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Cindra Carr Dec 2010
Sun-filled mornings burn bright
Warm smells of life dashing by
Squint eyed despair peeking out of the dark
Bright memories gone degraded by time
Broken life shuffles slowly by
Rings click on the spokes of a chair
Wheels turning slowly around
Bumps on the door jamb from failing sight
Lost mornings sunny dipped in light
Burns on the minds sticking to life
Soft darkness covering slow moving despair
Bright days dissolving into lost nights
Squint eyed despair and fumbling thoughts
Slow moving wheels and dangling legs

DivineDao Mar 2016
Somebody has to invent
a secluded discovery of self
bonfire pyre the onomatopoetic
first initiatives regarding

lust love liberated arts
put the non pun material into stranger feelings
artistic   liberty    loves     last

rascal rear view open window rewined front replicability dashing windbathed laughing heads roaring roads to . . . . . .

Tea at five and toast happiness
           is Highly

recommended    na
recovery from a stunning poetry overboard
plummenting fascinations
overwhelming meaning motions u ndulation*s
Sam Bowden Dec 2018
Shucking oysters is a dangerous task.
Only skilled, determined hands may apply.
Why so dangerous a task you ask?
Well, let’s see?
There’s the salt, the grit, the unforgiving need...
the slips, the stabs, the you and the me.
Our boats rock along a forlorn sea.

Sitting on the dock of my mind,
the sun's rays slap me sober,
as it refuses to set for seven hundred thousand nights...

Patiently present in the moment, I am, totally attuned to the task at hand.

She's anything but simple,
this complexly succulent woman I've stumbled upon,
Unearthed I have, with my bare hands.
Rugged exterior, jagged edges,
a clear warning for all to see.
But a gorgeous glory awaits the determined, the brave, the patient,
I have faith...

I have faith in such a glory beyond legend,
in such beauty beyond reason.
Just because something feels like a miracle,
doesn’t mean it’s impossible.
For if jade kissed a pearl as it slipped into the sea,
it still wouldn't rival her beauty.

We are a meeting of minds that could unfurl for all time.
As she lines her eyes in paint,
and stains her lips like crimson art.
She's always ready for war,
launching a thousand ships in my heart.

Like the Greek Odysseus,
I've sailed upon contentment's shore,
sipping your wine and eating your grapes,
now I only want more.
Eros, the bittersweetness, is clawing at my door.
I want to live with you in the gap,
between consumption and desire,
between winter's ice and between summer's fire.

Unknowingly I have,
peeled the wall paper from her frame,
where ancient tapestries shown from beneath,
a secret no man could keep.
The scars cut deep into the fabric,
marks of carelessness in love.
The family ties that tear,
the tears of lovers once here,
now there.

Warmth gives way to wind,
and fire gives way to need.
She pulls me close,
then pushes me back,
rocking along a forlorn sea.

And like the sea,
she breathes life into me.
A great roiling tempest of the heart,
with a fury that blows reason from the mind.

Tame, tame, squeeze...    l e t   g o.
Give it...       t i m e.

Still though,
questions fray at the edges of her mind,
and yet,
with the passage of time,
the sea will settle,
the tide will recede.
I have faith in love.
And faith in me.   

Sure footed I am, even as we,
not yet a "we",
dodging rain drops,
dashing through the city,
hand-in-hand, we don't slip.
I think thoughts, but bite my lip.

And while I sip, I think;
“She's anything but simple,
this dandelion seed,
floating in the wind.
Walls up, head down,
a determined doctor,
a surgeon steeled for the journey,
thawing beneath me she is...”

“The most beautiful immigrant I've ever seen;
On the platform of her mind,
she longs for a home, leagues from her homeland,
while I scratch at the dirt of my own.
Do I belong here?
Does she? Do we?
Where is home? Security? Acceptance? Belonging?
Who knows what the futures holds?
Allahu alam, not you or me.”

Uncertain of answers,
is this a mirage or a dream?
I can’t know for sure,
So I take heart in the Unseen.

I crack the oyster open,
and swallow it inside.
I sip life's ambrosia,
and breathe in the sky.

I'll crack The Pearl of Persia,
one kiss at a time.
An ode to patience in love.
DivineDao Apr 2016
Principally reeling the position of a poet and therefore its notable status that carries along and accumulates the prestigeous accolades, ****** privileges of being recognized as the last hollow aristocratic calling, praised and fanatically followed by the admireres, can never outlight the sheer genius's esprit shinning and shimmering throughout all the misplaced, lost, nearly long forgotten hand written poems sleeping in silent spaces, slowly drifting into oblivion ... dreadfully drowning into the anonimous mass, into the tragic matters of probable deprivations of any-kind.

Creation emerges mostly, when  "The Inspiring Must"  ignites the insightful subconscious Materia Prima, to break through the darkling waves of non-being, beating in a pace of a fluttering wings ascending from the foams of no-forms as an amazingly frightening, firey and wonferful swan, who gives the power and grace of the unknown { becoming reinvented, seen and discovered } to the artist's first curved lines of ink starting to dance as dashing colours, continuously played as a grand symphony of ideas, meanings, emotions and sounds conjured like written symbols all over different sheets of paper, little parchments scattered around, hidden in pockets, bags , drawers and notebooks.
So many excellent poets remain anonimous or unknown to the larger population of poetry lovers, for a various reasons. Their genius should be shared . . . poems for the soul, heart, mind, spirit, emotions . . . The Highest Art Is Music In Poetry

Thank you for reading ! <3
All the possible feedback is welcome :-)
Xant Feb 2018
He's up there
The lonesome astronaut,
with a will to fly,
and a skill of flight

He and a star
that have just collided
both dies gracefully
Like a flower withering in spring
But the star still haughty
And so full of itself it explodes
Into a supernova

He and the star
that emits the brightest light
And obscures the eyes
of whoever that sees
As he dies ever so faithfully

And the flaring light?
Blinds thousands as it emerged
in the darkest seven p.m.
But we were wildly astonished
by the lonesome astronaut
who was a dashing astronaut

A poem inspired by a song.
Vexren4000 Oct 2018
The pattering of small feet,
Running across the home,
Dashing of pets and children,
Times of peace and serenity,
Family and Strength,
Taken away from us,
By the modern world.

Steve Page Nov 2016
(spot the Carol)

These three kings of orient are  
unfairly competing with one little drummer boy,  
all dashing through the snow for the last boughs of holly  
to lay them before the King.

Meanwhile three ships come sailing in  
and certain poor shepherds leave their hot chestnuts,
each keen to hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace.  

in Royal David’s city,  
there are ladies leaping, pipers piping
and drummers …
drumming,  apparently.  
The restless cattle are lowing big-time;  
no wonder the baby’s awake.

All have come to proclaim the Messiah’s birth;  
the king-of-angels  baby who out-shines any wondrous star.  
A child born of Mary, on this most holy of nights;  
born to give us second birth:  
This is the Saviour who is Christ the Lord,  
come to redeem us all.

‘Come – receive – your - king.’

Merry Christmas.
I know it's early, but Season's Greetings. Written for Christmas carol concert at Ealing Town Hall Dec 2015.
DEE Nov 2018
There’s beauty in June

Sparkly!  its June in summer.
The leaves are bright and daze
The trees are ripe, and the Flowers are blooming with chaos
Swiftness is Dashing in the air. the sky is **** with bronze.

The Delights of sunray’s, The taste of Sage.
The woods are Timeless with Venus and Splendor.
The Clouds are Crunchy sizzling with navy and Dew.

The scenery is refreshing, and vineyards are dripping with oats
The Merry of Fowls Swaying towards the east
The respiration of haze to luminous day.
Surely there is Beauty in June
we don’t need
to be fixed.

we need to be
aware. open. owning it.

our pain, our history
our patterns, our spasms.

I've been fantasizing…

that one day you'd roll up,
like Richard Pryor at the end of Moving,
sitting atop a semi-truck of your whatnots,
war paint smeared upon your dashing,
wearing a tie bandana and bullet sash,
carrying a semi-automatic weapon,
after stalking your **** cross-country,
to the front of our gutted dream house,
after this misadventure, arriving, finally,
at home imperfect, thankful just to be,
there with delirious, Cheshire cat grin,
like a lion dragging in a carcass,
bloodied, brave and proud,
eager to greet my eyes and say:

Honey! Look what I found!
I found my ****!
I brought my **** home...
This is my ****.

and I would greet you,
with water-colored greys
inking down my dimpled peach,
in a black and white gingham apron,
heels, nylons and corseted vintage dress,
mirroring that ****-eater right back,
tray of warm hash brownies in hand,
that got nothing on my toasty sweet
lips dripping to say:

Your **** is lovely, darling.
It'll go perfect with mine!
It's up in the attic - properly labeled,
arranged and categorized.

and with that kind of
ownership, acceptance and bravery,
there is no way our stuff will ever be
more powerful than us, together,
merged and emerging,
by way of wings, soaring,
above our ****-spattered clouds.
if you’ve got me,
I’ve got you, too
Neon green sparkled through his orbs
like the hope residing in his soul
he stretched his arm
made to grasp it with his hand
but it had vanished like a passing wind
in a desert day of forsaken sand.

Neon green felt the desire
like his heart in deep dire
when the dashing star teased his being
he smiled as if he could finally mean it
didn't feel the light dying through his fingers
leisurely as the clock never stopped ticking.

Neon green extinguished in the blink of an eye
the hours mingled like melting ice
as his ear eavesdropped for the ring of a breath
when yearning hit it's final note
the sound of the end already approached
and it captured him tightly in a net of gold
as it vanished him vehemently from the appalling storm
and left the pieces that nobody saw.
Inspired by The Great Gatsby
ashley lingy Feb 14
i got out of his car
hopped on my bike
dashing through the neighborhoods
streaking down a bike path
squinting in the face
of an angry early morning sun

i stop

stumble off my bike

try to be discreet
***** into a bush

pick up my bike
wave to a jogger
force a smile

i head home
Eno Sep 2018
If you gave me watercolours and the talent to do my worst
I would paint you a watery scene where the colours bleed from grey to green
We would be in Venice
And you would be walking away
From everything we could have been

Off centre strokes a single gondola
Of blue black streaks in the rain
And smudged opposite
A brick built opening
A canal side doorway

But it leads only to the bottom of the Sile
Dashing any dreams I had
Of our deep connection
And of minds, fertile
For a love together;
Of intricacy and intimacy.

Let me be your Doge’s palace
Standing in honour for you,  
Or there will forever be a reflection on the water
Of the fading light in that cold September sky
The evening that could have been
Not a dark but a guiding night
Where our hands and our hearts
Find each other
And pull us up and over
The limitations of my cover -

My closest friend, this is the worst;
To know you
Is a blessing
But to love you
Is a curse
B Sonia K Jan 4
Transiting through and true
My coming and going has now become my undoing
From one place to the next
Never giving a rest
The constant vibration of my body cells
The resultant energy drain
Hunger pangs like ringing bells
Now a friendly foe.

Time passing by
Dashing out of every corner and place
With tongue covered in dry dust
And arms filled with heat of the weather
To give me a lick and a hug
Oh, what a bother
Jumping from bike
To cars
To busses and train
To a destination unknown
Just a movement with time
With memories worth more than a dime
From one place to the next
Never giving a rest
Come hunger and sun
Come Weakness and rain
With the freezing cold of greying age
Indulging time with its uncaring gaze

I will persist
For all I know is
I am in transit.
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