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Not all was what it seemed
Those dreams were never real
The night lights shone
Then faded like the moon.

City streets were crowded
People busy with there lives
All seemed normal to the eye
Who could see behind the scene.

1938 crowded parks and beaches full
Ice cream stands and punch and Judy men
Normality was all that children knew
Family's made plans unaware of what lay ahead.

Summer days flowers displayed there colours
Work for dad.and children going to school
Christmas time and snow covering the ground
Another festive time was there with celebrations.

The summer time of 39 stormy days ahead
Young boys 18 plus answered to the country's call
Not realising adventure was never there at all
They lied about their age .in search of that adventure.

So six long years they fought and died
The survivers came home with open eyes
Seeing the world for what it was there youth denied.
The storm now over they now faced the calm.

Time to move on now the war days had gone
They found work and learned a trade
Those night lights shone once more
And the city streets filled with happy times again.

1945 the years move on the past now history
It was a time to rebuild a future of hope
And to find the will to carry on
Back too the beeches sands and the ice cream man.
I saw a documentary showing how it was just before
The second world war .People seemed to live normal lives
Holliday's on the beech enjoying city life carrying on life as normal
Unaware how things could change so fast.
Chrissy Ade Jun 2018
My lips have always craved the taste of danger.
Maybe it is because I don't know what's good for me
or I'm in love with the high I get from it
The high that takes me to the heavens,
surpassing the pillow-like clouds
resting against the azure canvas
I remember the taste so vividly,
I salivate at the thought of it
It's sweet like candy,
the sugary goodness
rushing inside my veins
delicately coating my tongue
bites between my teeth
explode into a thousand little pieces,
dancing inside my mouth
Your succulent lips pressed against mine,
remind me of the taste of summer strawberries,
juicy and tender with citrusy undertones
we're kissing like there's no tomorrow
Oh how I feel your lips part from mine, then touch
and part again the way the clouds greet the sky
Before a rainy afternoon
How can something so bad taste this good?
Oh I'm convinced your kisses are a drug
Nice to play with, but toxic to the mind
Kissing you must be equivalent to intoxication
shockwaves through my body,
the paralyzing euphoria
I don't think I could ever give you up
This addiction is taking control
Constructive Criticism is welcomed :)
King Panda Sep 2015
the only flowers I
recognize are
tulips
denver-bred
blooming
fire
red
yellow
orange
photochemistry
defined by
valentine
bouquet
quite
atypical
yet
beautiful

wax-coating
iridescent
rain
mirror
ferti­lized
stamen
kiss me
bad
you
are the
only
species
that can
survive in my
backyard

I think I
love
you
Q Feb 2017
Years of my tears dry to stale grit
Rusting my skin with crusting corrosions
of Yesterday's emotions frustrations devotions
With time, composting into a dirt coating
Renourishing layers of decomposition
Green seeds in germination with anticipation
Sprouting fresh roots of deeper perception

A Glowing. Growing. Living. New Me.
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
Every ounce of pressure against my veins,
like the flood of heavy summer rains.
Trying to escape the coating of my flesh,
internal tensions I could not oppress.
I hear crickets, smell the morning dew.
All I can ever concentrate on is you.
Made to feel nervous but oh so calm,
sometimes even sweet like cherry lip balm.
A moment of combustion then release,
your tongue wanders onto my body, into a crease.
I'll never care if I get rich,
so ever long as you ease my twitch.
Stale smoke and the scent of butane,
breath seeps into me like a bloodstain.
You, a child at heart
and I, a freak into abstract art, like Ad Reinhardt.
What a fine creation, our own constellation,
an innovation, better than intoxication.
sophia Aug 2018
and to you do i deem another one of these elongated rambles of words bowed down to us by gorgeous sundancers. dear true love, is it painful— that you fell from heaven carrying a satin piece of you coating me in your tempting warmth? i wish it weren’t; your response to pain is not what lavishes you to a perfect sunbeam but rather an all-knowing traveller. countless of letters have been shipped down from the bounty to your lost paradise; missing you, as if the clouds have taken you in the fastest they possibly could. now i would never understand how it feels to be held in close proximity again; with tenderness adjacent to a fairy’s whisper. but this open letter allows you to realise of the poetry living within your bones. that no matter how sturdy it takes for the fragility to break through, there will always be love residing. from me, in you. i’ll be waiting in mornings, holding the moon on my hand, standing on the wild grand on the universe that we’ll never compare to. but trust me, that’s what you are to me. you’re on top of everything else that comes to live and breathe.
jane taylor Jun 2016
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor
this poem is dedicated to fellow poet chris who just passed away
we love you chris!!!
http://poetfreak.com/705083/chris-vaillancourt-rip.html
OC Dec 2018
A picture of your mother
dull colors of a bygone era
a polaroid born faded
a memory bestowed upon you by another
a hearsay tale long lost in time
more far than you can count on fingers
she smiles
a smile reserved for the unburdened
you wonder when this woman is
she looks happy

A finger painting of your mother
all colors watered down
a reminder that you must
prioritize
some things carry more meaning
other need meaning poured onto them
cupped like water in both hands
presented to a lip-cracked child
some water saturate the soul
while keeping others thirsty
some colors are skin deep

Your mother, wrapped in blankets
in an almost vacant bed
her paint, dry and life-bleached
you sit with her
through all these final hours
watching as the outer coating
peels off and settles to the floor
solemnly, you sweep the flakes
an acolyte on hallow ground
choosing the most beautiful
pasting to a piece of paper
crafting the image of a woman
that once could have been
your mom
Was hesitant to upload this for a while now, as it feels a bit to personal. Written for a friend.
ryn Feb 2015
He rubbed his weary eyes...
What trickery could this be?
Was it a signboard draped in disguise
Or the reflection of light off a tree?

Seconds ticked as he drew closer.
The lady materialised to rule out prior suspicions.
His fingers wrestled over the rusty brake lever,
Wheels squealed their futile objections.

The lady wore a face he could barely see...
She had long tresses that bore an alluring fragrance.
Her beauty tipped the scales allowing him bravery,
Unafraid he asked, "Miss, may I be of assistance?"

Her voice seemed to ride the subtle night breeze,
Coating his ears like sugar laden candy.
Soft and demure... Yet laced with a hint of tease,
She had said, "I'm stranded in the dark as you can see..."

"What luck!", he thought, seizing the opportunity
He removed his sack to make space for her.
His heart raced being in the damsel's good company,
The lady slid herself onto the rack before they both rode together.

As he pedalled hard, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Her voice came again, a tender little whisper,
*"I live rather close... Not far off from here...
A little over the hill... Just over yonder..."
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
Keiji Apr 2014
Foggy, lighting and bellowing screams


my fist shoot through glass shoving through flesh scraping against tendon tainting the walls a new ruby coating, when it drys like granet
red on white statin
precious porcelain on ebony asphalt
the sound
crystal symbols being slapped together
or maybe cherubs screaming
the air coats my tongue my mouth my lo=unngs like cooper, perturbation and rapture
this storm

I get lost in it , until the rain comes and
washes the blood and dirt from my face it stings

There is fear and helplessness
something old I wrote
Kara Jean Feb 2017
I am Kara Jean
A ******* stressful thing
My heart is sweet
My exterior is bitter coating
I like screaming publicly "tell me what to do!"
The universe yells back "*******!"
I try to dry my cheeks before my mascara burns my eyes
Dried,
like my soul from all my mistakes
Getting what you want is a ******* fight
Challenges seem to grasp me tight
So ****** I'm ready for this disfunctional ride
I've been training my whole life
You were the crisp fresh air I breathed in
Awakening my soul
Clean and bearing no weight
I effortlessly inhaled you
Taking you in
Embracing you and everything about you
Chilled by your presence
Sending goosebumps down my spine
You were the opening of my eyes

But at the same time

You were the foggy air I breathed in
Suppressing my soul
Foul with a hefty weight
Choking as i tried to force you out
Slowly extinguishing me
Avoiding you and everything about you
Sickened by your presence
Forcing me to stop breathing
You are the sludge coating my lungs

Making me want to never breathe again
Josh Nov 2017
Neatly coating the floor in thin white trails, woven into floorboards like cotton twine, sunbeams snake their way across hardwood.

Books scream to be read & my yellowed pages ache to detail my experience as a widowed reader of time.

Magazines pile, while my simple hands grow a day older.

Heat on my neck.

The driver of time exhales grandiose,
tells me to travel while I'm young,
visit regions on this globe that grow green with age,
listen to honest trumpets before I gray,
wade in pools of clear urgency.

He said:

"Find a walking stick out beyond the ether
laugh with veracity, poking fun at Saturn & the Stars."
What will the future hold? Only Time will tell.
Kay-Rosa Apr 25
When Cheryl Blossom said,
"Her
name was Heather,"
No one else heard
The silent emphasis,
but it rang in my ears.
A persistent stinging in the back of my throat,
tearing at my eyes
pouring from my mouth,
coating my ******* thick,
black and red
vicious drink of liars.
Abby Mendoza Sep 2017
Plip, plip, plop
I wonder when will it all stop
Every drop turns a darker red
As all hope are replaced with dread.

Plip, plip, plop
We need to fix this faucet
For soon we'll all drown
And sadly we are too poor for a casket.

Plip, plip, plop
Please don't pretend you don't hear
All the innocent's yawps
Pleading from the faith of your ruthless spear.

Plip, plip, plop
Alas! the streets are clean
Yet every house seems to pray
For their child to come home today.

Plip, plip, plop
I wish to live a day without fear
That the faucet won't wreck my home
Coating it with an awful besmear.

Plip, plip, plop
I just want it to stop
Pray, I do not want the past nor the present,
I just want a life that has future in it.

-a.m
i wrote this for the current things that are happening in my country and to be honest i am f*cking scared.
blaise Nov 2018
my boy with fig leaves and lightning bugs
******* in his hair, he kneels with
crimson palms pressed to the unquiet dirt
and hums an abandoned melody.

my boy with sunbeams shining through his skin on the riverbank,
neatly coating the grass in thin white trails, woven into footprints like cotton twine, snaking their way across brown earth,
ankles slick with mud and the dead things that lay just underneath.

my boy with rosewater and stained glass ashes
feels me bless him with blackberries and the softest crush of words,
ice cubed, beneath my lips,
as he wipes the ichor from my chest with callouses
worn down gentle.

the light echoes from his skin
there are no symphonies nor sacraments,
only cicadas singing warmth to shivering willows.
2019 scholastic writing awards gold key winner
Nat Lipstadt Mar 14
“Who will judge, as many trudge
through mud, mucking up the rug,
a coating of clay formed by God on a particular day.
Yet talent is ingrained, whether sane or insane,
and verse is treasure or a curse, unrehearsed, dispersed for all to see,
will they applaud or disparage, this marriage of mind and rhyme,
by design aligned, a sign of the times...”

ms. patty m*

~~~
once again a thunderbolt command hits between the eyes, on-right
the precise spot where the head aches with desire to fulfill the write!
but to what can I add to this encompassing question already
better answered by the questioner?

who will judge indeed!

all the time and far too often,
the flotsam rises to the surface, when better left ignored,
while the jetsam jets nowhere, buried deep though breathing yet,
on unseen sea bottom of ignorance,
luck of the draw by one who designs, who aligns,
a capricious starscape in the firmament
as well as
the infirmity & ignominy of caskets lying quiet in sea trenches

that the answer herein contained, a supposition,
a poor poets speculation, a soul’s lactation,
the very question is a cyclone bomb by competents
who are blinded+bound+blessed by
incomprehension

the only judge and jury is
your forefingers tip,
if it tremble a-slight
when caressing the key called send,
your cellular fiber
has adjudged worthy,
and no dare disagree

talent and distinction
randomly and irrationally distributed,
but the courageous caress of a send key pressed,
is all that is needed
to impress the only judge and jury
that
authorized you
in advance to
love yourself insanely well enough
to write
and
to send for
a request for sentencing
Thursday March 14, 2019 10:51am

N.B. as I said,
patty m asked and answered it bestie better
The realm no eye's seen.
Between sleep & awakening.

The domain in which unhinged,
Lies perpetually derailed,
& by the same — held still.


Not bridging -
Dead nor living.

As both prevail.
Merely existing,
In separation.

By its thin black veil,
or parasol coating.


Prior to history.
Beyond the present.

Before the sea.
After the mountains.

Below the peasants.
Above the Kings.

Exists a world, much like a dream.
Some call it "Heaven",
             Most don't believe.



—Ashton Conor Amstutz
Never be fooled
by a word of sentiment
Its coating can never
reflect its intent

For whether or not
you know of its content
It's trickery stands
beneath its compliment
Although the only flattery I recieve are those from myself. Still a lie.
Marigolds Fever Sep 2018
Snow cone twists
Far ivory countryside
Season’s change exists
A stern mother nature’s pride
Foothills that resemble cream pies
Coating pointy flakes a mile high
Birds take cover
To find a feathery mother
Try to resist nature’s feverish fight
And hide from the silvery night  
Moon beams its pearly opals
Thru rainbow colored window chapels
In the nest
Little birds try their best
Huddled up
Till daybreak
They might delight
In the white sparkle sunlight
Snowy course
A bitter adventure for the strong farmhorse
Powder puff
It kicks it up like dust
Spring a strong sense
With snow that is no longer dense
Temperatures waver
An ice storm disfavor
Crystal drops
From frozen tree tops
The chirps begin
With a little more earthly spin
Melting snow
Begins to flow
Moving water a strong force
Becomes quite the
Snowy watercourse
Oli Dec 2018
hallway of spiders, garden of smoke

"come inside, don't be shy", she said
so i dropped to my knees and i dug with my fingers
the soil, falling over my head
coating my skin
mud from my mouth
deeper within
cover the surface, "believe, believe in me" i said

hallway of spiders, houses of dirt

in his life, there is nothing but his empty chairs, and empty suitcases
so she brought him to town
told him she'll be around
a new friend
who never makes a sound
and she is well
and she is found
it's so profound
around and around and around

you ask me if i'm certain
you tell me the difference
but i tell you all feel is in love
Savannah Oct 2018
Pastel skies came crashing down,
Watching sugar coating fade.
In darkness sat sapphires,
Wrapped in soft suede.
Frosting covered words,
Poison puff pastries unpaid.
Seraphic stranger unmasked,
In my honey lavender masquerade.
Cana May 20
The bird songs ring out harmonious
Their calls for some wanton *******,
The best type.
Reciprocated across the landscape
Which is not the right word
There’s more sea here than land.
an orange hangs low in the lonely sky
Perfectly ripe,
Dripping wet with honeyed shades of gold,
Coating palm trees and my knees.
Also my cigarette box and my coffee mug. A slow swell pitching and yawing,  
a side to side appreciated only by those trying to sleep.
A breeze lazier than I licks my cheeks and fondles my thighs.
It’s time, to go.
Morning world
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2018
Those silver ***** were my favourite
Placed sequentially on piped scrolls
Round the circumference, sparkling;
With Robin and Snowman greetings.

Tied, two inch wide, red satin ribbon
Around decorated cake on silver base
Marzipan and apricot coating under a
Stage of shimmer hardened royal ice.


Love Mary  xxxx
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