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Juhlhaus Mar 5
From where the bridge was, after the first plunge
Soothed the sunburnt skin and the hay-splinters
Loosed the straw stuck in ears
After I left you under the porch light
I stood alone on the other side of the night
Where poplars reached for the moon and stars
And the cows chewed on bits of memory from when
In the cobwebs and calf pens
They were brought to life by your gentle hands

You crossed two worlds to find me in the darkness
But I was not the one you were searching for
You prayed for miracles while
God stood by, arms crossed
Taking in the sunset and the clouds
Like an old tree beside a grave carefully fenced
To keep it disheveled amid tended fields
Thus the cancer had its way and I could not
Fill the void left in your heart or mine

With no more tears to soften dry leather
I put both our hearts on skewers and held them
Over the bridge's burning planks
Too close and they were immolated
Not carefully spun to stay golden and warm inside
So I packed my hollow heart full of nothing
Filled the passenger seat, until
There was only room for me and the steering wheel
And no way to turn
JC Lucas Jul 2018
Somewhere in the South Pacific
a human-shaped speck casts a bottle
from the shore of a tiny island
into the interminable sea.
The bottle contains a note
which bears:
a name
an approximate location
and a desperate plea.

The bottle drifts slowly away
flashing in and out of view
on the crests of passing swells.
It glides on mysterious currents
and a quiet modicum of hope.

Simultaneously,
Above a particular point in the Northern Hemisphere,
a ball of tin foil
labeled Voyager I
is crossing the threshold
into the world outside
the solar system.

On board are a pair of golden discs
engraved with:
images and voices of human beings
the relative location of the Sun to fourteen nearby pulsars
and a plea,
      naively disguised to look like a proud declaration of identity
                             but what proud and accomplished
                                       race of beings
                         would need to search for
                                 companionship
                            among the stars?

                         The little metal ball floats away
                                        blinking bits of data back to Earth
                                                              each grainier than
                                                                 the last

                                     tugged by the gravity of distant bodies
                                                               and a quiet modicum of
                                                              ­                                  hope.
Images not included.
Rob Rutledge Mar 2015
His hands are scarred,
Face is a mess,
Too long walking
Through the wilderness.
The bears are hungry
Wolves they howl,
The Levy's breaking
All will
Drowns.
Washed away by savage currents
Watching fallen suns go
Down.
Kewayne Wadley Aug 2018
Through trial & error.
I admit I was afraid to love.
Opening up felt tremendous.
Having known the fear of failure.
I was afraid to drown, admiring the ocean from a far.
The current which she dove.
She'd offer her ocean.
Currents pulled strong only she knew it's depth.
I lacked understanding.
Appearing to move closer,
At which point these currents grew darker.
I trusted myself, longing to become a single wave swirled in thought.
Focused on simple clarity.
I didn't want to be like the rest.
Knowing the beauty she possessed.
I feared drowning the most.
Learning to float.
The buoyancy of reassurance.
The things neither of us said aloud.
In the end it wasn't that I was afraid of love.
It was her that I feared.
Admiring from the shore.
The best thing I've ever known.
Diving in head first
L B Jun 2018
Later at the same address
A storm of words reaches flood stage
A couch is bobbing in the currents
towards its mangled ruin-nexus
of matchsticks in cyclonic flow
among the renegade
trash
hanging
from the limbs like tinsel

Meanwhile
chair heaved through her door
Like the river
I am not above my rage
at this stage
of more than enough....
Clever daughter's got my goat
Turns my words on dimes
Lays into me
her score of blame
Each blow to drop me further

presses all my buttons at one time
despite the flashing
Warning! Warning!

“Fine! Fine!”

She blows-out through the afternoon
right past me
in a torrent of curses
A stubborn perfect storm
of words
has taken out parental dam
and blown out toward the Bay of Freedom
to the sorrows of her day

The river may crack its whip
But its got nothing on her

nothing is left standing
in her way
Heavy Hearted Jun 2018
The river winds in from distant lands
With mercyless power it turns stone to sand
Through its mysterious life, the very earth it commands
And Yet the fearful river still runs through our hands.
In torrents of furry where the deepest currents flow
The rivers wild waters surge with woe. For
Onward, forever, its destined to go
A permenant home it won't ever know.

The river runs from each of us
As a refugee of fear,
It knows in a blink it will be somewhere else
Its waves are really its tears.
It runs from the audacity  
Of the selfish human mind
As Its massive life capacity,
Of flora and fauna combined,
Are threatened by our antics and helpless to our crime
So the river runs on their behalf, from everyone, in time-


even within its whitecap foam
Water's yearning for a home

So roam does the water- endlessly,
till its long gone out of sight
The essential droplets of the river-
Nomads day and night.
KaylaMarie Sep 1
Forgive me for being so disoriented, everything is crashing over my head and building up pressure that is begging to be released.
The ropes around my wrist are gone but the gashes they left behind are still bleeding.
I still feel helplessly bound to you. I still feel just as captive.
The voices from the cave are still echoing in my mind and despite how far I swim into the sea they rise above the roaring of the waves.
The water is freezing my bones but it isn’t nearly as cold as living in your lies.
You brought me to a land made of ice and shadows and you convinced me to call it my home.
Now I’m running away the best that I can.
I keep telling myself that eventually the current has to meet the shoreline but the waves keep rising up and if I’m honest, I’m tempted to let them take me under.
My choice is having my lungs cleansed by the water or having them drown in your deceit.
The cave is miles behind me so why does it feel like I could be pulled back in at any moment?
Why does it feel like you’re chasing me with stronger chains to bind me by?
I’m getting tired of wading and the voices keep growing louder.
I may be frozen but I will never be numb enough to escape the memories of you.
Let the waves overtake me.
Let the current force me under.
Let the waters have their way with me.
Let me finally find peace.
Gabriel burnS Oct 2018
Yellow,
October LEAVES
A word slips out
The door
To haunt my trees
Pleas in gusts of
DON’T
Sienna Dec 2018
The crowd rushes fast

Like a cold river stream

Watch it glisten and gleam

Or so that was a dream

The water's actually dull from what I’ve seen

And in view is slowly disappearing

I can’t keep up, I hear no cheering

Weight of words and isolation is instead what I’m hearing

Nobody no longer stands in the window peering

The last fades out of sight, which is what I was fearing

I’m all alone, burning eyes become searing.
Philipp K J Mar 1
You want everything excellent from him
Can't afford, understand how much he burnt
Of his self the candle, the oil turned
Low in the pail, the toil to see you can't.

Not to fail to prevail hard he takes his tool
Every time you try to derail his profile cool
With loud laments upon the un-attained
Without standing  a while in praise of what's gained.

A soothing word of grace for the acts that comprise
In fact parts of him too a human caprice.
Some eternal fuel supply the sheen
From an unknown source we believe
Hide beyond the cosmos we live.

For what he does is not his power
But whose behind him under cover
With patented rehearsal who hold
The instincts in his dream could code
And pull decode in no time with strings
His acts are bound per whose wish he springs.

But you demand him to excel and act
your script well and bewail
The one he couldn't afford the travail
The same might be against whose will
That he may over do the strain
whose strings may not hold the sprain.

But since your love is visible to him
Surrenders he like a child in its prime
But you want him to pay rent, a
tenant
For the love space you render and bill
To see your live wish currents to fulfill
Knowing or unknowing the fact a crime
That his talent circuit may get defunct
If he over loads to make you pleasant.
Note: 'You'can be either He or She in a relationship. Here the 3rd person he and his are used for convenience. It can be read substituting with  she and her in his place.
Thanks for reading :)
Ira Desmond Nov 2018
The downward momentum is clear to me now.
The engine has built up a full head of steam.
I’d try to stop it, if I knew how.

The fires of industry must burn on somehow;
they tend to burn brightest when fuel is extreme.
The downward momentum is clear to me now.

When currents are surging, we shouldn’t allow
the jingoist fringe to swim in the mainstream.
I’d try to stop them, if I knew how.

Civility means more than I can avow,
but poems can only allude to a theme:
The downward momentum is clear to me now.

Each click of a mouse that shouts holier than thou
is a cog in a treacherous clockmaker’s scheme.
I’d try to stop him, if I knew how.

We worshipped the circuit and forsook the plow
in search of a false technological dream.
Our downward momentum is clear to me now.
I’d try to stop us, if I knew how.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~

so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason

eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach

this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt

what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember


"how fragile we are"

so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,


poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,

here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered
4/11/16 8:04am nyc
Ashley Chapman Jun 2018
We fall,
and hard,
and in the shadows,
***** ourselves on snags,
that tear our clothes;
grazed and cut,
we stagger on -
Impressions, ideas, fancies!
Of these have we been disabused.

But is this spring,
come again?

Lovely,
yesterday,
in the bright sunlight,
to see you,
felt green hat in among the photo clouds,
apple suedes on the gallery's dank floor.

Melvyn,  
and I,
merrily circling with you the light cloud images,
my nostrils full of pollen spikes.
The pictures:
wisps of trailing dreams churning in ‘scapes of infinite blue;
dark clouds,
in amongst them,
too.

Photographs in two time places
caught;
at once, all:
the other and t'other.

So excitement swells,
and everything besides us quells,
because the knowing of itself,
knows,
and dares beyond the frames;
to skirt knowingly the unsaid;
to want beyond the wounded past,
to pull things,
once again,
inside out.

In whimsy’s currents flow these thoughts,
these feelings,
these drives;
swirling in eddies,
so that as you sit,
on a summer’s day,
it moves,
a mirror to everything above.

The wavelets on the surface,
hammered into shape,
burn, bite and dazzle;
the sun’s flames leaping and dancing on ripples.

In the basement,
on the concrete,
your Y proneness shifts,
releasing knees on black-clad thighs;
two pendulums swinging,
brushing;
yawing metronomes in the cool,
coolness of my desultory thoughts.

Oh, what am I saying?
Feelings like reveries walk along these silver lips straying languorously.
These myths are too soon made,
carried one to the next,
one-on-one,
until contained no longer,
become new truths.
Visited an East End London picture gallery with a friend. Later, she texted me and said she had been called a *****, and I said, we're all that, too. Then I wanted to defend her by describing the intoxicting effect of her connection with me: her beauty.
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
Royalty
She dwells in the sea- green palace of her father
The mermaid swam alone on blustery days
The seed of the water god Neptune and a river nymph
Her beauty blind the sun and his morning rays

On days of boredom
She swam with the white dolphins
Riding high on heaving rolling waves
Other times with Omura's whales dive deep
Or play in a red coral reef bay
Tickling blue ***** that walked on the sandy bottom
Exploring the dark octopus caves

Floating often with the deadly jellyfish
Keeping her scaled tail very still
Or wiggling through the raging currents of the ocean
With the graceful ribbon eels

The day passed passed
She became weary
Came time to rest her head
Returned to the flowing green kelp palace
And did sleep on a starfish bed



All Rights Reserved @Tammy M Darby August 2013.
All Material Stored in Author Base
Eno Sep 29
And underneath
the blackness
filling up my
unused lungs
I saw my own reflection
on the water

It was the first time
I had ever seen
my own sadness
staring back at me

I felt strangely comforted.

Then the waves rolled in
Giants
Swallowing
Other giants

Could I go on?
Did I want to - if
this was all the world really was
made up of

Struggling,
Just to
keep
my head
above water

Raging
Stormy
and Rising
Always Rising
Threatening
To engulf me
unsure
if          to let go
or fight a little more.

Temporary
Reprieve -
A shallow cove
I love you
and
I hate you

It gives me time
To realise
I'm freezing cold
But floating
Inspired and written whilst watching Keaton Henson - Initium https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYLGxoNYwJ0

"And though your legs and arms may tire and your thoughts drift to those of slipping beneath... the physiological fact remains, while there is breath in your lungs

you will float"
Steven Cole Aug 2018
If I could be a better man
I'd have enough insight
To always come up with a plan
In times of trouble, danger, or distress
I'd keep my emotions under control
And never run out of rational sense
No circumstances would ever drown me
Or rise above my head
Because I'd know how to swim the currents
And land on solid ground instead


If I could be a better man
I'd have the courage to follow through
With every noble goal I set
And every appeal to selflessness
I am tempted to forget
There'd never be a task
I couldn't undertake
Even if it meant
My life was at stake
Money, time and resources
Would never grow on me
But I'd give of these objects endlessly
And at the end of the day
I'd still know how
To be completely and utterly free


If I could be a better man
I'd never fear the entity of change
But embrace this shrewd reality
Unhindered by its pace
I'd keep a face like solid flint
When revolution
Threatened to derange
At will I'd change my emotions
To better fit each phase
Each chapter of life
From page to page
I'd wire my brain to electrically flow
Smoothly and flawlessly
Everywhere I'd go


If I could be a better man
I'd never struggle with uncertainty
But always know what choice to make
No matter the options that lay before me
I'd never have to second guess
Overthink, obsess or stress
The presented realities and decisions of life
A special wisdom I'd possess
A knowing in my gut and heart
Of all that is my destiny
The truth itself becoming my eyes
Opening them to forever see
The truth through life to be my incline
Never escaping me



If I could be a better man
I'd always be a man of my word
Letting my actions always
Positively confirm the things you heard
I'd mean every syllable I spoke to you
With fiery convictions I knew to be true
I'd always know how to communicate
And wouldn't let grievous words
Separate
Relationships so vital and true
The stuff we're made for
And shouldn't undo


If I could be a better man
I'd be a fountain of virtues flowing
Ever going
Like a rumbling and roaring
and rushing waterfall
Dazzlingly Tall

Wisdom

    Prudence

   Diligence

  Patience

Courage

  And Emotional Intelligence

     Faithfulness

   Rectitude

  Purity

  Relentless tenacity

    Fortitude

      And overall confidence

                                            With surety


If I could be the perfect man
There'd be one thing I'd always know how to do
And that is, my friend, in all sincerity
Faithfully loving you


But since I know
I am far from perfect
I will do the best I can
And though I fail now and then
I will get back up
And stand
I will seek forgiveness
Down on my knees
Ask God for strength,
Grace and Mercy please
My weaknesses I'll count as blessings
And thank God I don't have to be
The Savior of the world
Superman
Who for comfort, has no need
Nathalie Dec 2018
Be forever gentle
with yourself

Sometimes we
are our most difficult
critics, muddled
in webs of our own
illusions...

It's healing to
discern between
the truth and what
we have been accustomed
to believe and conditionned
to think...

There is not greater
freedom...the one
where we realize
we are the creators,
the manifestors of
of our own reality.

We navigate the currents
The storms are often
times, of our own making.
But isn't that beautiful
for in that realization
we also know that
the rainbows and
the sunshine is one
we create as well...


~Nathalie
ryn Aug 2014
I am but a driftwood
All but forgotten from whence I came
A place where once had a name
A time when all was good

I am but a driftwood
Set myself adrift
Currents they lift
Bearing their latent gifts
I move as they shift
I'd protest if only I could

I am but a driftwood
Over a body so vast
Over wrecks with broken masts
Spiteful winds howl with angered gusts
An eternity that would last
Eroding my integrity like it should

I am but a driftwood
Know not of where I'm headed
Render me hopeful but will me jaded
Pillaged and plundered
Looted and raided
Swallowed and spat out, ocean's food

I am but a driftwood
Lost and forlorn out at sea
Awaiting land that would receive me
Take me in like I'm meant to be
Give me your sand, bury me completely
Keep me in the safety of your hood

I am but a driftwood
I remember the place from whence I came
A faded dream with a name
Still drifting away from all that's good
ryn Mar 2015
my whispers,
they float over the currents
braving the undulating waves in our overture...
around their necks, hung time-worn pendants

whispers...
struggling to convey my sentence
like wreaths adrift perhaps with hope
like a requiem filled perhaps with remorseful penance
but more like weakened footholds on a slippery *****...

this dream...
only spoke grandly of sprawling blackness
where nothing did gleam
only thoughts heavy but...
oddly weightless

except for...
a repertoire of transgressions...
raucous and obnoxious
mischievous taunts that pull me back
caging me,
enslaving me,
smothering me senseless

that was my consciousness
where second chances exist...
in faint sporadic eruptions
through the heavy curtains of uncertainty's mist

finally awakened by hastened breaths
heavy and laboured
as like previous temporary deaths

I could hear my heart
thumping...
beating...
fighting...
to set its beats apart

breathe deep...
allow the new day's air sink in
rise fully from sleep
wake up
and...
let today begin
Based on a dream.
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
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