Eleanor Rigby Aug 2014

I looked at you
The way an artist
Would look at a naked woman.
Your bottom lip was designed
For kissing,
Your hands for crafting,
And there was a picture in every moment
I have shared with you.

I saw that we fit together
So very perfectly,
But the subjective camera
Was only me.


Enter thy come and take your place
No blade will forsaken your face
When the moon has bled
The sun has fled

The father shall bleed
While the son shall flee
Stand on and keep thy paste
Stop moving and thoust be erased

Steel, Fire, Ice, Thunder
This sword been built for smoulder
Hands crumble of blisters
Soul full of cleansers

Thy crafted blade made whole
Thy blade legend be in scroll
Blade coated within strychnine
Behold thy master design  

This blade crafted for revenge
Thy uses it for only purifying
No need for revenge
For karma has been healing!

Andrew M Bell Feb 2015

He wanted it to be perfect,
for the words to fit together
like a well-oiled…
scratch that…
he’d heard that some Muslim women
(in Turkey or were they Moors?)
purposely wove a mistake
into their intricate tapestries
because only God is perfect
and they were right of course,
but he felt perfect just now
sitting still, warm
in a buck-fifty’s worth
of sunshine.

Copyright Andrew M. Bell. Acknowledgement is made to Valley Micropress in which this poem first appeared in Volume 12, Issue #7, September 2009. Also appears in my poetry collection, "Clawed Rains".
Robert Zanfad Jan 2010

Desperate these words,                          
Chasing fleeting shadow,                      
Echoes flocking like birds                
Amid myriad distortions,
The unquiet mind's sorrow.                
In birth chosen for sweetness,                    
A bid for attentions of one                        
Soon fade mere whispers,                        
Weak and defeated tomorrow,                
Exhaled anguish unheard.                        
Written lines would have best
Been spoken in ears years ago
'Ere time flowed its course,
When ever softer verse
Might shimmer
Then a symphony,
Maybe able
To drown life's other sounds
Like Mozart, loud as one can turn up.
Would there be any remedy
Which relieves burdens of memory...
The music of dulcet strings
Does dull stings, still only temporary;
And since abandoned,
Thoughts of more ultimate things.
So still, some poet's quill
Crafts dreams into sparrows,
Sets fluttering free
Their unnatural wings
To sing a song of regret,
Share madness with the winds.

Seanathon Dec 2016

All that I want, and think that would be best to be, right now, is out in front of me. Presented here within these words, which I crafted deep from within. And to say that I in some way, am too much for you right now. That is cowardice towards what ere could be. So don't claim to know what a word really means, when you want to craft alongside a wordsmith like me.

Remeber... I'm not a machine.
SE Reimer Jan 2017


from the dock he calls her name,
now beside he grasps her rails,
deftly steps aboard her frame,
to loose her lines of mooring.

leaned o’er, he shares his secret hopes,
ocean breeze her mast is callling;
then wings are spread with hoisted ropes,
the call of ocean’s blue alluring.

he guides her through the shallow drafts,
gliding faster, hull and ballast,
like seabird’s cry on wing, her craft,
his touch responding in devotion.

she heels about now, lunging forward,
together ’cross the waves;
he, the author of this poetry,
keeps rhythm with each changing motion.

they float above the salty spray,
white sails, her wings, a swan of grace;
in fading light, ’cross waterway,
her highway now a full moon bright.

his bearing set for emerald isle,
she tacks to follow compass lines;
together tame the ocean’s wild,
in flight as one to form their rhymes.

from high atop her outstretched form,
he guides her body through the night;
shifting lines to feel the storm,
like bedsheets thrown, arched and open.

then far above this watery bed,
her canvas flows with watercolor,
of sapphire, jade and ruby red;
a sunrise o’er bejeweled ocean.

sailing on,
in stunning sight;
as one they sigh,
in heavenly flight.


post script.

unwinding from the first work week of the new year and a chaotic Friday night commute, these out-of-the-blue, out-from-the-blue lines strike me as i hear strains of Chrstopher Cross crooning his 1980 classic, “Sailing”, from my dear wife's Pandora station, aptly named.  

“Well, it's not far
down to paradise,
at least it's not for me.
And if the wind is right
you can sail away,
and find tranquility.  
Oh, the canvas can do miracles,
just you wait and see.
Believe me.”

the song takes me back to a simpler time in our marriage, but sailing... this always takes me back, all the way to childhood, and a carefree state of mind.  and no wonder... for in my pre-teen years, i and my brothers helped our father build a small, eighteen foot, sailing sloop, crafted after plans he found in a Family Circle magazine.  thereafter, childhood summers were spent freshwater sailing at the foot of Fuji, sometimes alone, sometimes together.  it is no surprise that today i am most at peace on or beside the water.

Kriti Gupta Jun 2014

It's a night of poetic prowess
Tape over unresolved discussions
Don't go throwing another in the deep end
As the life preserver is already flat
The atmosphere has lost its beauty
And misconceptions
Filled with hope
Become my dividing force

this doesn't even make sense
story of my life

mining till day
In bajan we must and bacca we trust
never going to brake bedrock
enchanting diamond sword
crafting table
flaming arrows
traping in cobwebs

Nikita Vyas Sep 2016

"Walk a few miles,
Walk some more,
Step by step,
Craft a road,
Deepening your footsteps,
Make a way,
Don't give up,
You're almost there!
Reaching the top,
Inhale victory,
Conquering weakness,
Stand still!
Turning around,
Track your path,
This Is the beginning,
Of endless marks!"

Mosaic Sep 2016

Crafting linger
The old woman ties her shoes
Time consumed in her moments of carefullness
While body betrays with cement bones
Cracking from new life wanting to come in

Danielle Bluejay Feb 2014

My parents always gave me enough rope
To hang myself
And that alone kept me
From crafting a noose
But you
Gave me enough rope to hang
The both of us
And that, my dear
Is all the more enticing

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