fidgets and no fusses
I just quietly fold my arms
Watching everything that rushes
And what is wrong with that?

I'm the same in Pubs and cafes
Often seated in a corner
I am one who likes to gaze
Not in any haste to order
Just watching other people's ways
And what is wrong with that?

I read warning signs and heed them
I locate my nearest exits
I am usually dressed for the season
Knowing what weather is expected
Such things give my life meaning
And what is wrong with that?

My chosen role and alter ego
Are of course a subterfuge
No-one must ever guess or know
What it is I really do
The purpose I keep out of show
And what is wrong with that?

I make plans to move people on
When I see their time has come
Cleanly and with deft precision
I stop everything they suffer from
I see this as my divine mission
And what is wrong with that?

The ones that are a bundle of nerves
The ones bumping into others
The ones to whom it never occurs
Their presence only clutters
The peace and order of the world
I, Death decide what is wrong with that!
The Dybbuk Apr 22
I almost forgot what it felt like.
You see, I avoid coming home as much as I can,
but there's always the blue moon. There's nowhere else to go sometimes.
And this time it happened.
The conversation about how my day was, boring details and all.
And the sounds of crickets, gently chirping in the woods.
The warm light of the chandelier.
A word flits across the dinner table and into the air, and there is sudden silence.
Everyone knows it was a mistake, innocent.
But  I sit at the dinner table and say nothing,
One part glad that it isn't me and one part guilty for the other.
I pretend I can't hear screaming.
I pretend that there isn't this feeling,
I had almost forgotten,
Squatting on the mashed potatoes.
It stares me in the face and whispers through the crackling in the air.
It speaks louder as my little sister says,
"Pass the salt."
It laughs at the irony,
and the illusion of safety sits,
split cleanly in half on the floor,
while the dog, oblivious, licks up the scraps.
arielle Jul 2018
staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?
not entirely sure if i'm doing this right but yeah
Jasmin Joy Dec 2018
I reached here an hour ago.
I am waiting in the queue to reach the door.
I wished to see what had happened to me.
Requested to the angel; to watch my death.
I was startled to see my wife.
I never expected this, ever in my life.
Everyone had left my house.
I stared at my lonely spouse.
My funeral was greatly over.
I saw it from my new bower.
Suddenly she(alone)washed her face.
with a bottle of water, of ice.
She took her phone and made a call.
Slanting to the pillow near the wall.
She said,'' All that was a success'',
smiling; I realised my death was a process.
She poisoned me, in the bread.
A silent attack, poison all spread.
It was she a wise lass..
I'm the poor, innocent ***.
I was her best teacher,
She is my one and only traitor.
And that was her brave move.
I watched her so keenly
And she is cheating me cleanly.
Now she is with her secret lover
All the mystery is now over.
It was too late to understand her.
Time is out, to be judged
The images of her dodged.
I will not go to get her.
I almost forgot her
I'm no more a husband. Now
Her soul is sinking into new
True lovers, in this world are few.
An imagination.. Got inspired for a story written by my friend.
Door refers to the door for judgement in heaven.
(Alone) - The wife is alone in the room.
Dodged- the images that he was seeing was fading away
Sometimes you have to travel to
The underworld to know what is-
What is ordinarily  not believable.

Early in 1974 I found myself in the
Tenderloin district of San Francisco.
This is the down and out area akin
To New York's  City's  Bowery yet
It has its own distinct character.  I
Belonged there as one of it's newest
Misabthropes.  I had checked into the Y
On Turk Street.  Early in the evening
I went out to look  ove rthe neigborhood
I went down Turk toward Market
Think it was Lyric St  that i turned on-it
Was early dark and about midway down
I came across a man going through a
Trash can.  He seemed to know what
He was doing as he kept pulling out
Sandwiches  cleanly wrapped and uneaten.
It was  as though they had been   just
Left for him.and I thought at the time well
Least I shall not starve as he offered
me one and so we got to talk a little -then
We went back to my  he said
He was going to show me something
When we got there
He pulled a small transistor radio out-
It was bare of its plastic cover; and then
He turned it on and deployed a tool, I
Think a small ***** driver and began
To change the stations with it -changing
Them rapidly.  At first I could not under-
Stand but then I began to hear a sequence
A story.  It was my life with great detail.
It was fully coherent and as I listened I
Do not know how long I understood a
Deep truth that there was indeed more
Much more to the universe than was
Comprehended by my little philosophy.
My friend got up and left my room as
Soon as he had seen I understood what
He had  to shown me; I never saw him again
But-Somehow I knew the Universe had a
Secret auditor of my thoughts and knew
All I had ever done.  Magical was Reality
I knew then that life was strange and I
Was a stranger in the land and given
The gift of knowing it.  Suddenly all the
Miracles of Jesus, all that He did and what

Was done to Him seemed so much easier
To believe-even His death and His rising

But I do not want to say then my life became
Easy  A gift from the underworld has to be
Paid back Just ask the god father or President
Trump.for that matter.  It is not a panacea- that
Is a small town in Florida on the gulf.   I went
Through it once. along the coastal route  
From the  causeway the setting sun
Seemed to speak of a peace that is forever
I wanted to=
Stay but thought I had appointments to keep
-maybe I should have thought better but...
That is life sometimes it shows you somethings-
You can't understand nor the reason why- when
You cannot make proper use of them-  You get
The winning lottery ticket then you lose it.
I guess the Good Book said it best: Lean not
Unto your own understanding but trust  in  God

With your whole heart.. mind and soul an if that
Don't work you can always Give UP but that is
Not so easy either....................God Bess Us
For Still Our Advocate Lives
S Smoothie Sep 2018
Another tradgedy
I scrape myself up off the floor yet again
pooling what Left I can catch of me before it seeps into the surrounds
dignity and faith these are all I have
even hope seems a mountain too sheer to climb
the next time I’ll pray for death
or some reason to explicate it all
what use is there when fractals
are all that remain of my higher self
a mass of confusion
of bits repeated
over and at different angles
too shattered to come together cleanly
or even orderly
a disarrangement of shards
shoved into a dark sheath
labeled Eve
to be used and abused
trapped by patriarchy
of the foul unrighteous kind
she endures because she can
she is strength
she is in all things grand
but one weakness
is all it takes
to wash my blood off your hands
and when all the bits of her are grains of sand
only faith can keep her together
as she crumbles to oblivion
defiant and stoic they try to delete her
still bits of her remain
and conscience
will engulf
the sowers
of injustice
and her birth
is her day of clarity
outside of deception
She will be renewed
And in the universe
she will conspire
once again
to prove the depth of her strength
and return The rites of love
to those it was
stolen from.
SJG Sep 1
I know too well,
There's nothing in our hereafter.
Born on a wave in chains
Etcetera, etcetera.

All the gulls perching along the pier
Are screeching "call me".
All of the sky
Is half-filled with blood.

Somewhere in the desert
Is a broke cathode TV
With "only god's love remains"
Etched across its shell.

It gets hot in the sun.
It doesn't think about the rain.

In every home, a heartache.
In every hand, a camera.
How tough is it?
For a fresh pair of eyes?

There's no chance
That I'm gonna cry.

Is this the water that you drew in?
A sunlit retreat with a lighthouse burning?

In a couple of seasons, leaves will be falling
In tidy lines, adorning the grid.
And there'll be HGVs gritting the roads
And there'll be chalkboards outside cafes
With my name in capitals, Jim.

Nothing gets me off so completely
As to be so broke I can barely function
Even as a name.
Should have listened to the host who warned:
"Once you've discovered ten things,
The next hundred feel the same."

Got a letter typed up for Albuquerque.
Got a postcard for New York and (Alabama) Birmingham.
Got a mixtape for Rushmore and an EP for Stanford State.
Got commiserations for Wolf Parade.

And you say, "Love's spark left so cleanly.
Any trace of genius wiped from the table top."
But that's not what I heard, man.
I heard you were busy drinking
And everything just happened to rot.

Cleaned out frontwards.
It's big issue. It's big issue.
Cleaned out frontwards.
It's a bigger issue than we first thought.

Cleaned out frontwards.
I couldn't sleep. I slept.
Cleaned out frontwards.
I couldn't sleep again. I was sleeping.
Poetic T Oct 2018
Your words are cheesy
        Like an unclean *******

Every syllable you tug on
        Is like cheese.

You need to clean up
            Your stiffness
And write cleanly...
Tawanda Mulalu Nov 2018
I am the expanse of purposeless selves before me,/
summated like the stickily-shaded colours under/
a calculus-course curve, whose trajectory marks me across one axis/
to the next, just as I am the small drops of cloud squashed/
into one another as an ocean I now glare at, whose sands/
meeting the horizon are later stewed into the clearer edges/
of a mirror so that this glare may continue. There was a myth of a man/
who projected himself into a pool of water until he thinned away/
into anorexias of young girls with camera phones pointed/
towards their white faces. Snakes eat their tales sometimes./
Narcisuss is a poet. White girls are poets. I've swallowed them all/
into my large black mouth. When I speak: soft-spoken integrations,/
meagre, selfless, hollow-- filled with stagnant historical airs formatted/
cleanly now on a word-processor-- while my hand reaches across my navel,/
bored, digging: then a birth there as my spine cracks across my bedsheets/
with my lamplight flickering as candles once did,/
and shadows wall-dancing with the idea of ancient meanings/
now lost but never once there, self-defining, self-signifying, self-pointing,/
self-shaking self-but-not-self./

— The End —