Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Isabel Aghahowa Oct 2018
i look at you
you look up and away
you're ready to flee
from this deserted place
sow your seeds, grow your roots
somewhere else

i inhale the dust
circle the discoloured wood
the bitter taste of your drifting eyes
made the living room floor even colder than usual
as the air grew thin and sharp

i know it's real, your face is here
but it breathes
along with the tress
on the outside
separate from me
Cindra Carr Dec 2010
Her mind is gone
Lost among the dust
Her lies pierce me
Inadvertent as they are
One day bleeds into the next
Days of the week spelled out
Empty spaces in the pillbox
Sharp eyes grow confused
Losing their purchase of life around
My heart tears amongst the dust
Lost life murmuring in the dark
Surefooted stumbles and quick falls
Blurring confusion sweeps past
Room filled memories gathering dust
Her mind is lost
Gone amongst the dust

cc1210
These nowhere towns,
Mountain tops snow-capped long through march,
Everywhere else,
A barren brown.

Though people live here,
And they aren't broken down.

The paint peels from the motel,
The mother tends to her daze,
The attendant ponders the insects of the sill,
Tumbleweed **** these acts of being still.

Life is good here,
In these hazy,
Background,
Nowhere towns.
Really hope I captured that picture I saw... I don't think I fully did but... It was almost there...
Debbie Brindley Aug 2018
Shattered shards of broken
hearts
crumble to dust
As ghosts of yesterday lurk in the corners
memories of passion and lust
Dust drifts gently through the
atmosphere
Caressing stars as they pass so bright so clear
dadens Feb 13
between you and me,
i'm still rooting for us.

maybe not in this lifetime,
but in the end.
© d.a.dens
Tom Spencer Jul 2018
a serpentine plume
of saharan dust

unveiled by radar
an ocean spanning

exhalation
of opaque

talcum haze
seeping into and onto

cracks metal glass
amid caustic

simmering
and listless

longing
for cicada drill

and aircondtioned din
to mute


Tom Spencer © 2018
At present Austin (my home) is choking on dust from the Sahara. World wide grime.
The shutter clicks twice.
"You take too many pictures"
But you pay me no mind.

The years fly by and,
As you begin to forget
I keep asking why.

Still you smile at me,
Though I've become a stranger
Lost in memory.

I bring your pictures.
"Remember when we lived here?
Or these light fixtures?"

I brought your tapes but,
Your bed is empty now.
Mourning your lost shape.

When you left I found
Your philosophy makes sense now.
There's so much beauty
That can't afford to be lost.

I look one last time
At the first picture
You took with that camera
Now gathering dust.
A collaborative project with Liberty Urban. This poem is inspired by one of her paintings.
Ylzm May 12
Dust, dust, infernal dust:
Mocked! Mortality mocked!
Toil, toil, burdensome toil,
procrastinator born.

I don't see, it's still clean.
I don't see, I don't care.
I don't see, just the wind.
Oh no! Now I see,
I cannot unsee, woe is me!

Dust, dust, infernal dust,
with vacuum be gone!
Toil, toil, burdensome toil,
Adam's curse, is there no escape?
karin naude Nov 2013
Many hours spend romanticized my perfect filled life. Husband, children and successful business. Me stand for honor and love, loyal to the family
Dear oh dear what has become of my splendid day dreams. Covered in dust rarely read anymore
Nico Julleza Jun 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Loneliness is the name we gain
Abandoned in attics of despaired shame
We might not know who our maker is
Nor even how we're birthed without a single kiss

Sailing shore to shore of no causing way
We fly, we glide, we slip away

Each day is our rite without rights
Pondered those colors from black to white
And out our interluding charades
Oh, how we are judge by senseless mocking jays

Enraptured by our capacities we can engage
Still we leered showing a zealous face

From dust, A man was oddly fabricated
A tapestry of wonders to show its vivacity
He's so different from our Avant name
And has a thought that could seize a luring day

But if he never saw how wide the narrow he'd take
From dust a man shall die ever the same
#Dust #Man #Fly #Glide #SlipAway

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
avalon Aug 2017
one more time, she whispers,
she whispers violently, tremulously, like an addict whispers
to the fingernail marks in her skin, like persephone whispers to pomegranate seeds, like sin, and her whispers collect on dollar bills in the wind, and the money flies home but she's still sitting in that bin,

wondering if Hades ever regretted his win
Angelina Mar 2016
Love is in the air they say
It is invisible to one's curious desire
But when I looked into your eyes, dazzled
It was then, my gut's feeling I surrendered

But those were the good old days, my love
See the soul may in fact change
It simply does not live by the same ol' rebellious heart, as it has grown old
Feelings like dust, attitude like grain

It pains me to say I've moved on
Found a brand new pair of crystal blue eyes to gaze in awe
A new pair of hands that are there to save me
I did not fail to find a pair of lips that are surely nice to look at
Although I must admit they do resemble yours

So if I happen to be floating in your mind driven ocean for a while now
I have moved on, for feelings are just as sensitive as dust
You sweep 'em, you lose 'em
After all, one gets tired of the same old, same old
OpenWorldView Jun 25
tiny speck of dust
accumulating water
falling from the sky
We are but dust.
Tiberias Paulk Sep 2018
He dreamt in Technicolor but the pieces got broken
Intentions made of pure light are only words when spoken
And even love gets twisted by deep shadow and time
Those wistful whirling seasons all lost in the design
Surely you can see these things when not so many can
How the colors twist and shift when a boy becomes a man
One who thinks himself bold in a play with no right choices
Yet lost in the could haves of young children's voices
Still he dreams in sunlight of a girl always gone
And lingers in the dream time in search of her song
Some penance to be payed for shortcoming and untruth
Or to hold in dream arms a lovely shade of his youth
zebra Jun 3
do you know
how much light you have to have
to play in the dark

ask the lady of the moon
my trilling lover of comatose dreams
**** queen dressed in fallen roses
on her knees

her head a cocked jaw
throat; a giraffes
for shirts of skin and magic wands

she prays to be broken
split saliva jewel
kink clutch
little crying angel
hugging her ball and chain
shawled ***; a trussed cathedral
bound in silk
a vomiting flower of *******

her feet bound
puddled black crimson
crumbling at every teasing cuddle
and darkened bite like ghost fire
flame on flame

her ******; buttered Kasbah dark fruit casaba
i take a bite
red teeth and stretched tongue
adorn the hood of lust
and sink flying
into blood scape's womb
she screams hooked on satin's *** nail
wailing; hideous mirth
and folds sweet and sour
siracha tang

her mouth a gagging river
of ***** and oleo tubes
eyes gazing globe video games
****, brewing perfume's of delirium
**** star ships at apogee
riding the glitter rim

my ****
a rabid swoon of towering babble
is full tonight
brimming with white blood
red and trembling milk
to fill your mouth my love
and the bitter honey of my soul
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!

This has been poorly imagined I admit:
The sunny penthouse
Open to the breeze
which presses and sways
through the sliding glass doors

Upturned champagne bottles
set in buckets of melting ice
A crystalline view of the Pacific
Or dusky Vegas lights

Strewn silken sheets
A **** carpet you can grab on to
The myriad of variations under a rising Moon

Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen.
And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia
or of the Amalfi
That is a great idea

ROMP
noun
1. a spell of rough, energetic play.
2. a farce.

Eventually
(An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air)
Eventually
creeping into my mind’s eye
(Thank you Time)
was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet
Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits
with serviceable sheets
Encased in variations on a theme of
brown everything
A soul death in faux wood paneling
Someone else’s earring on a
grubby carpet floor
that offers you
burns for your back that won’t heal so fast
if that’s what you want
There’s the opening of the door
on the purring refrigerator
to look at cold nothing
And think nothing
Cystitis is on its way
And yes,
Too much dust

Don’t get me wrong
I have no real issues with dust
I have stood
Alone in the semi darkness before
In such a living room
Staring at this luminous particulate
On album covers
and in the glare of backlit windows
Floating in a beam from
a ceramic thrift store table-lamp

I was on my way to find the bathroom
Where a pair of pink ******* lay
drying
in wait for
me

Bachelor dust
Is old
I can write my name with my finger
in that which rests
upon the turntable’s hinged cover
In case you don’t remember
What they call me

As I’ve said
I’ve got nothing against it
Ask the dust
Go ahead
Ask it
Resting quite comfortably
on the bookshelves
If there are bookshelves
As if it had
something to do.
I ask it why?

my invading molecules subdivide
and grow more comfortable

Dust?
Why do I smell the stench of
chaste virgins and ***?
The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding:
One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to  Compromise Her Virtue?
The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit
Here: The woman and her only true
possession
And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish.
They meet.
She blinks.

The dust replies
It’s a simple plan:
The Dear Lady is to be led
Astray
by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions
her dowry in the end, useless
She’ll be banished to the counties
To be a governess
or the
Bored companion
of the only living relative who will
Admit her services
Unpaid in silver coins
He is Blind and his Cook has left
Dyspeptic
Disagreeable
Cheap
and Mean.

She is Ruined.
Perhaps she will escape
to Italy
and die
Alone
in the sunshine.

The dust tells me another story
The same century still
This time, a miscreant princeling
surrounded by Trifles
Picking up one bob and then another
Preoccupied by uselessness
Perhaps a strawberry
Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast
Tonight will be the scullery maid
Who will lose more in the end
Than she could ever possibly imagine
Tossed out of the kitchens
to Providence.
God bless Her.

The dust tells me
It’s mercantile, my dear
It’s all transactional
But look at me
I’m here for a time but am easily
Agitated and
Airborne
Aeolian driven
Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils
Interstellar Reflection Nebulae
As you can see
I’m never in one place
So I say keep it movin’.
JC Moyao May 2015
Sometimes gold clings to the bone
And that's where she comes from
On chariots driven by drunken sages
She'll glide gracefully into existence
and then fade right back out of it
Id like to think shes playing a game with her own shadow
to see who's leading who
As the night rolls on
The glaciers will melt into puddles in our cups
The dust settles into a stool next to mine
And takes on a familiar shape
We both look at her in reserved amusement and snicker like young school boys under our drinks
One of us will end up in her bed tonight
Cheers to that old friend
writerReader Feb 2015
i watched you turn to dust
saying nothing
my eyes screamed for you
Shadow Puppet Sep 2017
In that moment I couldn't believe the words you'd spoken to me
Something is wrong you said it thrice
As if you were saying something new about my life
You're really clueless
It's kind of sad
What makes you think I'd tell you my problems
When you're like 20 years older than my 48 year old dad
You can't stop me from drifting away
You can't make me not escape a place I was bound by chains
My feet were not made for shoes
And I refuse to be caged
You can make dust out of my dreams
And it'd be used by fairies
grace snoddy Dec 2017
a new beginning starts here.
when we let the absence of words
sink in our skin and flow through
the red and blue veins.
to let silence become apart of us as a whole.
and to be ridden of awkward
and gently colored with tranquility.
when we are consumed with the most
heavenly stillness,
we appreciate the things
that normally don’t come to eye.

a new beginning starts here.
an interconnection manifested in the
deficiency of conversation.
an ambience that is better than any
formulation of sentences.
our unspoken vowels and consonants
playfully roll around
in the quiet rest of the atmosphere;
it speaks louder than your steady heartbeat
and collected breathing.
Jing Xi Lau Dec 2018
I am the poem you wrote on the back of your hand,
The ink that was washed away,
Flown into the drain.
I am the idea you hurriedly scribbled on a napkin in a coffee shop,
But forgot to take with you.
I am the tune you could never hum right,
The page that fell off the hinge of an old book,
Collecting dust.
Next page