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Data Apr 2017
Today
I feel the ancient art returning
(slowly,    blood de-congealing)
I eat the gathering breath
of the long-dead poet
who now
rolls in
on this baptismal tide
forcing a way amidst the tiny
stones
 
gasping for air…
 
In a splutter of froth
you hear him whisper
‘I remember
this is sand!
This is where you buried me
it was here on this shaky land,
and when the sea came in
I drowned.’
 
Once more
I lie on the beach
(Iam) emerging,
my body washing to & fro
a pendulum gently prescribing time
to the soundless swell of crestless waves
with head lolling but eyes still finding time
 
to gaze at the endless blue
of the empty everlasting skies
to wonder
why resurrection
should happen here
where the the land and sea and sky
dissect so succinctly on this gritty line.
 
My murderers watch from the dunes
disbelieving,
Perpetuity beckons beyond the sun
and that prescience hung
on these warm lips
waiting
to be spoke
waiting to be sung
 
lingers in brackish air:
 
All slaves will rise but wither
(as before) (these are the tenets)
And kings will rule
as before and forever more
After all…
 
these things don’t change,
For here in the shifting sands are the cycles
and this is Eternity.
 
 
________________­_____________________
­
by Data © 2017
(Iam resurrecting)
kerri Mar 2016
the beginning
You dropped a seed.
I picked it up and gave it a home in myself.

the middle
It grew in my heart.
I cared so much for it,
Watered it,
As hard as it was, I even changed the soil surrounding it.
Blossomed into such a beautiful floret.

the end**
You left.
The sacred efflorescence shed its petals.
My soil wasn't enough for you.

bradlynn Jul 2017
it begins about mid-evening,
the edges of the rug being pulled
ever so gently.
intoxicated feet
do not notice a room slipping
beneath them.

it hastens nearer to morning;
as the magic carpet ride is
coming to a close
we begin to pat our bodies
& notice the things that fell from us.
sobriety. clothes. drugs. money....
ego   walls   pain

After inventory is taken,
the day starts without waiting for
your tired eyes.
oh, the saddest meeting of eyes,
with the swiftest passing of friends, drugs, memories, laughter
evening abliss.

I am dropped,
center stage -- reality.
at the same moment the drugs wear off. the last quarter is spent. the first rays of the sun peek through
and the last meeting of eyes
as the last glimpse of a shoe
disappears at the door's edge.

the rug has been pulled
reality
and the curtains have been drawn
slumber.
I spent too many evenings getting ****** up in hotels and trying to run from everything. this is my declaration of an old cycle
taylor styles Nov 2018
my sadness comes in cycles,
incomplete and abrupt.
tossing my thoughts around and around,
winding them together until they’re perfectly interlocked
and mangled beyond recognition.
the kind where one point ends,
and another begins had been blurred so beautifully
i no longer try to find a destination for the words that flow so violently through my conscious,
bumping into each and every corner
all to make sure it’s presence is known.

my sadness comes in cycles,
without warning,
baring only validation for its predecessor
taking every disgusting thought and helping them grow together,
offering no consideration for anything other than itself.

my sadness comes in cycles,
where it plants itself so deeply into my mind,
i can feel it’s roots,
draining me of all my life and energy
to makes sure it’s alive
and well.

my sadness comes in cycles,
where it carves anything it deems worthy
in to the bark of the tree
that has been flourishing in my mind for years.

my sadness comes in cycles,
where it wants me to just acknowledge that it’s here,
residing in every room of my body.
shutting off the vacancy signs that once illuminated the empty streets outside,
attempting to welcome somebody new in.
shattering the windows,
tearing down the walls i spent years building up,
stealing every key i made,
ruining every inch of my being in its path,
with no remorse or sympathy,
to look at the ruins of my body,
and feel accomplished.

my sadness comes in cycles,
acting as an innocent toddler,
throwing tantrums,
kicking,
screaming,
for everyone to see.
crying unapologetically
until i give it the attention it so desperately craves.

my sadness comes in cycles,
cycles, i no longer have control over.
Bettlejuice Jan 21
In this world,
good becomes bad,
bad becomes good,
realizing,
religions just a word.
life is what you make it.
Nesma Sep 2018
Dear Omar, my mother taught me to count each of my prayers on my fingers, so here we go...

The first time I fell in love with you was on a spring day. I was lying on the grass and you were lying on the back of my mind.

The second time I fell in love with you was last summer. Your deserted skin glistened a dune in the sunlight, and your hair danced to a breeze that was not yet quite there.

The third time I fell in love with you was this autumn. I unfolded piles and piles of myself trying to connect the weight of the word that is me to this season; each fall I fall for you.

The fourth time I fell in love with you was a couples of winters ago. The snow gave me cold feet, and was up to my frozen tongue; but each time I would look into your eyes I would feel a burn in my chest.

My grandfather thought that we get clarity from the dew of dawn but I have always found my prophecies in my Isha prayers; The fifth time I fall in love with you will be on a spring day. I will be lying on the grass, and you will lie on the back of my mind...
Pauper of Prose Aug 2018
When the moth no longer meditates on the cloth
When the fish fails to flit when it’s caught
When the calling crickets lose the will to whip up noise
When the eagle’s eagerness is evaporated along with poise
When all of nature neglects itself, adrift on its track
You’ll know for sure those feelings aren’t coming back
When that spark flickers feebly before flailing out
winter's brush
could not blend
the prints left
by your face

at the first
dew of spring
you renewed
dried up roots

with the last
summertime
you were near
as the sun

as I fall
for the ruse
my heart waits
under leaves

in the dark
now I see
that you've gone
til next year
Triple-meter prose, for the elusive
Caroline Nov 2018
The vague shadow of an ancient oak pulsing
Like an image through static
Through drifting fog
So thick that only the wind
Can lift it and let slip
The outlines of
Where I began.

My ancestry is incompletely buried.
The sharp rocks of drunken nights
Slice upon the roots
Disfiguring, pummeling, smashing,
Rendering mute the stories their craggy hollows could tell
Dissolving in that same fear
My grandmother must have known so well.

I don’t know how to find her,
To reconstruct a broken form
From all of these pieces
These fallen leaves that
Drift like secrets,
Like the ones my mother
Whispered to me in the dark
When I was nine and old enough
To hold them, to hold her,
When she fell apart.

Because they took them, you know.
My mother, her sisters, her brothers,
The county clipping the roots like
Plucking flowers,
Like it was nothing at all to scatter
Children in the wind,
Like fallen leaves upon the shallows
Of some lonely pond,
Like broken branches
Overpowered by a system that
Only wanted them
Gone.

So, you see,
It wasn't just the wind that ***** the tree,
But a system that decided
Whose voice to wipe away and
What to keep.

My ancestry is incompletely buried.
Sometimes, I'm sure I can hear her sobbing,
A broken, fragile song, emerging from the earth
Just where the roots, interlocking, stop
the dirt from completely blocking
The story of a battered woman
Buried for too long.

The vague shadow of an ancient oak pulsing
Like an image through static
Through drifting fog
So thick that only the wind
Can lift it and let slip
The outlines of
Where I began.

What if I run my hands along the bark,
The broken pieces, the empty spaces,
Where her voice might be?

Grandma, speak to me.
Just a poem for what I don't know about my grandmother and wish I knew. She had a hard life, grew up in a poor farming family, married an abusive alcoholic, lost her children to foster care, and died when I was small. No one seems to know anything about her birth family, or anything about our family history on that side. I wish I could ask her!
Keiya Tasire Jan 17
I stand with roots deep into my mother
With branches out stretching towards my father
And Light from the rising sun reflecting within my eyes.

Machi curing, Machi healing,
I sing your song. I feel your love.
Mi Pachamama
So full of love
Your flow of life, ever flowing
Your river of sound, ever singing
Your stream of light, forever shinning.
How can I ever cry when I am within your arms?

Arising with the warming sun
Flowing through the air on the breath of her winds
So softly the clouds release her love
As they are caressed by the tops of her mountains.

Her waters of love flowing…
Trickling down onto the forest
Gathering into the brooklets,
Streams, riverlets, and rivers
Satisfying the thirst of all her creations.

The sound of pan flutes filling my ears
The dance of chi coursing through
Even this body, this gift, this flesh.
Singing her lullaby
Embracing & soothing this tired soul.
Softly the winds bring the colors
Of her song into my beating heart.

Machi soothing
Machi healing. Machi Curing
Machi, singing me well with Her love
Mi Pacha Mama , so full of love
Your flow of life, ever flowing
Your river of sound, ever singing
Your stream of light, forever shinning.
How can I ever cry when I am within your arms?

Healing, Soothing, Curing, Love
I sing your song. I sing your love
Mi Pacha Mama…
We are each born and sustained by elements of the earth. We are born from the earth that gathered within our mother's wombs and sustained by the plants, airs, water, minerals, and the warm life giving rays of the sun. One day we will give our body back to the earth as our spirits soar towards the heavens where our Father in Heaven and Mother Earth reside.
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Am I really that uncouth?
Have you lot yet worked out the truth.
The **** I write, it's so contrite.
I know you're dim
but I thought you might.
I've been feeding bananas to you all.
Big bananas, none are small.
All are bent, of course they are.
Enough's enough, it's gone too far.

Dear Voyeurs, to all my fans.
Some ride cycles, some drive vans.
for M&Y, yeah you're the guy.
So I bait my line and continue the lie.
But let's have it right, as well I might.
You wanted to play,
so pretended you're ***.
Now most I know aren't,
but one or two do.

Boiler repair guy with the twinkly eye.
Bent over in two, I spank with a shoe.
And all that he asks is, I call him Sue.
So I have him pegged,
for that's what he begged.
But now he knocks on my door
wanting much more.

******' Big Bent Bananas
by Kaydee.

(slurp, slurp)
Threw some big bananas out today.
Hope you all enjoyed the show.
How many of you busted a nut?
*******, none of you can even walk straight.
M&Y, Regenda, Big time Charlie, and you lot at 4am the taxi rank?
Not understanding what or why I'm doing what you can see, you just drank it all in.
Well here's some more. Only difference is here, just like I do mine, you all know your own truths and what is absolute *****, eh boiler repair guy!
Go on then drink it all up!
slay Jul 2018
Show some patience for me please, im sick of all the instant gratification
Pop a chill pill just to breathe, cause all I see is violent recreation, okay then
Bought a necklace then I sneezed, my neck, my heart, my veins they all are frozen, but I’m chosen

I’m coastin ,
Now for the moment
Sip mimosas, with my feet up
She roll the **** up
My little Nina
Shorty got me drinking just to stay up
I feel messed up
Get fed up
Always gotta hold my money closer

But I miss her
She was like a soulmate and a sister
Then she dissed me, I dissed her
But she came back around like I had kissed her

I walk a line so ****** thin, sometimes I think I’m on a one way track to heaven
Never busted on a lick, because my mind is already a prison, I’m Satan
Hit the break so hard and skid, I can’t believe I’m even here to say this, but when you’re famous

You stay blameless
Blinded by the limelight and the danger
I’m no stranger to her pain, though
She holds on to me and never lets go
Baby, let’s go
She tried to tell me no
Put her hands on me but I enjoyed it

All of Her frustration, I endure it
She cycles back to me, another boredom
Can’t replace me and she knows it
But that doesn’t stop her from searching

Please don’t make this complicated, I just need some time alone to fix this
I keep going cause it hurts so bad to look back the past really got me trippin, from a distance
I’m so sorry Didn’t see you standing there my thoughts are cloudy, tunnel vision

Bae, mind your business
We aren’t there yet
And I’m gonna pretend like you ain’t say that
But you hurt me, can’t forget that
I said I forgave you and I meant that

She blew me over
I’m never sober
I think I’m in love, I never told her
So how come I’m not with her?
She’s my twin flame mirror
I can, I can’t fix her

Never mind, I might just try anyway
Give the world to her, she’s my Francis Bean
Why’d they give a heart to me anyway?
I’m gonna break it just to see what’s on the inside
And if I can, just to see how many times
If I can empathize
Make me second guess myself, I won't fight
I've got so much living left inside this life, but
This life's in my head eating myself alive
If I push the pain aside,

I know I hesitated once, but just know that I will never be mistaken.
Once I learn to trust my gut, these ******* won't even know that it was me who hit them, I'm just playing, and
Maybe by the time I'm done, I'll be a person who even I, myself can live with.
Rings of sleep met my hands, and promised
to wed my lashes, to close. The moon's pupils
acclimated to dusk's orbit, poisonous cycles with
durable antidotes. Starlight circulates death herself,
inaudible, a sobering shadow.
I've lasted by her words progressing,
as I'm no longer here. I faked debt with
her, to try and feel my 'normal' a belted, altered
maker of happiness. They aspired plastic sapphires,
chipping diamonds and bluebells for graves, they took
a dip at my faltered breath- and wanted more, a suicide
note bolted with fantasy;

"The poetry is beautiful,"

"But I just haven't died yet,"
----------------------------------
Lots of people love my poetry. And tons of people say they want my gift, but, I only have this because of all the bad stuff I've been through. You want something I'd give up in a heartbeat- trust me.
All feedback is welcome
Senor Negativo Sep 2012
No sirens are heard the morning is still,
Hope awakens, a vibrant animal
It was never dead, only hiding.
Modern individuals, can reveal
The root of their plight, let old wounds heal
Daughters, allowed to make their own decisions,
Mothers, remembered for loving care,
Fathers, passing wisdom to their children,
The hibernation of falsehood.
But what of those who never found these things?
To them we must give our fullest kindness,
We all were children once, and we all deserve love.
With forgiveness, justice, and harmony.
Let no further judgements be passed,
Let lovers rejoice,
Let shots ring out in celebration
Not as signals of termination.
These cycles never end,
But what festered yesterday,
Today can be healed.
Let lovers lie together in bliss,
Absorbed in communion of affections,
On this day let us heal each other,
As we heal our world,
One individual at a time.
Kyara Robinson Nov 2018
Round and round up and down here we go again coming back to play the same game over and over again

I hurt you you hurt me oh my god when will this end

I’m tired of us being sore while we constantly play this game of tug of war

I love you I hate you you don’t do nothing for me but please don’t touch the door
that door is the only thing stopping us from freedom stopping us from feeling this pain if we serious what is there more to gain

we get the strength to touch the door but here We come wanting more
have we had enough have we suffered enough who we thought we were is starting to lose touch

why is this so hard to give this up We get the courage to leave I’m free turn to say bye and there you are at the door so

          We give it a try once more
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")**


I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone, with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints, super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash

I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already ****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.

This summer, beloved,
and love of summer, deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling pops.
^ See "The Summer Alphabet of Woman (I Speak Woman)"
August 23 2013

^^ See "Made the bed backwards"
August 24 2013

^^^  See "Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians"
August 22 2013

^^^^ See "* Acorns in August (Sonata for Summer Cello and Fall Piano, No. 3)" August 19 2013



* Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old
Shiny Aug 2018
Feeling never ending cycles of
Greatness and misery
Trapped in a world of illogical ideas
Every thing seems so bothersome
JT Sep 2016
I don't know what he was to others—
   fireworks, lemonade, ants crawling on a picnic blanket—
   but I always knew him at his worst.
He was sleep cycles shaped like carnival pretzels,
   days that bled together,
weeks that clumped like a rat king
   under floorboards in the beach house.
He spoke in clouds
   swollen with diluvian rain,
daggers of lightning
   cracking the river in half,
the language of a muggy body in sticky room
   staring out a window
at absolutely nothing.
   The sort of stuff that makes me think
he didn't know his own strength,
   most of the time.

As always, when he died this year
   he died by degrees,
bedridden in the hospice of September.
   I listened to his death rattle
 of rustling yellow leaves
   and watched the last of the fireflies
crawl from between his parted lips.
   When he went cold for good
I built a pyre out of his firewood bones.
   The ashes fell into the soil
like seeds in waiting, and I watched
   the moon grow so large that it stretched
the nighttime like candy licorice
   and made it longer than before.
My duty done, I turned to go.
   The smoke rose up to embrace the sky,
and at the time, I could have sworn
  that from the corner of my eye
I saw it curl around
   and wave at me.
version four point something.
carminayasmin Sep 2018
tonight when I fled from my cage,
I was secluded from my own head because
all it called upon was you. echoing and echoing.

like a mother aches for her lost child
I was
gnawing the skin on my fingertips
rustling the ends of my hair into knots
biting numbingly into my tongue
all so nonchalantly
like a fool.

who is so simply chasing his own tail
in circles and circles and circles and just such endless cycles

until they send themselves to sleep
23:22
there was just this endless river of words that had just been so congested inside of me and I don't know why last night it all came spewing out
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