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SassyJ Apr 2016
In tunnelled darks, pastes of reminisce
Outward disjoint points to irrelevance
Spooned and coned in cold mountaintops
The darks of sorrows and trails of struggles

Persistence patterns of self satire in gloom
Sunken in identity crisis of broad oceans
Stormy seas spotlighted by beatific stars
Trajectory of spilled ice in recurrent motions

A mere past cocooned by fears and tears
Clouded in thoughts that cruise and decline
Greyed white imprinted by sudden sadness
Madness echoes on arched ancient bricks

Checkered maniacs of fulfilled passions
Filed and iced in cased prolific memories
Cascades of sunshine tickles to warmth
Orchards of glow that bloom and grow

Picked, ticked and unpacked from boxes
Attacked, nurtured and stored in bliss
Eventful lessons unfolds in untold augury
A mission as the known permeates and fade

Windowed eyes all line up in parade
Mirrored lights digest the haunted haste
A stranger to self, an ally to another
A dance of bright entwine a twist of blur
Darks and lights ........
For audio follow:
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/checkereddarkslyricalpoetry
I want to be super me

Shave off my eyebrows
as an act of demolition
leave no roots to grow
let sweat beads know
this is a law of prohibition
against the curse
I want to be the last one on earth
and yet the first
to birth a warrior generation
all colors
all sizes
all shapes
and variations
of a people whose DNA serves as an abbreviation
of perfect

Simply

I want to love without working

I want to kiss the thickly oiled
pus inhabitating pimpled t-zones of anglo saxon adolescent girls
and tell them they’re beautiful
just after they’ve reached out and grabbed one of my locs
only to ask me if my natural hair is artificial

I want to eat lunch with the friendless 14 year old boy
caged in elementary special ed class
Immediately following him walking me
arms pinned
in front of the boys during recess
asking them how should he **** my ***

I want to tell him of a Savior
That can mold him greater than his absentee father
or molesting godmother that has affected his behavior

I want to wrap my arms of comfort around the shoulders of every insecure woman
that was confident enough to tell me
men would only see me as ***
but never as beautiful
I want to reach my go-go-super me hand in
and choke the life out of the wormy wretched murderous spirit
that eats their lives
I want to starve its lies
leaving it to die by granting the grace of a new name
befriend them with but a call and response game-

Me: “those who look to HIM are radiant!”
Them: “their faces are never covered with shame!”


I want to sound the finger snap
hand clap heard round the world
while giving a standing ovation
to all of the open mic night writers that hid their jagged daggers in a cloak of being truthful
saying my words and antics scored high for the stage
But for the page
this thing I should think twice about calling poetry
would never ever be suitable

I want to carry the little white boy on my hip while singing
The rendition of “You Are My Sunshine” that I sing to my kids
just after he hurls “******” in my direction
in a vile attempt to reduce me from perfection
I’ll teach him that the coned sheet his father keeps neat
and breaks out for story time at night is but a cry for help
that the most important thing he could ever do with his life
is to recognize others as his brothers and sisters
and to love them even as he would love himself
I’ll tell him communication isn’t erasable
and before he speaks he should remember to care
I’ll give him a lollipop
then fly through the galaxy to land on a planet
where I’ll purchase every CD created featuring John Mayer

I’ll speak and smile at every cop
That’s harassed brown people

I’ll drop an offering in the basket of preachers
that think I can’t deliver the Word
because as a woman in ministry
I’m not equal

If mine eyes can see my shell’s end
I’ll make love to my husband
in a way his second wife would never be able to transcend
even if earlier it was his day off
but instead of living it with me
he chose to leave me alone with our kids

If loving without working is tough as a glass jar of vlasic dill pickles
I want to pop the lid

As soon as offenses are committed
my earnest desire is to be super me

I want simply

to easily


FORGIVE.
© 11 February 2010 TIA
Brian Oarr Jul 2012
her fantasy fulfilled
she guides him by pack-horse
up the craggy mountain trail
restrained by his inexperience
their destination above
her beloved secret valley
river far below, a faded blue memory

spying snow-coned peaks beyond
she fights the urge, for his sake,
to gee her horse the last few feet
almost there, past the jagged rocks
gap's a beckoning finger now
welcoming her home
so many years of separation

the valley bursts upon them
a composite of wondrous sights
compelling her to bring him
quickly through to hallowed ground
how many times she had returned
alone
she turns to him, a stranger here
only he deserves her secret place

watching his face
seeing elation and her radiance
mirrored simultaneously in his eyes
an expanse of horizon
mountain, aspen, florid fields, and water
nature's precious jewels adorn the vista
dressed with utmost care
to steal the unsuspecting heart

she leads him into the meadow
overlooking the turquoise cirque
cool waters in which she bathed
naked and contented
when last she'd journeyed here
meadow flowers cloak
the blanket she spreads for him

her fantasy fulfilled
his body framed against the sky
-limitless as their love- and
boundless beauty in this valley
One of my earliest poems, so please excuse the jejeune nature of the write.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
commentary of a bunch of photographs uploaded showing the dilemma of the A's in paper size... exhibits a - f show a lesson, well, you remember that old depiction of the idiot of the class, standing on a stool at the front of the class with a heretic's coned hat? well, they revised the hat, now it's a once green eyeshade clerk's hat via interpretation of a cricket cap.

it's quiet easy, words fill never justify the images,
the dunce was just saying: you could make one
toothpick from a Sunday newspaper's double spread,
that's what got him canonised perched on a stool,
no one exacted how many anyway,
like they never teach your the chemical formula for
wood, if what has a H too two Ohs, then wood must
must have something in the strand of including
carbon, a cabaret of elements with carbon the prompter
poking his prickly head once in a while due to
acting tremors and cold sweats of sudden amnesia...
the point being, to further the first point about
the size of newspapers on Sundays and whether there's
such a thing as A0, or an architectural sized paper,
i guess architectural spreads are like breast sizes...
imagine looking at schematics of 30F through 32E
and onto 30D past 38DD... you never see the sagging
in these diagrams, because they're abstracts of
the two hangmen... you see, the bra... did anyone tell
Freud that Anti-Oedipus as proposed by the two French
philosophers mixing up Nietzsche and Marx with
Freud on the side anticipated this Anti? it's the bane
of my existence, English black humour mixed with
giggles at words like: bottom, ****, ****... i don't know
how you can get seriously randy afterwards...
it's atypical English humour, *** jokes... the notion
that Oedipus can't laugh at *** underpins the very
basis of the unconscious, i.e.: that something sinister
is lurking in the depths and reaches back into childhood
and it's subsequent destruction. the opposite of
the theory proposed by Freud (as evolved from the already
mentioned *Gilles Deleuze
) is at the same time frightening,
because it almost presupposes Oedipus' father
in the version of Saturn, best exemplified by
Saturn devouring his Son painted by Francisco Goya...
and the basis of this eventuality due to the woman's
madonna-***** complex: mini-skirt ***** lollipop
but a saintly mother beneath... jooke.
**** it, i deviated from the topic of periscopes but more
importantly of the size of sensible paper, A0 being
the spread of a Sunday Times... architectural scores
must therefore begin with B5...after architecture come
advertisements probably beginning at around
B3 or B2... football stadiums are filled with these passive
sheets of material, and that's talking way down the
alphabet of categorising size... you know, when they
pull down those massive club insignias.
in the end all i can do with a A4 paper is cut a kippah
or make a momentary mask... but with the
sunday spread of newspaper... i can momentarily
turn into a newspaper ghoul, or if you prefer:
a newspaper ghost!
DING   -  ****
                            " this is a  call to passengers traveling to Ithaka, by way of Kensal Green.
             Please have your passports and tickets ready, to be seen".

So did I pack well for this adventure I 'm on,
            do I really need the kichen sink  I thought I 'd take along.

All those clothes to impress, suits, shirts, ties all layed
           Where once all I carried , was a bucket and *****

Then my only foot-print was in soft gritty sand,
            As I licked melting coned creamyness, that dripped  on my hand

When every moment was filled with sun shine on skys powered blue
And even when grey, still the rainbow shone through

So leaving behind that tightly packed luggage, no room left inside,
But filled up with baggage, I'd aquired on the ride

Cluching  my shoulder bag is  all that I need, it seems
For tomorrow I 'll buy a new suit case and fill it, with new journyed dreams
DING --****  
                                   final call
Fheyra May 2020
White mares skipping high
Fleeting bows of flight
A delicate sway and tender—
Of nymph water bearers.

Grip to the pole— start bending your toes
Gritty witty Pointes—  slide sailing your stockings
Don't be weary— you all weigh like babies.

When everyone curves below,—
I might cry low
The tug of veins,— Twisting my equity
All for a share of artistry—
That shakes dynamic scaling
How can I fly with this?

A flock of gnasgabs— Forming on the floor
Say, I was bewildered—
By such floating nerves
I suppose, my anchors would stumble!

Muscles shifted miniscules to humongous
I learned the arc's way
How swans scoop to ponds,— and paddle
To split stems without abraded rock scrapes
The pricked would never ill still again— For the element of wind,—is a frolicking mentor of mine.

What shape is imposed?
Is to be trained to sketch enough?—
Or to smother crust on feet?
A little pinch on my nose—
They told me— "Be toned, and not be a cylinder, or you'll be getting misfits."
If groom is to groan,— Then unwinding is not an option.

Stale eyelids, protrude lips;—
With undetermined purple ankles
Presenting, the queue of peacocks—
Crafted by coned imagery!
"Smile darlings, smile.."
"Grant them a magical show!"

A single blow, I think I would fall,—
Or a slip— Brought by fragility
A collapsed bud of covert slim blossoming
What sot titles be lurking—
On this lumpy staging?
I see the curtains closing..

Raggle-taggle pearls, no—
Just piercing prisms
Attach with vessel tubes— providing life
Rates and beats,— I am awake—
While their pupils start bowing—
In a forum with wheezing closed fists
I cannot nod for this; so too, I replied
—"Let brittle vases be a harbinger for naive pottery makers."

"Spin and spin around— Oh stop, I'm not a music box!
I love dancing,— but don't treat me like a doll!"

I escaped, from dry flower fields
Now, I am a deviant— of their snotter lying— of absolute bloom
A standard of fixed chains and keys
No more attending to an epithet of perfection,— For I will be the motion of my own tides and breeze.

I  battle to Ballet,— For 'tis as knight with armored strength— of fenced rivals 'til to bleed
I risk for Ballet,— Like cliff dancing, even on edges— I am steady,—
And tough to dive in lakes and oceans
I fall for Ballet,— How Alice fall to the Wonderland— discovering mysteries in every dooorway
I compose to Ballet,— As I dwell in the well of written poems and tunes,—
I inherit to move..

The wishful dandelions,—
Sprawling with honeybees and butterflies,— of me running with ribbons in Spring time
I feel my hair is brushing,—
As I blew these dandelions,— Sending letters to other gardens—
"Dark, Bright, Tiny, or Huge— Anyone can wear a Tulle,— Come and fly, as we're all free and beautiful like dandelions.."
Just dance to the wings of your heart, and you shall find freedom within your happiness.
Seema Oct 2017
One day...
This beautiful body will be, just a heap of ash
My name...
Will be cancelled from formal papers with a single dash
It's a birth and death lifecycle that we all ride
Tho sometimes people cheat death, so they remain clocked at the road side
The things we are running after, claiming its ours
Are laid back once you've been put to rest after hours
Being rich, being poor doesn't change the color of ashes to gold and dust
The bones and aftermath are identical once in grave, while the imitations put on our bodies,
rust
The organs burst first followed by the rest
Laying in dirt, bodies coned, head pointing to the west
Life fulfilling with what we have gained
Death comes uninformed, souls get pained
Burnt, buried, sank or served dishes to vultures
Life flies between living games of cultures
Souls light up the world as stars in the universe
Sometimes I wish, if life could also be reversed...


©sim
Spilling thoughts :)
Anais Vionet Apr 2022
Lisa was carefully pulling a strand of cotton candy off a paper-coned “barbe à papa” - winding it around her finger while absentmindedly gazing at a carousel. She seemed hypnotized by its white horses, trimmed in gold, with their brassy red and blond manes, as they hopped, like slow-motion rabbits, in circles beneath wreaths and garlands of colored lights.

My watch jiggled me awake, mid-dream. I was bemused. It took me a moment to orient myself. I groggily pushed the sheets off and performed a big stretch. It's Monday morning, I think. “Alexa, what’s today?” I ask, to be sure. “It’s Monday, April 25th,” she says.

A beautiful, if cloudy spring morning was going to bloom on the other side of my jacobian glass windows - any minute now. At least according to my weather app. “Alexa, good morning,” I say, to start my rattling, sputtering, steampunk sounding coffee maker.

College time is warped, measured more in deadlines than minutes. There’s no plan other than your class or test schedule and let me refresh you on the rules – there are no rules, I’m free to do whatever I want. I actually chuckle at that thought.

College is transformative but there’s a hoary sameness to it. Read, discuss, review and test - wash, rinse and repeat. This morning is reserved for test review. I have a final this morning - well, sort of.

Some classes have a quintet of tests instead of a big midterm and nerve-racking final. It smooths out the stress, but you still have an almost forensic exploration of ideas, and you want the answers queued-up, ready for easy access.

I quickly washed and donned my workout-wear. A glance at my watch told me I was right on time. I’d loaded my shoulder bag last night, with my book, highlighters, my phone, Air-Pods and a water bottle. I grab it as I head out. I’ll do my review on the treadmill.

Anna opens her door just as I do mine - perfect. We’re off to the gym.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Hoary: "so familiar as to be dull"
Bridget Cuevas Sep 2015
And the rise of inequality
There’s this bird outside
That tells me I’m primal
But the screen in front of my face tells me
I’m tame
Domestic
A house cat
A coned dog
Let off my leash
Found comfort in a collar

Baby, if this earthquake hits
We’re all going to die
Sharon Knipe Jul 2019
Something about you felt different

Like the way you fixated yourself on the passing building and shining stars from the car window. Sitting in the cold air-coned seats, that you still insisted were hot.

I just want to let you know that you won't have to watch me like those passing buildings.

I'm not passing by nor are you a pit stop.

And although stars may be blinding
I will always have an eye

For you.
excerpts from the notes i held
It was the year of optimum technology. Manufacturers were cranking
out musical baubles with motions detectors that rang out with music
and song jubilation, at the tip of a human wave or shuffle.
Every household sheep ran out to buy these amusing novelties.
It wasn't long before the big recall. They were deemed annoying
by the public.  "We can't talk over them.  They got a mind of their
own."  Soon they were all returned to the store.
So the distributors hired  a slewing  of personnel  to deliver all the
baubles to the forest and abandon them there in an old shack.
On Christmas day as the world slept by the silenced buzz of their cel,
one sad lumberjack braved the dawn and went out to cut a fresh tree
in the woods.  He closed the door behind him, leaving a deaf child
clutching a doll and an old ratty mouse named Nicky.
With every swing of his ax he heard a ring a ling ding, ding a ding ****.
It was coming from the old shack, and it got louder with every chop.
Ian walked into the shed and saw the most adorable baubles laying
pine coned on the floor. He carried an armload of them to his truck
His thoughts were miles away. Thinking how sad it was that his daughter
Cora could not hear anything.  She had never heard the sound of music
nor the sound of her dad's voice.  Christmas would be silent as usual but
at least she could stare at the beautiful baubles on the evergreen. He
entered his humble abode and mantled the tree with shiny  ornaments.
When Cora Ling saw the baubles on the tree her eyes opened wider
then two lanterns in the snow. "Oh" was all she said as she ducked to
retrieve his gift. It was a freshly made sandwich put together that very
morning. He gave her a big bear hug and then plucked a green box
from the middle of two branches. "Open" was all he mouthed.
Inside were two dangling silver earrings, one for each ear. "They
used to be your moms and I think she'd like you to have them.
When she ran over to give her dad a big hug, the baubles began to
vibrate and hum.  They sang out an operetta of great beauty.
Many a year had elapsed since their last Christmas interlude. They
had upgraded themselves and taught each other to sing as a team.
To Ian's surprise his little girl picked up her doll and started dancing
around the room.  Even Nicky the mouse was waving his tail to the
rhythm of the music.  "Can you hear that?" he asked his daughter .
She swirled and twirled as if she would never stop. Then she went to the
window and waved to someone or something ? With a smile that broke
the stars of heaven,  she scattered the Christmas Spirit all over the place,
then with a sweep of her beautiful eyes she said, " daddy, I can hear."
The End.
Maria Rodriguez May 2015
in that bed
where not once you slept
laying at your side
reading me tales of wonder
making my mind wonder

drifting me to the sea
on a fine evening

i saw the salty drop
of a twilight dew
falling away

windy evenings were the best
with our house eyes wide awake

the gentle wind who would
whispered sweet dreams
whisking me to a world of sleep

ca-coned with your love
and those honey rays of sun

folding me
packing me
like a love letter for your darling

ever so slowly
closing the lid
falling off to sleep
childhood memories
Seema Sep 2017
The solitude of nature graves beneath
Bones of evil and righteous at feet
The darkest spills of blood soaked into soil
A barren land now producing usable oil
Near fields cultivated with crops
The evil spreads through sipped in drops
Consumed by many these crops when sold
Evil makes its entry, cold blood on hold
People get crazy as their blood absorbs the produce
Unknowing the dilemma that soon would be in use
Good over evil fight across the globe
Injecting every being, walking like a dope
Drugged and dosed flashed like zombie coned
Each walk away, their precious disowned
A world of dead, its soon gonna be
Unless the waves crush in land, so be it a sea...



©sim
Global warming, climatic change, green house gases, ozone deplete, GMOs
Shaheera Ahmed Nov 2019
One day in summer's delight,
When the sun was shining bright,
I was writing poetry,
While sitting under the cherry tree,
I ate a cherry but strangely it was sour,
When all of a sudden my diary turned  into a door,
I entered the magical door to see,
Which surprise was awaiting for me,
That door opened into a wonderland,
Full of candies and chocolate sand,
It was like a dream and soon I should wake,
Coz houses were delicious cheese cake,
Then a cloud came near to me ,
Made of marshmallows dear to me,
From coned mountains strawberry shake was flowing,
This was all mind blowing,
I saw there was a cherry tree too,
Saying these cherries are also for you,
I sat under it for a greed,
That these cherries might be sweet,
After eating them I felt dizzy,
So closed my eyes and went sleepy,
After a while when my eyes opened,
I did smile but was saddened,
To see that there was no more wow!
The sun was also setting now,
That nap had a great impression,
I thought this should be a written expression,
So "cherry tree " I wrote a poem,
After that I went to home.
Trees in bloom
Irish shades of green
Curb - side puddles
Avian nourishment
Feral life line

Claps of thunder
Cracks of lightning
Tulips in Crayola box hues
Blossoms of cherry
Lawnmower engines race

Open windowed cars
Sun bathing convertible'ists
Honks of impatient drivers
Oranged coned pathway
The flagger of traffic

BBQ aroma'd air
Dogs on leashed walks
Splashing screams from backyard pools
Ice cream truck melodies to be heard
Unmistakable smells​ of suntan lotion

Slow it down
This isn't the Daytona 500
Enjoy the sounds of the carnival
Enjoy a full mooned bonfire
And the company it keeps
Soak in everything Spring and Summer
Soon winter's snow will sure to be deep.

written by me... ..
erased our block box
they pry hard

he has an crowbar
it is
stiff
in
his
hand
he is
an
mechanical pen


faces ran across mine eyes
then parrrots could
never catch me
green wings
of
envy

don't cry mister
here take my
ice cream
coned
don't
poke
your
eyes
out
ok
yous
?


















­



...
..
.
i
am
but
...
..
.
Penmann Jun 2019
Sugar coned install
I'll find an app for that.
Will google it.
I can google anything.
Even you.
Written in 2014
Paul Glottaman Apr 2022
When she was young
a lightening storm
brought her to life.
The transformer exploded
and six city blocks went dark.
She grasped along in
pitch black for the taper
of a candle she kept.
From above the doorway
Jesus looked on from his
usual perch, arms akimbo.
She wondered if he could
see her in the dark
then hated herself for the
clearly blasphemous thought.
Thunder rumbled dangerously
in the distance but the rain
had not yet begun.
Unable to find the candle
see felt her way around to
the door and then down
the stairs, knowing people
would gather in the darkened
streets outside and hoping
for the safety always promised
to be found in numbers.
On the stoop she found neighbors
and oppressive Eastern shore
humidity and summer heat.
At first she heard talk,
people wondering about dark
clouds and the specific
response expected from ConEd
and then, arriving all of a sudden
and with no announcement or
warning, the pounding sheets
of rain came and brought the very
unique quiet that loud, heavy rain
carries inside it.
She dashed into the empty
street, raised her hands and
kicking up water like she was
at a theme park, she played-
She danced like a wild thing-
In the pounding rain and
the deafening silence and the
temporary darkness
and with great peels of
laughter and a young
women's smile she danced
herself to life in the
storm under the powerless
Electrical lines.
TheConcretePoet May 2020
⚰💔⚰

Trees in bloom
Irish shades of green
Curb - side puddles
Avian nourishment
Feral life line;

Claps of thunder
Cracks of lightning
Tulips in Crayola box hues
Blossoms of cherry
Lawnmower engines race;

Open windowed cars
Sun bathing convertible'ists
Honks of impatient drivers
Oranged coned pathway
The flagger of traffic;

BBQ aroma'd air
Dogs on leashed walks
Splashing screams from backyard pools
Ice cream truck melodies to be heard
Unmistakable smells​ of suntan lotion;

Slow it down
This isn't the Daytona 500
Enjoy the sounds of the carnival
Enjoy a full mooned bonfire
Enjoy the company it keeps
Soak in everything Spring and Summer
Soon winter's snow will sure to be deep.

Remember when your love for me and life grew?
Ahem...

I would die for you.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
-👷🏻‍♂️-
Cyclone Dec 2019
I got afraid, when I stayed in my mind, through all 4 seasons I had no reasons, but just the rhymes, straying lovers and friends, I noticed no one's in, so gaining sense and soul, must mold myself to pin, down to the building blocks, clock spots to stock, yachts sailing to the dock, brought the flock to stop, one lone grown clone, ****** in a zone, shown, coned as unknown, honed as my own.

— The End —