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I stand before you,
A man. If you can’t see
All the things that I am,
I’m not content to hang around
As the retirement plan.

I’ll never boss you around,
But that’s not because I’m weak.
It’s because I have the security
To let you be you,
And me, be me.

I stand on my own two feet.
And I don’t ever base my self-esteem
Off some meaningless number
Of late night creeps.

I’ve searched my own deeps, for
A healthy conception of masculinity -
And this is a long-term investment scheme;
So I ask, can you appreciate what patience means?

Without games, on an even plane,
No cliché lines or insincere sayings.
You can always find another “strong-type,”
One of those paper-thin cut outs
From the book of male stereotypes.
Still, truth untold,
We both know -
It’s unconventionality
That makes a diamond
In the rough.

I have learned that
Determining a diamond’s cut grade
Goes well beyond
Simple measurements,
Like width and depth.
To determine
A diamond’s worth,
You have to test
Its light performance.

Even if a stone seems
To have color and clarity,
You can tell a real diamond
By how it catches the light,
Disperses evenly across the rock,
While a fake becomes almost transparent
As saturated light moves through it.

In another poet’s words:
Some [folks] recognize the light
But they can’t handle the glare.

I’ve also learned that appraisal of a diamond
Is determined by its own proportions.
You have to test for symmetry.
Does it seem to be high-grade carat
While you’re around?
And karma, karma, chameleon
To cubic zirconium,
If you’re visiting
The other side of town?

The thing is,
I’m not really here
To expose other contradictions.
I just want you to listen.

I want to talk to you
About how chivalry is not dead.
Look you right in the eye,
And tell you why. Talk
About how romance
Is still very much alive.
So, no more wind-whispered cries,
About how good manners have all but died.

Some might call such confidence conceited,
But I’m not recarving any hieroglyphs.
This type of affection is ancient,
So help to embrace it. Engage we -
With extensive emotional foreplay
And intellectual tongue-kissing;
Way before incense and candles get lit.

And tonight?
Let’s try starting over
With a night out on the town.
The recipe is simple: good food and
a place that's quiet enough for conversation,
maybe a jazz spot, if you’re down.

Or maybe, we could catch
A late-night flick
That really makes us think.
And when we’ve talked ourselves dry,
Neither one of us
Would mean a goodbye,
So we’d retire homewards,
And unwind.

Because I do want you,
The right way.
I want you,
And I want you to want me, too.
I want you to want me,
Just like I want you.

No stress for you,
Or for me.
If these rivers are meant
To find their way to the sea,
It should happen, naturally.
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
Zowie Georgia Apr 2012
They walk beside me
                                      always late for something.
                                         Quickening loafers
                                   compete against themselves        
                                  emphasising their importance.    
                                       Choking on their breath
                          in an over-zealous attempt to identify
                                             What's freedom?

                                          This fastened reality
                                         Punctures inner peace
                                          my energy disperses
                       Like a balloon buzzing as it loses momentum.
                              When did Life become a marathon?
                            When will I decide where I want to be?
                         ­         Conversations shout themselves out..
                  an energetic argument before their words reach the air..
                          Will you ever confront your disguised pains?
                                            My mind's elsewhere..
                                           I'm trying to figure out
                         the last time I saw your body unclench itself.
                           ­                 And i'm a little confused,  
                         because I don't know whether to accept your denial
                                                          ­        or
                                    continue to disconnect from reality.  
                                                     And I question,
           If we all mirror eachother, what part of myself cannot find peace in you?

                   ­                      I observe this anxiety in motion
                                               stuck forever in a hurry
                       leading itself down roads that end where they began.
                                                  And I wonder,
                                           If their legs were to rest
                  would they have to pick their head up from the floor?

              ­                             Like buddhas in a city,
                               their lives are a fast forwarded tomorrow
                                       as the present hurries along.        
                                                   And I ponder,
                   Does the truth stop blinding when silence doesn't teach?

                                             A quickening motion             
                                         Changing with every step.
                                                 human race...
                                                       ­ Go! 
                                            Chasing of thy death..
A red jumper
in the airing cupboard,
thrown over a pipe,
drooping like it had melted.
“Académie culinaire de Toulouse l’enfant”
on the breast in fractured, iron-on plastic.
It was perfect.

Something that wouldn’t be missed.
I took my sister’s wave-edge scissors to it.
I took it to bits,
all but a jagged circle of a sun
full of furry solar storms
of thread ends.

I ignored the red fluff
falling slowly
like so much ****** snow,
mixing into carpet fibres
under my bare feet.

And my heat
Disperses into invisibility
everything but the colour,
like any memory will.


A green t-shirt,
it looks up at me lostly,
toyishly small,
from some forgotten shop
bought at some forgotten time.
A childhood comfort still smiling
but not soft anymore.

The front’s all robots smashing apart tower blocks
with tin pincers and laser vision.
People’s screams of indicision.
Staticky speech bubbles,
broken car windows,
exclamation marks.

And a Marilyn monroe type
in the midst of the fray,
bra half-undone,
hand cupped to her mouth
Calling into some furious colonised sky
into which I pinned my sun.


A cornish cream baby grow
with grandmother stitched flowers
hours of sowed leaves.
A polka dot horizon
and an orchard's evening shadow
from a lifetime’s washing.
It showed.

So I sowed my mechanical horrors
and it’s crimson fear atmosphere
onto the pastel world.

And now it’s all there.
A poem about how we attach every new experience onto how we see the past and how that might change our feelings of what the world is.
aria xero Nov 2012
Exceptional grins of jagged pearly whites
adorn skeletal masks
suffocating your mangled breath
as curled fingertips scrape against dirt.

Flesh, charred and soiled
hangs brilliantly from serrated bark.
Bleached bone barbed at the spine
where charcoal dragons dig infected beaks to feast.

A single mountain of shadow stands
before lacerated skies
a portal of inviting mayhem and madness
concrete pathways twist to its starving mouth.

Horned beasts hobble on disfigured limbs
dragging their sins across heated ground.
Hungry for souls dipped in blood
the scent of rot disperses like fog.

Rickety witches stir boiling cauldrons
with ossified tendrils,
saliva oozes from cracked lips
as you're watched from a distance.

No escape from the blackened sludge
as it wraps on the nape of your neck,
gurgle out pitiful screams of fright,
welcome to halloween.
Senor Negativo Jul 2012
He disperses like a tame cat
consumed by sober clarity!
Letters shrinking in one torn down area
his impermanent antisocial self righteousness.
Never a bottle in his hands he sinks
never affecting change in anything!

With determined stride outside
those who don't labour dying on societies cost.
Never with a cat they seem to carry around most proud and smooth.
To no one he is a sunken benefit on death's path he is found!

This shrinking letter who give a toss
stand still like a functional individual!
Contributing everything, but stopping strife a temporary petty threat!
Shrinking as society stops coming together from the top it will end!

Purity, modesty and charity the new news society won't uphold!

The Blind Author.
eyes of sea
caged wingbeats
the only hint
behind the visage of indifference
the shroud that daylight imposes
and darkness disperses

for beneath lies
whispers of oblivion
that draws forth tears
mixing sleep and wakefulness

granting more peace
than the glittering sands
written in 2010
Would she make me feel it's ok just being me,
the greatest gift another human can bestow?
How could I ever repay thee?
In spades: I'm gonna havta love ya  till I prove
perfection is a predicate of you to you,
perfect darling Babydoll,
last lady left with a  ladylike soul.
Where are ya?

I have lived a million years,
I have lived 10,000 lives.
Grey eminence to sun kings
and I've been the Prince of Slime (100 times).
I was Duncan Macleod's wingman until he died
- my 1st dates are legion, Space WLTM Time.
Lyrics to 'Sympathy For The Devil'
can't hold a  candle to my travels.
The sherpas of Jupiter
and bedouins of the solar winds
led me where they could  
and then I left them far behind.
When titans sat on my NHS specs,
flew my ship 1000 miles purblind
just to be that starman
who crashlanded on your planet,
my Babydoll to find.  

Bukowski says love's a dog from hell,
Eros as Cerberus.
Yin and Yang need counselling
from J-Dogg and the G-Nius.
Security stands between us
and the Age of Aquarius.
But dontcha know  whole horrorshow lasershow
will after all transpire divine,
once Babydoll's and my lifetimes align.

Jebus pace his cloud, checking his watch night and day.
John Lennon's like a Black 'n' Decker in his grave.
The gyres of samsara creak out screams in vain.
Cherubs in their choppers scour the astral plain.
But bang to crunch the cosmos will be peachy cool,
once Babydoll's and my souls and bodies fuse.

Shedloads of solar systems, can't list 'em,
and I've surfed the centuries
- here my Cinders is, cleaning up catshit!
Babydoll, geddoff your knees!
Dispel dismal dreams of mummy ****
and losing yourself in Marbs;
there's dust on my jacket from battlefields
older than the notion of Love
(what remains of worlds
where the only way was Mars).

Like the Lorax in a hoverchair,
thru the last black hole in despair,
Stephen Hawking typed 'sigh' then the sinking ship
of the Age of Starlight he did quit.
And on the coattails of his chemtrails,
Babydoll and I, off we sail
into the sunset of the event horizon,
catch the Face of God with its flies undone.

Babydoll, it's a mundane Monday,
talc'd bra and gender gap pay.
But on walk to work, silvery alleyway beckons:
a DeLorean from D7.
Spacetime schmutz springing gullwing disperses
- voila! Your Mr.Right out of all the multiverses
steps out to save you from the end of life as you know it
and the continuation of life as you know it.

I have scanned animal, mineral and aerosol,
and when I wish upon a star, it's for Babydoll.
Sisyphean stars like rolling stones snowball
more space. Starcrossed like Romeo and Spidergwen,
engagement ring of unobtainium
will only fit perfect darling Babydoll,
last lady left with a ladylike soul.
Where are ya!
J-Dogg and the G-Nius = (Brit. slang) jocular pseudo-hiphoppy  monikers for the UK talkshow host, Jeremy Kyle, and his head counsellor, Graham 'the Genius' Stanier.
Caroline Grace Feb 2012
Trapped in the definition of his interior,
he had become an invisible thing.

In moods deeper than dark ebony
repetitive folding and unfolding of nefarious reasons
pushed him to step outside his restricted vision.

Lost perhaps?
Or provisionally eclipsed?

A luminous slash hinged his door,
the cicatrice between brooding paralysis and explicit dreams.


Here on the ledge,
teetering on the cusp of obscurity and mountains blinding peak,
his sight catches a net
streaming from an open window-
billowing freedom.

A metalic thread glitters through him,
its coppery tang branching across clenched fibres
igniting his fingers, his tongue.

A mute cloud disperses.
He stands in the presence of a revelation.

Through the smoke of his eyes
he steps off the threshold
plunging into burnished sun,
his head incandescent with foreign scents.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
written for a friend who has recently won his battle against agoraphobia.
Pia Capiral Jul 2014
When I Learned to Run*

I Walk and walk and walk
Eyes are at my every step
I walk and walk and walk
Lips are narrowing my way
I walk and walk and walk
Few smiles, thousand grins

I walk and walk and walk
I stumble, fall, it hurts
My vision bubbles shame
My chest feels the surface of humiliation
I feel the gravity against me

The utters weakening my bones
It disperses all over me
But my heart holds sturdily
And so,
I kneel, launch and stand

My ears are back to reality
I walk and walk and walk
My feet, ankle, knees stronger
I Walk and walk and walk
One… two… three...four
I run, stronger, faster
Paul d'Aubin Oct 2015
Adieu chère maison de mes ancêtres

Cette fois ci, le sort en est jeté,
Les acquéreurs improbables, les propriétaires chimériques,
ont consigne la somme convenue sur les fonds du notaire.
Et toi, chère maison, tu vas changer de famille et d'amours.
Désormais, nos enfances envolées, ne retrouveront plus le secours,
des vielles boiseries et des tapisseries centenaires,
de toutes ces armoire en châtaignier et ces commodes de noyer,
auxquels nous rattache encor comme un fil invisible,
tant de senteurs, d'images et souvenirs fanés.
Et le tic-tac mélodieux de la vieille horloge dans l'entrée du 19.
Et ces mansardes, chargées d'objets hétéroclites que nous aimons tant fouiller.
Quant au jardin qui aurait pu être un parc,
comment oublier ses massifs de groseilliers et ses fraises des bois ?
Et les plants de rhubarbe, la sauge aux grandes vertus, aux dires de grand-mère.
Ainsi que les allées de marguerites, attirant les abeilles,
plus ****, remplacées par des rosiers blancs, roses et rouges si odorants.
Cette maison de famille qui résista a tant de coups du sort,
a péri des impôts et des frais d'entretien du jardin,
du manque de modernisation aussi. Alors que tant de logements sans âme étaient construits.
Surtout de l'âge et du départ de sa chère maîtresse, ma mère, qui y avait trop froid et ne pouvait y vivre seule.
Et aussi un peu, ma franchise l'admet, du manque d'initiatives et de goût pour l'association de nous tous, de notre fratrie.
Certes l'on pourra trouver bien des excuses.
Les uns furent trop ****, les autres manquèrent de moyens.
Mais dans mon fors intérieur,
Je sais que cette maison manqua surtout de notre audace et de notre courage commun a la faire vivre.
Aussi notre maison de famille fut comme abandonnée a son sort par ses enfants disperses par la vie.
Pauvre maison, nous n'avons su te garder; puisses-tu tomber désormais dans des mains aimantes, artistes et vertes !

Paul Arrighi
Miceal Kearney Oct 2010
'Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?' — William Blake

On this night
black as innocence lost
buses, taxis, aeroplanes
plough with broken furrows
the fields of Castleknock, Dublin 15
after which the wind from a bottomless bag
disperses the tears
of every parent, shed
to fall on disturbed tarmac.

Before the rays of the sun
make pale the moon
and extinguish street light:
with ******’s needle
and rotting reed, blot
in moon black blood
this balcony where I make myself scarecrow
keeping a watchful eye
for all the children taken.
Frank DeRose Jan 2017
She whispers slow,
Soft, seductive secrets. 

She sashays with stealth,
And deposits a million kind kisses

Upon these,
My tired and listless lips. 

She breathes beauty,
Boldly inflating me. 

She summons my soul
From its deep and haunted hollow. 

She comes closer and closer with confidence,
Knowing that I am coolly complicit. 

(As ivy climbs its tremendous tower,
So too do I grow gratefully into her.)

She lifts my life,
And we float free of fear. 

Far, far away from here. 

To a land of longing long-forgotten,
Where all are secure in their insecurities. 

She takes me there,
Loves me with tender care. 

And then, with not a word,

She softly dissevers,
And departs.

I am left alone.
William A Poppen Aug 2013
Light surrounds
people, flowers, even
oysters on the half-shell.
Invaded by auras
unnoticed by others
I gather emanations
from fixtures, furniture,
and glances
toward your silhouette.
No object
radiates surrounding rainbows
nor disperses an essence
brighter than what
drops from the ringlets
cascading around your neck
when my insanity peaks.
Nora R May 2015
Her bare feet and palms are the shade of half ripe maroon dates.
Her strong silhouette, a gazelle at sunset.
Eyes are dark brown granules of coffee.
The clanks of gold jewellery on her forehead and ankles,
her sweet aroma of roses fused with jasmine saturate air.
Her fiery soul - a wild Arabian horse yet untamed by bedouins.
Her sun kissed skin glimmers under sunlight;
falcons are constrained with the touch of her fingertips.
She stands tall as she carries her pride,
tall as she hums with the gentle birds.

We ancient women, are an unbroken chain of tribal ancestry,
interlinked by blood and soul. Our lineage, a mother's lullaby,
carried by the wind that disperses sand,
wind that shakes  the core of oceans.
Agnis Lynota Apr 2013
The stars dance and twinkle all night long,
until I walk onto my porch because there's always something wrong.
I speak aloud all of my sorrows and regrets,
All while smoking too many cigarettes.
My smoke disperses over the clear night sky,
making it cloudy so the moon doesn't see me cry,
but the moon sees and hears me every night
it's the only one who understands all that I write
because it is the only thing that desires to truly know me,
I'm not who the surrounding people see
I have such a heavy heart and eyes full of tears,
But I hide them away when the moon disappears.
Oh how great of a listener the moon is to all of my feelings,
because no one else cares under these acoustic ceilings.
Standing in the crowd I was
Surrounded by strangers
In the dead of night.
People from across the globe
Connected through this single
Experience. Sharing tells
And their walks of life.
The ball drops
And confetti springs
People look around in awe
As I look to
My right,
My left,
My front and back
I'm not surrounded by strangers
The Portuguese behind us,
the Brazilians to my left,
The 7. Foot New Yorker in front
The spaniards to my right
N in my group two new friends
From 2 hours away.
The crowd disperses
As we all say good bye
Carrying with us the joy
Of new life, friends and
An experience that connected
Us all.
tick tock tick tock
the sand of time disperses
i'll be an inventor
invent my fairy tale
mary sue be my name
everybody be my friend
prince be my knight in shining armor
a majestic palace will be where we call home
skies always be pretty blue
fields a grassy green
we will all live happily ever after
sand of time is almost all scattered
after all sand castles were never stable
my alarm clock attempts to wakes me up
i'll wish to never wake up again...
tick tock tick tock
life goes on again till the day my clock expires..
Paul M Chafer Mar 2016
Purring, the big cat, prowls though the city,
Her grace resonating in the words of youth,
The rhythm of life beating within her heart,
Pulsing in the melting ***, of cultural truth.

Unwholesome disenchantments; dispelled,
Crushing obsolete views of old generations,
One World, concepts, sweeping all before,
Welcoming the progress of mixed relations.

A Bohemian feline of change, so constant,
Wisdom, truth, acceptance, riot in her roars,
New wave embracing, all colours, all creeds,
Bigoted ignorance fearing sharpened claws.

The multi-faceted face, of free London now,
Don’t hate those who sneer, offer them pity,
Their time disperses on Thames ebbing tide,
Purring, the big cat, prowls through the city.

©Paul M Chafer 2016
I recently performed this poem in the Chocolate Poetry Club In London and it was warmly received. (They are kind people.) It is how I view the city whenever visiting, how it makes me feel.  - I am writing poems, just not good enough to post, but thank you to those of you for your support, novel writing is going well, third book published this summer, hopefully.
A E Bill Jul 2011
I lay down on the covers and listen
to the sound that wood makes when it moves
when it moves so slowly you can barely notice
as spiders crawl on the soles of my feet
they move unashamed like the
Lepisma saccharina
commonly known as the enemy
or silverfishes
under my floorboards

I have got no meter
it makes me write like a renegade dropout
smoking outside the doors of
junior high
but this is not poetry I write
it's testimonies
of how I looked further and never found
much of anything

I'd sweep quietness away with one sudden movement
like when smoke disperses
with a waving hand I can expel
all that is wrong like if I
broke the best china and saw the violets
in pieces of porcelain on the floor but
I know that silence is thick and
nothing ever breaks against linoleum
sleeplessnxghts Nov 2013
The sunlight finds a crevice in the blinds to peak through and nudge me as in lay asleep. I am awakened by the gentle touch of warmth resting upon my left eye and cheek. With my eyes still shut, the chirping of the birds is projected in a much more distinct sound. I can feel everything, it is all heightened. Nature rises from its slumber and begins the day's work. Soon enough the sun hits it's peak and I can no longer hide away in my bed, avoiding life. It is time to face the world head on, and show it some kindness. I hear there is such thing as good karma. It's not that I hate life, I just don't show it enough love. And I may tend to despise every person walking over others to climb the social ladder, but I do not neglect the beauty of Earth and it's reflections on a minority of the population. Sometimes, I feel as if nature is the only sense of sanity left in the world which has mutated into a world of insanity and anarchy. The clouds are hovering over my favorite dogwood tree just down below, at my favorite park. I try my best to not let the tight constrictions of my thoughts encumber me in my goal of appreciating all of life's offerings. Once I pass through another fleeting day, the sun disperses underneath the mountains before I get a chance to wave it goodbye. As the luminous moon introduces itself to the stars floating around in the sky, I fall into bed beside a man who shows me no affection. I drift off into a peaceful slumber as my pessimistic thoughts engulf my mind into a state of manic depression, and I hate everything all over again. I cannot wait until the sunlight warms my face the next morning. If I make it that far.
natalie anderson Apr 2013
sitting inside my head
thinking, contemplating
wondering what could be
thoughts ripped through my mind
violently, unforgiving
the anger disperses slowly
anger from the interruption
now things are lurking
in the shadows
the corners of my mind
becoming more and more
now dashing in front of me
with no abandon
in my inner face
at my being, in my head
laughing as i go insane
and overjoyed that im now
out of my mind
Lee Janes Jan 2013
Within a room that shows me my breath,
Hairs stand alert on awoken skin,
My reddened eyes from last night's sin
Cause a smile, spreading illusion of death;

And through a double sheet of glass,
The light to my left gifts a pleasant view,
Vibrant colours cascade a wondrous hue,
That no painting in renaissance could surpass,

But does not last, and therefore, brings truth.
Vines hang their arms over weak fences,
Lovingly caressing with sweet tender kisses,
Stretching toward the ground fingers uncouth.

Tall trees reach for the stars throne,
Gallantly they stand in the background,
Alone, triumphant, and with silent sound
Hold their course like soldiers home-grown.

The industrial gloom weeps its ***** tear
And stains the window, ‘t does bear the light
Of broken branches; shining on a humble sight
Which illumes nests that Nature loves dear.

Birds build no foundation, while frosts breath
Engulfs the air, and smoke dances seductively
With heavy swirling mist, swaying her glee,
Hand in hand guides with him cancerous death.

Filthy sheep reside on the muddy fields,
Beneath blankets of the olde English cloud,
Hovering above cemented land over-ploughed;
Those show very well what modern age yields.

No rain, no subtle cry from heaven.
Long gone in retreat the grass of years past;
Sailing away over the horizon the ships mast
Which traverses the wild unknown region.

No flecks of blue glimmer in the sky;
Nor orb of fiery sun can be gazed upon.
Did the morning gift Auroras dim saffron?
Did it conspire and bring dullness to my eye?

Departed too have the scented flowers;
Even fruit hides away from their cradle,
No foliage, no bramble, laurel or myrtle,
All disappeared from ever shady bowers.

Honey is not made today, sulking are the bees,
And their cousins, shy-adventure disperses desire.
Evergreens remain, remain with adamant attire,
While their foes strip away naked their leaves.
Alysia Marie Sep 2018
I feel like a puddle in front of a school.
Having children jump in me one after another as they see me on the ground.
But every time you jump in a puddle,
the water disperses..
the puddle gets smaller from the water splashing out.
And oh my,
far too many feet have dipped their toes into the hollows of my being for me to feel functional.
I feel as if I’m shrinking like that puddle in a sense.
Tainted by ***** shoes making permanent alterations to my pre-existing form.
Maybe sometimes there’s no “adaptive responses.”
The only way for the puddle to fill and grow again,
is for more rain to fall.
But there are no clouds in this sky of “me.”
A bit of a ramble, but frankly I don’t know how else to describe the way I’m feeling tonight. Sometimes “nothing” says volumes- but it also is just that... nothing
Yours et cetera Dec 2013
"Hello," she croons in her ever-dulcet voice
Soft, fragile, musical
Like the petals of a white rose
Dancing in the wind
The delicate flake perches on your ear
Soon ignites as flame disperses all over
What is this passion?
Kindling in your heart
You had promised not to submit
To these intoxicating sounds
But your carnal desires prevail
"Come to me, dear Willow," you whisper in reply
And accept with open arms her poison
But you are too late
For she has wafted away
Like the elusive flame on the surface
Of billowing waves
Dear Willow. Will-o-the-wisp.
Amidst gray garlic skies

Swells a deafening despair

It laments the death of yesterday

And in its ineffable grief

Appears as a drop, yes a drop

It is green and resembles

A soft wind blown thus among clouds

By the ordinance of chance

Across black boulevards

And here the legendary

Taste of ashes fills the air

Where a single breath disperses

Galactic calculations through green glaciated lips
Jessie Latham May 2012
the summer disperses into
the asphalt
you disperse into my
& I cannot carry on

the sky was raw with
your pain
a pale blue and silent
just before the dawn

the wind will shift in
your favor
& I'll waver in my
to say you're wrong

the full moon seen in
the daylight
are all the words I ever
to tell you of my song
Geo Apr 2018
Blues and purples and reds
Blush and blood disperses
And rises to the surface
like milk in a coffee cup
Swirling and blending creating
a watercolour painting
In the shape of your hands
on my hips, my shoulders, my wrists
The tell-tale signs of our trysts

The bed is an easel and
your body is a brush
painting fast and rough
Lips and tongue a rough caress
making a mess of my neck
And the carnal clawing of nails
leaving a scene of angry red trails
that slowly rip up the fabric
keeping me together

And in this clandestine night
Right there on the mattress
Sew me into a new canvas
Capture the moment on my skin
So these moments may never cease
I want to be your masterpiece
Make me into art.
Paint me with your marks
Tear me apart.
judy smith Sep 2015
Horses are the love of your life, right? So it's only natural that if you are planning on getting hitched to the other love of your life, you'll want to include your horse in the big day itself. You could go the whole hog and have your horse carry you and your betrothed down the aisle and stand beside you at the ceremony - but that isn't the easiest feat to pull off, even with the quietest of mounts!

Luckily, there are lots of other ways to feature your equine passion at your wedding; whether it's just for the photo shoot itself, or by subtle touches at the reception.

Photographers Peter and Rosemary Morris from Photoshoot in West Auckland adore working with horses and have captured several horsey weddings. They say planning a wedding with horses is not all that different from doing anything else with horses – you need to have a well thought-out plan, but must be prepared to change that plan at any stage if problems arise.

"Try to keep things simple. Don't be too ambitious and plan to a level you are confident and familiar with, not beyond," advises Peter. "There is a lot to consider actually, more than most people realise. We've had a few horse weddings where the horses were eventually dropped from the day due to the extra logistics involved."

One of the prime considerations is transport. Most brides have enough trouble getting themselves to the wedding on time, says Peter. You'll need to call in some favours, and have somebody to prepare and transport your horse, which of course includes loading which sometimes is a challenge on its own. "Try and get your best and most trusted horsey friends involved to help sort transport, grooming and tacking up," says Peter.

Another key point is the bombproof-ness of your horse. How will he or she react to a large, rustling dress and windblown veil, a crowd of people who may be nervous around horses, and a different handler? Then there is the music, clapping and flapping decorations to consider, along with the added tension and emotion the big day brings.

"Will your horse be at the ceremony, or will you arrive on the horse and have it taken away afterwards? Do you plan to have your horse take part in the whole day, including the arrival, ceremony and photos? Are you riding ******* or in a saddle? Can you actually ride your horse in a dress?" queries Peter. "There really is a lot more to prepare and organise once you commit to having your horse as part of your wedding day."

Of course, if you can manage it, Peter says horses make a great addition to your wedding photos and this is the easiest and most fun part of the day. "The bride is relaxed, the crowd disperses and what you get in the photos is just a split-second, so even if all it not going so well you should still expect to get one or two amazing shots to last a lifetime.

"This is where 'horsey' photographers can help out, knowing how to get the horse's attention and even helping to lead and pose the horse or assist with mounting and dismounting if necessary."

Run through the entire day in your mind and think about how you want the day to unfold. Try to anticipate any pitfalls, so you can address these before they become a problem.

- Always have a Plan B. Have the ceremony at or close to a stable, where you are guaranteed shelter or at least a venue for the photos after the ceremony, if nothing else. Arrange this with a friend, local club or racetrack.

- Consider wind! The beach can become unsettling for horses very quickly, so bear this in mind when making wedding plans.

- If it's a beach wedding, be sure to check access and tides. High tide may limit access and only give you soft, dry sand to work with. Low tide and wet, hard sand offers the beauty of reflections if photos. If part of your day involves walking tracks and streams, have someone check the day before to make sure they are accessible and not flooded or muddy.

- Most importantly: keep the focus on yourself and make your wedding memorable for all the right reasons.

Elizabeth Jan 2012
I hear the roar of your truck engine as you wait patiently atop my driveway

I slide on my sandals hurriedly, slip out the door
Dressed in a loose, ripply top with my favorite shorts
Bouncy hair and glowing skin
Edible fragrances dripping off my figure, into your nostrils, in which drag themselves to the lobes of your brain, the taste buds of your tongue

And you
With your golden rod complexion, form-fitting black t-shirt, exposing the contours of your sculpted chest, loose Bermuda shorts
Complementary ball cap and aviators
The faint hypnotic smell of sweat and my favorite cologne that compliments your natural aroma perfectly

A playlist of songs reminiscent of old memories
Beats on my eardrums
"Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round!"
Our vocal chords stretch like rubber bands as we scream to these memories in motion

The beach is reserved for our use, or so we pretend
Together, we are alone on this small strip of land
I run to the sand, allowing my toes the comfort of such a familiar feeling
White hot, burning, tingling, relief within seconds as the warmth conducts and disperses across my skin

I unbutton my shorts and pull my top over my head, run to the waters edge in hopes of pleasure, alleviation from the gnawing humidity, liquefying my bones  
I submerge my head, fogging my mind, allowing complete relaxation to fill my entire being

I find you beside me as I surface for Oxygen
Beads of lake water cover you cheeks like melted snowflakes
You stand there, naked next to me, your clothes at shore

Your hands search my back, find the fasteners of my bra
3 un-clipped by your hungry fingers, which now travel to my hips
Tugging at the thin, lacy fabric covering my

Now, in your palm

And with your other palm you beckon me back to the sand as you say, with tender breathlessness,
"You're beautiful"
In which I believe you as I lie upon a sandy towel
As you carefully lower yourself upon me
As our fingers interlace
And our lips, thirsting for lust, bind together

We are one

We are love
I was daydreaming... a much different version than what is in my poetry notebook, as I wrote this in the middle of the night!
Ira Desmond Aug 2010
I anticipate that on some distant roof
there must be a man waving two distinct flags,

so as to direct the flock of birds flying above me.  Crossing
his arms, the fabric folding and slipping against itself

in the wind, making a noise of snaps
and swooshes and billowing.

This thought suddenly makes my jacket
seem oversized; the sleeves feel lengthened,

drooping over my hands, as though
I were still a child at play,

putting on father's army jacket on Sunday morning
before church; him in a dress shirt

and black suspenders, shaving in front of the steamy
bathroom mirror.

And I notice that I can see my breath
as it escapes the sauna of my insides.

It disperses into the February air—
no man waving flags on a distant roof somewhere

to keep its molecules from scattering
in every direction.
twelve caesuras Dec 2013
and your words,

"i will be with

you for every lightning

strike and

lonely tremble,”

i whisper and

watch as the wind disperses


the breaths i like

to take now are

the ones where

i breathe in so

much air that

it’s almost like i’m


i can’t

breathe alone

the cicadas chirping

in the summer heat remind me

of that time
you told me that i

had a 
laugh like stars. but


the sky is

dark here

i wonder if

you can see me

from your

grassy mountaintop

so high in the

clouds because

in my head i

can see you:

that goofy smile

on your face

aimed at the
your eyes gazing at

something higher
as you outstretch your
arms and embrace the

when i hear

bells ringing from



bicycles i

i can’t help

but remember when
i sat on your



while you pedaled

so hard to

the top of our hill

and told me
i was alright

now i am

colored indigo with

silence and

all the worried faces that

came to check on me

have realized a

lost cause so

the phone has



the ice in the freezer

is cold, so cold as

it slides down my 
throat and

chills my bones

once a month i

walk down the

unpaved road near

that shabby house we share and

i walk and

walk and


eleven miles

no shoes

****** feet and

no matter how much

pain i will keep walking

because your words

"my bare feet can

carry me anywhere

if you

are the destination”

i echo as i walk

and walk and

walk eleven miles

to come meet you

i bring a bouquet

of dried dandelions since

you told me they’re

misunderstood because even

though they’re weeds, they bloom

that sun

for a time

you told me

that when you go

you want your gravestone

to be a bench because you want to chat so

once a month i

cut up my feet i

rip weeds from the ground


sit on your moss-covered bench

i ask you

how you’re doing

and your words,

"i will be with

you for every lightning

strike and 
lonely tremble,”

i repeat

between the sea

bleeding from my eyes

and watch with blurry vision

as the wind

steals it away
SwiftDreamer Nov 2015
When I feel Surprised, its like a Big Bang is happening inside my chest.. and as the energy disperses through the rest of my body, it makes me think: *"Man, this is how the Universe must have felt..."
Prabhu Iyer Jan 2013
These faultlines we tread:  
of island loves, we dread.
On the crests, lie parked our loyalties:
siblings, friends, parents and loves,
every love, bounded by sadnesses;
Faultlines that carry buried
embers under piles of smoke; and then
once a while, a paper wheel that
was still, revolves in the slow wind -
and embers come alive;
Suddenly unrequited attractions flame
over: O the lure of danger-laden
pathways on these faultlines that
we dread, yet love to tread.

How in dark lights, shadows talk and
could-have-been's and how-nice-
it-would-have-been's play out,
lonely paths, where embers
and shadows flutter in the winds, we
walk on. The fair wears out,
the gathering disperses, and
this deja vu cabin flashes
out exactly like those years ago and
hope emerges out into the
renewing fair, with the crest,
in that undivided year
when the sea hadn't reduced this mass
of our loves to these island bits
with these faultlines that we
dread, yet, love to tread
This is to grey areas of love we maintain, balancing acts, difficult loves, buried embers...
Tim Bustin May 2014
How should I feel, inside this world mixed with
Real? Bliss a film, shown in clarity.
I awake alive, energised; the myth
Nonsensical and detail lost from me.

Wait, yes! I recall: desired does fall,
Pushed by evil - a screaming, grating laugh
Must've flown mid-air to catch the angel
Delicate face is a framed photograph.

I repeat: wake into same misery
Acne-shelled face shows ugly emotion
Passion disperses to reality.
Scared, upset, lost, lonely and not trying.

Dreams: what better way to play out unachievable feats
Than to lie to the conscious mind, and lull one's self to sleep

— The End —