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September Roses Jun 2018
How did you get in here
How did you work your way into my life
The one I keep people out of

How did it start to get to me
How did I start to care
How did you start to matter
When nothing else does

How did I not see you coming
How did you dodge my defence
How did you get past the walls
      Those are lies
                     I let you in
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.


An artificial cloud.

“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;



he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and a beast crashed in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.



He leaps down steps
and explodes
as it rams her
to and fro,
bashing her head
against the wall
where horns sin
and horns gore
cement and brick.

He grips the tail
heaving its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine,

he slips and slides
in fractured glass
and finds a horn
and yanks the head;

is yanked instead,
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to shout and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer
fast and frantic
flying flustered
by the frenzy
finding the





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"

His hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.
Men and women
fuss and frown,
always making sure.

"Podria haber sido peor"

Another story for the herd.
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Traveler Apr 2014
Nobody seems to listen
And nobody seems to care
All these words I’ve written
This nakedness I've bared

Still I continue to write
Like a scribe whose kingdom’s come
The words of a poet
Are never said and done

To live with bitter madness
To reconcile with past
To dodge the angry arrow
Is a poets unconscious task...

Still these words keep coming
Like a fool without a cause
An annual case of writer’s block
Dictates my only pause

Perfect is the world we seek
On the wings of trust we embrace the flight
Dark are the waters we drown in
As we hold on to love with all our might

Perhaps I’m but a beacon
In a storm that will never cease
Anchored to this ocean
By a soul that’s never free
Traveler Tim
Re Po 04=19
CK Baker Jan 2017
He filled his week bag
with quick picks
from the commissary
cover blades
and skull caps
canned goods
and half stated pearls
liquor bills
and bleeders
for the flight of weary

Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana
and nurture sage
past the pomp
and ceremony
out of robe
and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas

Light infantry
and yelling men
and scorned
fly boys high
in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners
filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape

Tarrant tabers
and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands
grease the mill trap
carnage makers
mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers
and pile bags
and earth pack)

Trench helmets
and metal backs
under machine fire
minefields burn
in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel
and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold

Slouch hats
and burning rats
kerosene lamps
and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken line
and limb
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped pipe
and beam

It was an all in
end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the
fokker pursuit
over rolling hills
and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
near the brae corbie road
Bison Jul 2016
Giving in to making small talk chatter.
Collateral atoms scatter over my head
Perfect pitter pattered patterns.

Behind my eyes grey matter
That feels in tatters
After it burned out the rafters.

Is my skull getting fatter?
Madder than your favorite hatter.
And I won't get an ever after.

Never been a dodge drafter
I meant a draft dodger. (cue the laughter)

Who makes taffy taffer?
And who made Daffy dafter?
Bugs and carrots for my Satur-
Day morning napper.

Paint splattered pancake batter.
Knife and fork clatter.
Belly never felt so dapper.

If I had to choose I choose Venonat, er
I meant you Pikachu! (What a Knee slapper!)

Always been a little scrapper
Even when I was bigger batter.

And I don't know no pastor
But I got the spirit moving faster.

Probably should've been a future rapper
But I could never be a present wrapper
And I'm more wrapped up in the past four
Years that were snatched by time snatchers.

But now I'm bored by this rhyme planner
So I'm gonna go get a snack or
Rhiannon May 2017
You can erase it you know? The way they stare. Gawk at you as if you’re a spectacle. You can avoid the questions. Dodge them as if they’re not cascading down like fine rain. You think it won’t affect you and your smile drops once you get back into the warm. You’re drenched.

I guess your immediate reaction would be to laugh. You of all people have always had a bizarre sense of humour. Then again when you asked me to stay you weren’t laughing, or sobbing now that I think about it. You were just calm, like you’d expected this. Like you’d expected an end.
Graff1980 Nov 2018
Early morning
gets me moving
rushing to get to
the gym
then work through
my afternoon

But a rattle in
rusted metal
is making me
stressed as can be.

Every noise
causes me
to catch my breath
and listen closely
while trying to avoid panicking.

My red rover road rage
dodge neon clinking
Is getting me thinking
about how much
will be enough to fix it.
Anecandu Aug 2018
Your words are like precision guided Bombs in clunkers,
Exploding between my ears. there are no bunkers.
My response tumbles out stuttering like anti aircraft nests.

The alarms in my brain go off suppressed by discharged tears.
Heart, Trust, Ego, Friends over the years........
Your armaments know where to hit and cause most damage,

Plumes of fiery emotion flare up from loves smoldering cracks .
I dodge your heat seeking adjectives, they encircle in packs.
Cold nights afloat clinging to this yellow deflated ego. ergo.

Our love is war
Umi Jun 2018
To a sky which showed no sign of light,
Black smoke was rising, from no other than a flagship which sailed across the stormy ocean, Nagato, ready to fight was however at ease.
Until we encountered two enemy ships, a Kongou and a Tirpitz.
Both of them, with a merciless sight fired everything they got, a hard decision was to be made, who shall hit us if we dodge, who shall not?
The Kongou, landed some hits as the sea consumed the others shells,
Just overpenned, lucky for us it seemed, until we re-adjust our angle,
What does the future hold for one who survived but couldn't protect her friends, as the sun no longer rises these memories return.
It didn't take long, the weakspot of one of them was their petty armor,
Kongou sank, spilling her tears into the water she was unable to escape from, another turn was made, it was the final battle, final hope,
Reparing some damage in the little time we had, Nagato drove like an absolute mad man, left, right continuesly just so our ship would not end up like their Kongou, our citadel was an easy target, after  all.
Shells are to be exchanged, smoke escapes from our guns, this lady was refusing to let her life slip away until she at least do what she could, exhausted and almost out of ammo, we landed a lethal strike.
Watching the enemy ship slip away before our eyes, knowing that Nagato was to sail almost into the same fate made us then realise...
Even if the damage could be repaired and parts exchanged, brought anew and even if we make it back in one piece without capsizing:
Forever will be the marks of battle painted in her burnt, wounded steel.

~ Umi
anthony Brady Nov 2018
TB or not TB!
Is it in the badgers?
That is the question.
Whether 'tis noticed
elsewhere - slurry perchance.
As they shuffle off the coils
of barbed wire or dodge  the
slings and arrows of culler’s  slaughter
for outrageous fortune,
who for them will take up arms
with a see  of dissidents
and by opposing
end the heart-ache, the
thousand natural shocks
their setts are heir to?
'Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wish'd.

William  Spearshake
Shadow Dragon Oct 2018
I won't call it a disease,
I'll call it this This instead.
Tired of sitting in meetings
about meetings.
Tired of swallowing pills
stacking up bills.
This is what I live with
and "it must be so hard"
but I'm strong.
A strong woman searching
to be weak.
Using various techniques
to dodge a flaming hot tear.
Because I cannot bear
watching myself crumble
at the expensive of evil emotions.
So I unconsciously chose
This instead of emotion.
Deadwood Jawn Jan 24

Destroy it.

Everyone exists
Has the right
To feel.

I will not be


No matter who has it worse.
No matter how long it hurts.
No matter what anyone says.

And feel honestly-

I will not be


And all I got left
Is my empathy.

I will not..
Be struck..

I will build the walls.
I will guard the city.
I will create the shield.

I will resist the poison.
I will dodge the bullet.
I will protect my heart.

I will not be

3:27am. I'm a bit hurt hy something. I'm a littke easily hurt lately that's all. But whatever. I'll get over it. No more.. (Partially influenced by Drowning Pool's track: Rise Up)
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
The President is writing in ALL CAPS today
And that’s all right because caps are okay:
They keep his head warm in the winter’s cold
He has ‘em in colors: red, white, and gold

And an old one in green from Viet-Nam
Where he was a-serving 1 of his Uncle Sam
Only he didn’t, but that doesn’t matter
He’ll dodge the issue with bluster and natter

Be grateful he sports his red MAGA cap
To cover his head, ‘cause it’s full of

        ­                                                                h­air

1 allusion to Kipling's "Gunga Din"
Heather Moon Feb 2014
So my father,
he goes into the store to buy his $10 a pack for cancer
while he still attempts to hide his addictions from my sister and I.
Now I don't think it would bother me oh so much
but his frugal attempts to sweep the dust under the rug is like using a mop instead of a broom...
We see the crumbs leading to your door from the cookie jar.
Yes, we all have flaws, but you,
weave shamefully through the under layers of darkness, devoid of any resemblance to a heavenly nature, you fall like a night creature weaseling through crooked creaky cement alleyways, your gremlin spirit set ablaze.

LIFE, I revel and roll within the taste of each second, I run the grain of life across my tongue until saliva fills the creases and far reached corners of my mouth. I tap my finger to my lips like a true virtuoso, a connoisseur of life. Life.

My father's addictions completely derail me,
not even so the notion itself, I mean yes, but his blatantly obvious ways of avoiding confrontation not only from us, but also from himself.
Like Pinocchio's nose, my fathers back gets hunched more and more, his breath quickens when we draw close.
Father you are not prey, in fact if there be a predator, it is you unto yourself. I can no longer help but to roll my eyes when you tell me for the fourth time in the day that you must take out the trash so as to have a smoke.
I am fed up, excuse me sir, the trash will still be there no matter how many times you take out the "trash" .
The only "thing" that won't be left after you're repeated offenses of the benign chore will be you're dignity because you are so naive and ignorant in the way you dodge truth. How can you live respectfully when you don't respect yourself? Nor do you value what you are spitting out to your own daughters.
I am addicted to life,
I breathe it in with passion,
I embrace the truth within me
and have an eagerness to expand my wisdom.
How come father you do something that you know is a betrayal to yourself? How come you hide away in that old bar, the one with the flashing(flickering) light on the outside, dingy worn out red leather(plastic)booths on the inside, the bar located in some musty  little hole in you're brain and a blind spot on you're heart.
You sit in the back in a lonesome booth slumped like some chump, stuck in a stump, you ooze and wheeze not even grasping for air, no fight left within, you are like mucus, a toad melting into the ground. Sinister and swindling in the greed of you're gut. Your ***** mopey yellow eyes and the shameful acceptance as you indulge in the baths of life's luxuries whilst you poison your body, trash what you hold dear and continue to block out that little annoying voice.
The voice with the cracks in it,
worn out from you're games, the voice that nags and pleads. The one that catches you before you order another round, take another smoke break, the one that pulls you, tantalizes you with it's simple sweet natural charm in hopes of distracting you from your self harming ways.
The voice that chimes in the second you raise your fist to punch me. The voice that is screaming at you when you lock eyes with mine and can see my fear.
Yeah that voice, the little punk one that returns even after the crime of your actions has been committed.
After the music stops and it's just you and the world.
but even then
I don't think you will hear it.
You're living on the edge of the pavement father.
No you wont hear that voice, not when you're twisted and contorted into the sideways way of things. You killed that voice long ago, when you wound yourself deeper and deeper like a clock in time,
when you twirled yourself into that little empty pub, with a quiet pool table, with no hope, a sanctum of greed.
Yes, you're guilty, yes it was you.
It was you who killed the voice inside of yourself.
You killed it when you traded
your dignity and your truth
for yet another
$10 dollar pack of
and forfiet.
Annika J Dec 2018
Family members crowd around
I try to dodge the questions
How is school
How is dance
How is the harp
I don't want to talk
I just grab some food
And run away
From the noise
The questions
The lack of space
Or I would
But my mom won't let me

Even the King of the World
The Lord of Lords
The one who we celebrate
This time of year
Came as a baby
In a stable
In the middle of
Nowhere, Israel
(Okay, Bethlehem
But still)

Can't I just catch a break?


Oh well.

At least there are cookies.
Nothing may seem to feel insignificant
A small shrug of the shoulder
       Why do I hear a youngster
The other half of boy for baby girl
In equal parts as capable as

Don’t let Nothing grow in you
Move like a Phoenix in this moment

We all burn together
I’d rather have better
A good banter
Thoughtful volley
A mild mannered inquiry not
Honesty is transparency

I heard the feeling inside me
To light it Up
Watch the vastness of the infinite
Beyond what short sight of
Eat the home our earth consumed
Unable to witness the mirror puppetry of
Yikes theta.theymean
Us harmed if none awake
To dodge
The sun god
Of Ra

Peace. Now.
She invited me into her palace of art,
Where everything signified something else.
She wore a silvery gown,
Covered with a million miniature mirrors.
I was badly dressed.

“Beautiful lady, be my love
and heal my soul.
My life is fragments.
Make me whole.”

“I made this place to stand apart,
A window to a world purer, deeply felt.
Everything here is for you but my heart.
Don’t get the idea that it’s going to melt

Later on.”  Music played.
Nirvana. Or maybe it was “Deacon Blues.”
Twisted letters carved
On doorknobs offered clues
To someone else’s mystery.

“Then be my muse,
Teach me the language of clouds
The coded words on the ceiling’s vault.”

A digital river flowed beneath
A winding stair down to an analog sea.
I asked “Are these ‘caverns measureless to man’?”
“Yes,” she said, “But not to woman.”

I wandered through room after room,
One printed, one painted, one sculpted, one
Paneled with friezes like the blazing tomb
Of an epic queen deified by the sun.

I saw a near-empty room with a single chair.
The light defined its form,
its form escaping into light.
“Is this real or a photo?”
“Yes,” she serenely replied.

I came to two doors.  One said Discipline,
One Desire. “How can I possibly choose?”
“They lead to the same place,” she said.

What was real and what wasn’t flowed together
“You’re starting to figure it out.”

The innocence of a woman’s arched back,
And the wisdom of children.  
The solitude of a lonely pier.

I knelt and I thanked her “Was all this for me?”
“I made this to give away. Not just for you.
What have you learned?  Let’s review.

“Art is a shield
Against falling glass. Art healed
My divided mind, which used to devour
Itself, giving away its power.

Art is hunger, a piercing lack.
Art is a ride on a gull’s back.

Art is a dodge, the as of the mirror.
Art destroys, callous clearer
Of old order.  Art is a dance,
a surrender to chance.

Art is not all seduction and fire
Or tethered to your desire
(Except when it is).  
Beyond the dazzle of you and me,
Art is a failing light for learning how to see.”

I said “Now I understand less than before.”
“Then you’re ready.  
Imagine starry ways beyond these walls.
Use an innocent eye.  
Confusion calls.”

I never saw her again.
But it was enough
to start small.  

She tempted me like an empty page.
From this immense vacuum, I write.
JaxSpade Jan 31
Lazor beams
Shot in every difference
It was the future room
Of past decisions

I saw one hit the ground
As I jumped toward the ceiling

Lazor beams
In a galactic cloud
Of feelings

I could dodge a few
But I got shot too
Right through the heart
In the bulls eyes center

Lazor beams
Cutting through the atmosphere
And severing
Even if it means killing

Shot in every distance
Of the worlds limits

Sabers of synergetic
Light emitted cutlery
Beyond the speeding bullets method

Lazor beams
Shot by the menace

Did they get you
Did they get us
Andrew Jan 2018
You're a volcano in winter
Made when the Earth splintered
Tectonic plates shifted
And you were gifted

The frigid air outside is subzero
So you become my volcanic hero
When you scorch the cold
With your warmth so bold

I await an eruption
But there's a disruption
Dormant you remain
With suspicion engrained
But entering your main vent
Was not my main intent
Yet now that I'm in your magma chamber
I can see your anger
You're made of lava and ash
So you demand drama and cash
And violently explode in a flash

You've become my Krakatoa
When I wish I didn't know ya
Because of your grand magnitude
I question my aptitude
And insecurity ensues
As confidence I lose

I realize I've gone too far
When I feel your lava discharge
That pushes me into your crater
The pain I feel couldn't be greater
When all I see is an ashen cloud
And all I hear is your lashing growl

Inside of your volcano
There is a tornado
As sure as day glow
I feel I must lay low
And dodge the debris
While playing referee
As you're dissecting me
In your burning sea
That swirls in a cyclone maelstrom
**** is where it was mailed from
I receive it
I begin to drown in fire
And wish to retire

You think you're neat
Yet despite your heat
You're a cold blooded lizard
But outside there's a blizzard
So I get used to your volcano
I can't contain my disdain though
Andrew Mar 2018
You grind off my fingerprints
To remove my identity
Putting your finger to my lips
The silence will better me
You're a predatory anemone
That can look ahead of me
Sensing the dread in me
Slicing me splendidly
Despite my defended pleas
You ruthlessly rend me
To bring about an ending
To that ring you were lending
So our lives will stop blending

You break my heart
Then sow it back together
You stop and start
Leading me on forever
As I fall into darkness
Only seeing your face
Is this just a dark test?
Or is this a futile race?
I move like a shark rests
When you can't be replaced

I am paralyzed
By your hazel eyes
Catching the gaze of mine
Through a maze of lies
And my ways of crime
Are infantilized
By your infanticide
Roller coaster ride
Of which I must abide
Because this **** of mine
Convinces me rust is fine
And to ignore passing time

You make me want to live
You make me want to die
I have everything to give
Instead I reluctantly fly
Through the dark clouds looming
Formed after you cut through me
With the acuteness of your beauty
And the bullets you were shooting
That I attempted to dodge
And denied their existence
I want you to live in my lodge
Yet I always meet resistance
CJ Tims Aug 2018
I am standing on a tightrope
As you’ve taken the net from beneath me
Once again.
See one wrong step,
One wrong move,
And i’ve ended it all.
So as your words
Shoot arrows past my head,
I haven’t the time
Nor the energy
To dodge them.
So please,
Take the net,
Shoot the arrows,
And hope i survive the outcome
july hearne May 6
russ drove down memorial drive
in his powder blue 1950's dodge wayfarer

the sun might not have been shining brightly
at that exact moment, since I was on the school bus
on my way home, it would have only been
an afternoon sun,
but in my memory it was the brightest time had ever been
because i sat in my black school bus seat
and looked out of the school bus window

at russ in his powder blue 1950 dodge wayfarer
with his green hair in carefully shaped statue of liberty spikes
russ was smiling at something

i would never know what
but russ's windshield was so clean and clear
that it just looked like such a colorful world
i was going to do my best to be a part of it

so excited about the life
i was going to end up
throwing away

such a wasted beautiful life
for the far-gone to forgo
Al Green Lyrics
"Georgia Boy"

Don't make no difference to you
Well, it's all right with me

Just because I'm from the country
I've been a miner too
Just because I'm thinking about New York City
Just 'cause I am it don't mean
I ain't thinking 'bout Georgia too

So it seems I dream
It's just a passing thing
I'm gonna find it out
Without the slightest doubt

Just because I'm from the country
I've been a miner too
Just because I'm thinking about New York City
Just 'cause I am it don't mean
I ain't thinking of Georgia too

Just 'cause I talk the way I do
Don't mean that it ain't true
'Cause I am it don't mean
I ain't thinking about Georgia too

Here me see it again now

'Cause I am it don't mean
I ain't thinking about...
That's right!

In the meantime

So it seems I dream
It's just a passing thing

I'll play my guitar
Feels so good!
Just a country boy, yeah

Just because I'm from the country
I've been a miner too
(You better believe)
Just because I'm thinking about New York City
Just 'cause I am it don't mean
I ain't thinking about Georgia too

Meanwhile, meanwhile
I'll play my guitar here

South's gonna do it again
Zachery Oct 2018
Thanks for all that you say
Night and Day
Nothing more do I have to pay
This friendship is what I have
So thank you
And that poem too
I needed that pick me up
To get back up
Its a dark time
For me right now
Nothings safe
My problems they strafe
I try to hit them away
But they dodge
One big Hodge bodge
But you were there
And you did Care
And so did I
So I didn't want you to die
Heres a line about pie
So I do love you
In a platonicall way
You helped me
Because of you
I now enjoy life too
Best buds
Society's duds
Quirky, and weebs
We peeps
And life plays for keeps
So keep this friendship going
Keep our minds peaceful like its snowing
To the bitter end
Aw thanks for what you said about me you german you. Your poem really helped you croissant. Thanjs in all seriousness. Lots of loves.
Traveler Apr 28
Nobody seems to listen
And nobody seems to care
All these words I’ve written
This nakedness I've bared

Still I continue to write
Like a scribe whose kingdom’s come
The words of a traveling poet
Are never said and done

To live with bitter madness
To reconcile with past
To dodge the angry arrow
Is a poets unconscious task...

Still these words keep coming
Like a fool without a cause
An annual case of writer’s block
Dictates my only pause

Perfect is the world we seek
On the wings of trust we embrace the flight
Dark are the waters we drown in
As we hold on to love with all our might's

Perhaps I’m but a beacon
In a storm that will never cease
Anchored to this ocean
By a soul that’s never free
Traveler Tim
Kat Dec 2018
Dear mom and dad
I'm sorry I think I was born broken
You might think otherwise
I know it is true
I know I was not born broken

How else could you explain
When I was 15
I beat the eating disorder that could have killed me
Proved it was not the only way
To live
Three years later
I found a reason to live again
Found myself a full-time job
Traveled to foreign countries
Applied to college
Learned a new language
Learned to be happy again
When I thought happiness
Was just a dream
Sophomore year of college
The world threw me a curveball
And I couldn't dodge it
But I tried so ******* hard
To heal the wounds it left
Reached out to friends
For the first time
Found a counsellor and a psychiatrist
Learned to ask for help
And learned
That help is there
When I need it the most
I take pills three times a day
In the hope
That they will make me happy
Because I'm trying my best to become
The happy person
The successful person
The calm person
I know I can be
Know I have been

How else could you explain
Every day
My memories are tinted with
With the knowledge of all I have survived
The knowledge of all I have accomplished
The knowledge that it can get better
I care so much
That you care
And when I feel like I hurt you
I remind myself
That I am not the burden
I think I am

I'm sorry I think I was born broken
But I'm not sorry I am me
On my way to becoming
The person I want to be
Know I can become
This poem is a response to my poem "Born Broken." When dealing with mental illness makes me feel broken, I try to remember what I've accomplished and how I've survived and learned from difficult experiences.
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