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Kendra Lynn Aug 2015
I write. Poetry, scribblings; romantic dribblings. Sometimes the words come so easy; dancing in my mind - just waiting to be stamped on a page. Other times they meditate in the shadows of my mind & I'm left searching for them; burning sage. Ahhh. But I still write. Much like I'm doing this very moment. Just waiting for the muse to make that entry; that exhilarating proclament.
jerard gartlin Feb 2010
DEAR (__),

sorry's a good place to start
i guess?
the lies stacked up like
***** dishes &
i had no intent to rinse them.
the sink was on the brink of breaking
with the weight of pretend plates---
**** im on a tangent...got distracted...
lets bring it back to the beginning
& strip it bare of poetic dribblings
because theres only one way to break this:

i never, ever, ever loved you
i just......
didn't...want anyone else...to *******.

but i suppose i can't stop everything
err--i know i can't stop anything
i was young, yearning & naive
& still believed in love's disease--
i was so desperate for its infection,
i injected it in every VEIN attempt
at getting you to love me back.
& i know too well that it was selfish
but whats the harm
if neither of us ever felt it?

never yours,
j
Brother Jimmy Apr 2015
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey

Now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...

But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze

Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch

Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings

And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt

The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down

But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces

Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones

At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open

O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
Brother Jimmy Mar 2018
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey

And now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...

But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze

Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch

Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings

And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt

The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down

But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces

Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones

At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open

O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
Sarah Kunz Dec 2016
I hate to admit it, but I want to feel special.
I entomb myself in the reality of mundane dribblings but truly my heart is wrenching as it can smell the fantasy.
The thought of someone wanting to know my favorite movie and memorize it like their sacred duty.
I'm soft; a kettle brewing with pang splintered yearning.
I want the waves of people to pander to me surrendering at my feet collapsing with poised beauty whispering "you are worthy"
I want to feel special, yet I know that I am not. I am amongst the innumerable flesh ridden boats of existence buoying about in angst and desperation.
I am alone and am pleased in this pod of solace.
But a broad stroking mansuetude hand that may caress my face and help proliferate the love I hide within myself.
Well, I guess that may be nice...
Brother Jimmy May 2019
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey

And now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...

But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze

Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch

Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings

And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt

The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down

But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces

Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones

At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open

O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
A repost of one of my earlier pieces
Your short stature itself
is testimony to God's
intention to create you
in the form of a football.

Knowing still it was meant for the net, many a time must
the earth have longed to be
a football, seeking your touch.

Instead,
you kept your word, teaching
all the ***** on earth to dream
of growing into a globe.

Since your feet and football merged
into one, all loves on earth
were liberated for the time being
from the metaphor of
the spring and  cherry tree.

Outside the field,
the bullet shot you launched
tore into the iron fences,
oblivious to the red cards of the dictators.

Now,
the earth where you stopped playing on
has become a lone deflated
leather ball on the penalty line,
with no one to take a shot.
But its memories are still alive,
brimming with Infinite dribblings
that you are about to
commence with God.
O
Poem by Veerankutty.
Translated from Malayalam by Anwar N K
In memory of the great Football legend Diego Maradona.
Sometimes Starr Mar 2019
I dripped colorful spots on the way to my death
They are my blood
Warped and wild
Dried and brown
Pink and green and blue and ultraviolet,
Infrared.

You can't read them like a book
They are not crystallized or processed
They're the dribblings of death escaping from my neurotic dream
They're things felt and considered, suffered and enjoyed
Only ever belonging to me,
And even then--
Just something I see.

— The End —