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Olga Valerevna Apr 2017
I've written you so many letters
"Goodnight" before bed, yellow sun
The first of the seven I cradled
my very first beautiful one  
you helped me to walk when I couldn't
I borrowed your strength when we left
we crossed every ocean together
so let me return every breath
Remember my arms when you're tired
they'll hold you up high when I'm gone
believe me when I say I love you
remember our favourite song
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Not at all terror has no religion
today like yesterday London is ON!
For good for the good reason!!
Like in the West, in the East
It’s the same for all the people.

Send to the prison
the terrorist has no religion.
There are terrorists
on the front and more
so behind the scene
forget not both
are equally terrorists!
Kayla Swails Jul 2018
No where to be
No one to please
I am a leaf
Going with the breeze

Enjoying music on a bench
For an hour or two
Soaking in the sun
Eyes closed

Love God
Love people
Trust in Him
Life will be
Orchestrated perfectly

Not really sure what to do
At this point
But I'm keeping my ears
And heart

God, speak to me,
Where do you want me to be,
East or west,
Where will,
You use me best?

I know my life is not my own,
God talk to me,
Like we're on a phone,
Let me know,
Where you want me to go.

Make it clear to me,
Where you want me to be,
East or west,
Where is best?

I know what I want,
But again,
My life is not my own.
Shofi Ahmed Feb 2018
It always does before I can see
before my foot, my heart
goes out to the sea.

Like the East, like the West
every pole comes in full circle
around this quay.

Far from the bottom of the land
every drop of water spills out
streaming along the rivers
march over to the sea.

I too pop up branching in
with the widest circle sliding
down to this so big but lingering dip.

Therein the sea when a river
looks for the bottom
a star up above in the sky
without a rope without a roof
looks for its peak!

Eye on but touch not
keep off the Moon.
It's for the sea.
For the Moon
the sea too is a Moon!
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
Hold onto the little one.
Don’t spill the raindrop
Let it run, let it run!

The sun in a dew
dancing on the rose
let it roll out
a drop of the deep
on the ground.

Let it roll, let it dance.
Take your plunge
swim down the sea
only to sing high
fly out with the cloud!

Like in the sea
the spin is in a
drop of water.
Makes the heart sway.
Follow the river
to the west, the east
the north and the south.
It goes every way.
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
Laura Trueman Aug 12
Moved through a dangling chime
Bound to the corner-most edge of red clay roofing
Three stories from the ground on a cliff before the ocean
On a reclusive neighbor’s balcony
The pine needles gathered
The marine layer covered over until
It disappeared
And became a place in my mind forever
Was more than I ever imagined before
Woody Jun 2018
I still dream of my father
crossing the pastures
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sorrow
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
turning one last time as
if to say: so long my son
there’s going to be days
of sunshine and plenty
more of rain as he went
along his way, and my
sadness waved back like
grain in fields of long past
summers and summers
before that, so long a time
ago I can remember only
on lonely nights of heat
lightning and the low
rumble of distant thunder.
A nice surprise on this Monday evening.  Thank you all very much for your reading and very nice comments. Please know that I appreciate all of you and your kind words. Thank you.

* To Ravinder Kumar Soni: Opinion entitled to and noted. Thanks for taking the time to read.
He has coffee in his blood,
He dances with brown camels.
White wide paths of knives
Are curved deep among the mountain passes
Of ribs wrapped in soft desert of skin.

A tongue athlet and a sound alchemist,
A reluctant nomad with wheat hair,
Who's driven by his crazy-grooving heart
So rarely though so far.

Sometimes a train, sometimes a net,
Sometimes a piece of paper
Will take him.
But most often he is joining with genies
In their bottles. And spirits take him
To the caves, the deep blood-vessels.

He's silent mostly and his back is bent
Though he is tall.
He walks all cloaked in weary clothes
And idle anger both.
As it dictates him his prideful eagle's nose.

He bears also marks of roots,
Of runes, of flame, of anchors,
His bones look at you in their clutches
From beneath the skin
Of his thin fingers.

He builds the towers shaky,
Weak. And so, they're almost living,
He've found a cat in a banana
And lets it live inside his elbow.

The grey in northern sky is his.
He reached his fine hands
And left it there. He touched the sun
And then again. He put it in his lighter
With his fingertips.
So he occasionally has a light from the sun.

He prays to metal and walks two roads at once.
He tolls the tree from which he hails.
He hangs from a branch.
Or does he just stand
Downwords and his back is lying on
The branch on which he stands?

He buried his gold and digs it out only
For fire and jokes, for bitter and smoke.
A cow of three eyes and a bee on his blazen
Are joing in drawing.
Jen Mar 25
Your presence
Reached in and
Broke the surface
Just enough
To find its way in,
Back to the depths
I’m telling you, life is short.

I’m telling you…
It is.

Vividly glimpsed
Your face while asleep.
Your eyes stared down at me
Piercing my soul and
Said, “Meet you at the East Gate,”
That’s all I know.
We would always see the numbers, “222.”
They signaled through the airwaves,
Visited us often,
We had no fear.

I looked into your eyes,
I didn’t want to leave
This place behind
Closed Eyes.

When I silently asked you
What to do, you looked the other way.
Then, I opened my eyes and
It was morning,
Light shined in,
Peaceful and quiet.

You were so real,
I knew your face,
You told me you knew
My fate.

It was time to wake,
From where your unending
Glow extended,
Time to trust
The unknown.

See you at the East Gate my long lost friend.
jerrey Jan 2018
This is my favorite
Place on earth
I have decided

Stubborn mountains,
Though stars came first,
Cannot be chided

The fog cries into,
As dark sky glows,
The mist over green

Forests whisper secrets
No one else knows,
To heads of serene

The path here smiles
Where it steeps and leads,
Quick to change mind

The sky wakes restless
To travelers it feeds,
Telling slow to time

The air breathes life
Into weary lungs
And tired shut eyes

Yet all falls quiet
Awe from their tongues
And least long cries

Chills travel spines
For sight, not doubt
Save life to spare

And I love this
For lacking crowd
With awe true rare

Those who listen
With hearts not rushed
See it not mere

This is my favorite
For seeming hushed
If you cannot hear
This is about West Virginia & the blue ridge mountains at 4 A.M. as you watch the sun slowly rise hidden by smoke and fog
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.

Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting

from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns

to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder

keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world

and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,

another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.

Tom Spencer © 2015
Laurel Leaves Aug 2018
I thought I was dying
Crumbling of leaves
Beneath swollen knees
Respite from
Can you call it mind altering
Succumbed by disease
I devoured
Aspects, hints of true
Licking fingers
Until they were cold and blue
Full, chronological breaths
Then the infite thawing
I’d echo words spoken
Between eroding teal beams
The repition
Slight hints at recognition

I thought I was dying
Forest turned
Ash soaked air
Would have taken anyone
Yet you stood there
talkshows and the yellow press
get excited in excess
over his shenanigans
that delight his faithful fans

rumors of these *** affairs
strong words for all macho players
     in the game of social thrones
texts with threatening undertones
     for minorities and women
     treating immigrants like demons

neither fans nor his opponents 
seem to notice the components
of the white house strategy

     throw them bones
     fodder for the yellow press

and while  they fight
clandestinely out of sight
works the Trumpian policy
money laundering   blatant lies
scolding allies   breaking ties
adoring foes   praising those
     usurpers of democracies
     experts in atrocities
slowly yet persistently
     undermine  civility  
     with foul language 

court the aristocracies 
         of oil sheikdoms in the East
praising communist dictators
who have helped him build his towers

step by step he‘s leading US
from the groups of international powers
to an isolation desert
at the margins of the world
slogans we have rarely heard
over decades  
      now re-nourished
twittered with presidential flourish
make America small again

warning voices call in vain

no wonder the statue of liberty
is hiding her face in misery (*)
(*) This at the moment still is 'fake news' - but I would not be surprised if she did...!
In from the mist of our material plain
Out far in the East lay a trail by the sea
Dotted with wells and the sounds of quails
Crusted jets of shined Earthen fits
Rubbed down from its shear as a mountain
Played out by the watery, rusted brass section

The Cliffs rise and fall on the water
And the Cliffs sit and wait on the water

Slowly lowing pours of passes,
Brooks and weathered ravines showing
Tracing inwards, out to pasture
Winds the coastline to these towers
Birds of Dover hover, soundless
Mixing air gusts line the pipers

Where Cliffs rise and fall on the water
And the Cliffs right down to the bottom

So may a beetle missing wing
Come eventually reach the sea
Gull by way or ever scaling
Geologic clock come sailing
Scoring drums the cheer of tides
Into when years are fossilized

As Cliffs rise and fall on the water
So Cliffs sit and be on the water

And all that stone bore out of time, styled
Dark and plinthed come moored day round
Ornate platters, restful gravel,
Granite or a painting gathers
Art and sky are matched as one, within
Centered over sunset blazing on

And the Cliffs rise and fall on the water
And the Cliffs soar beauty mined on the shores
Finished October 14, 2018
CK Baker Oct 2017
Iron bench, open sore
dragon rock, three in score
flesh on body, tortured soul
arms high, in hell's hole

Corner bulb, neon light
drake hotel, second flight
jolly pop, rizla plus
open flame, behind the bus

Broken fixtures, tully hat
channel swimmer, at the bat
blind alley, words of cuss
dealer waving, in a fuss

Grim reaper, boys in blue
super bee, armored shrew
****** sips, swollen glands
potpourri, on demand

Black death, huddler's arch
beat the cold, and summer parch
toothless grin, ****** glare
obituary, to be shared

Dead of night, decontrol
cheeva tar, black coal
east central, chinatown
mr. freeze, is coming down

Foot soldier, skidder row
chicken feed, and white blow
silver spoon, casted hand
demons surface, on demand

Frantic sounds, below the glass
poison waiting, to be passed
crack pipes, over coat
bodies flat, begin to float

Gospel sounds, from union square
friends gather, deep in prayer
guardian angels, now deployed
thornton park, without a void

Covenant house, in holy charm
welcomes all, with open arms
salvation spreads, on chapel row
kindness that, cannot be sold
laura Sep 2018
got to eat them as they darken
reddened ruby to black constant opal
berries will rot quickly if you don’t
or they’ll taste real gooey and wierdy
if you let the drupelets’ colors get
unsynchronized like summer and fall

...why am i telling you this?
because i learned that the hard way
and the days go away in the gleam
heavy showers and peak-a-boo sun
the east barely bracing for the storm
and the sweetness decaying like the leaves
o this is so sad, alexa play despacito

Daily #3 baybeeeeee how tf does this website work
Lawrence Hall Jul 2018
Kingsville, Texas, 1955

A loaf of bread from the Piggly Wiggly
A quart of milk because MawMaw forgot
A Coke and a Mickey Mouse funnybook
A water pistol and Eskimo Pies

A pack of PawPaw’s brand of cigarettes
So he can watch his Yankees this afternoon
On the Sylvania with the rabbit ears
In gloriously static-y black-and-white

Plays called by Dizzy Dean and PeeWee Reese
In our childhood world, forever at peace
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
John Ryles Apr 2010
The two collieries where I was employed,
Houses now stand winders destroyed.
From a window where I controlled the flow,
I could see the horizon far and low.
I can also see sunrise and set,
Pictures past I won’t forget.
Through the shifts seasons would go,
From summer sun to winter snow.
To wake one morning already too late,
Decisions were made to close the gate.
Work was gone and mates were lost,
Ripped apart at great cost.
Left us with a grey slurry beach,
The nanny goat path we walked to reach.
Down to the coast a ***** line,
Carried shale from the mine.
Through our town they ran so fast,
To tip more waste upon the blast.
Now I sit where I want to be,
Looking out at the great North Sea.
From chemical beach to clean east shore,
The north east pits are no more.
From brownie box in old dark room,
To Digital with super zoom.
Memories fade but photos show,
All we really need to know.
St Marys church to Hawthorn hive,
These scenes of Seaham will survive.
In creature comforts of the West; I ponder.
     As my heart strays eastward.
           My star in the East?

"If there be a God..."
       He must be capable of entering men's hearts,
             they in turn bear witness to human suffering.

If this is so.
    How can our brothers in Syria be suffering?
             Why have they been forsaken?

"If there be a God?"
       If there be a God.
           If there be a God.
Could it be possible to be like Joseph? Could a man's mind from the West inspire those disenfranchised in the East to stop the struggle and join in the solution that ends all suffering for all brothers? Is that possible?
ghazal Nov 2018
shivering on top of this roof,
burnt cigarettes in the shingles of the accused.
and in this cold weather,
my jacket and your words shared one thing;
a lack of proof.
immersed in thought,
i retract my youth.
and thinking back to my childhood,
memories blue.
thinking not how a child should,
no one had a clue.
it's no ones fault and i know i shouldn't blame you,
that's not what stuck, it's what i prayed to.
the sound of my stomach has become louder than my thoughts,
and i know i should stop writing but you took my ******* heart.

selfish you are.
selfish you are.
selfish you are.
insta: @faithpoetrybook
Jordan Rowan Nov 2015
Send my dreams to the paper press
I've got too much to confess
This whole mind is a mess
And it's mine
It's all I could find
As I was spending too much time
Screaming and crying

**** my brothers in the Middle East
Let their souls be released
As the mongrel dogs have a peaceful feast
On our blood
Down in the mud
When it's someone you don't love
You don't even shrug

Break my bones over color pride
Don't you see what I have inside?
For my thoughts, I must die
Or else I'm a joke
Lost within the smoke
If I'm not rich then I must be broke
A dying man unknown

Make the streets a place of peace
Instead of hate and bombing grease
Power only makes us weak
To ourselves
To you and myself
Take a long look at yourself
And you can tell

The morning comes and someone's gone
Sent away to a funeral song
They lost their life being young
And still bright
Now they only see the night
As their mother tries to sleep at night
Without life

I'm dead and gone someday soon
But still I love each sun and moon
As they pass over my room
I kneel down
I start to look around
I start to love everything I've found
And I'm proud
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
I fell asleep on a runaway train
Trying not to go insane, oh no
I felt alive but couldn't decide
If I wanted to live or die
Or spend another night / without you

I boarded as the sun went down
And there was no one else around, oh no
I slept against the windowpane
Hearing dreams and the falling rain
As I ride towards nowhere, without you

The endless fields go on and on
Like the pain when you said so long, oh no
I held in my weary hand
The letters of a lost romance
The words all seem empty, without you

As the sun rose in the East
From my dreams I've been released, oh no
The rhythm of the railway car
Makes me wonder where you are
And if I'll be alright, without you
These are lyrics for a song I've written. Heartbreak is good inspiration.
Bradley: you must know
I am not in love with you at all
but you are a slice from God
Your mouth, your keyboard pours God
Still you are unaware

Your words - a sage from East London you are
You are a vector from God - you beam me up
Oh sage! Oh wise one!
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