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zebra Apr 2017
i always imagine you so very graceful
through the masochists ordeal
a god form of supplication

seeing your face
in love
fascinated by shimmering kisses
that hurt, yet please
wet lips and sharp teeth  
glamors that excite

cold blade licks dragged across
tender bellies
naval
buttocks
and flexed toes
stinging
then radiating outwards

wounds become lilies
mouth *******
tremulous weeping kisses
ecstatic cruelties
blood glitter sacrifice

your supplication
love pangs

i'm shaking apart over you
your countenance
a cascading dream
moved to tears of adoration
your  limitless
yielding
like surrenders caress
an infinite communion
with fragile limbs
silky wrapped spools
innerness of desire veiled in a shroud
a faltering star that glistens crimson
nymph of purgation
ash volcanic
cells en-flamed with tongues that bite
subsumed in scented vapors
a confection of **** and ***
waves embrace ineffable shores
passed the discontinuity of life  

I have the most immense feeling of love for you
am i not
the saint death  
quietly following you
through life's labyrinth
innocuous  
waiting humbly in the wings

i am all ache for you
a vice of kisses
a brief encounter
that eats your sight and senses
ushering you to immortal freedom
a swooning garland of fire that enlivens
the body electric
a mist of molecules

your tears intoxicate
i am new life with in you
budding embryo
that consumes its mother for nourishment
and saturates like dew drops  
as it echoes through oblivion
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, and yes  i admit to my paraphilias.
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
aviisevil Oct 2015
.
.
.

how things change
people don't remain
the same

again
it rains
the same

again
it pains
the same
again



it takes your name
again

and the same story grows old
so cold
in questions and answers

why was I forsaken
where were you mistaken
when It was all taken

my heart was broken beyond
any mechanical healing
you could have saved me
for someone else.
Rob Rutledge Jun 2018
The sea is swept in mystery
She confides in me no more.
No whispers in the shells
Or echoes from the shore.
You do not argue with the wind,
You can not bargain with the sky.
Standing back to back with mountains
We watch and weep as angels die.
For the face of life is fleeting,
Tweeting, tapping at your door,
Ravens that won't relent,
Yet ones you can't ignore.

But I'm boring you I'm sure.
I was talking about the ocean,
How we dont speak no more.
It's not that we don't get on
We still have much to say.
But words are made of water
Written in the waves.
Now the tide is out,
The sea seems
Far away.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Yes, I remember you well, the curves of your face, your kiss,
your smell and look of love.
A lifetime ago now, I have visited that memory often in my dreams,
always trying to forget that moment in time.

Echoes of yesterday resonate within these empty walls
reminding me of the past I’ve left behind.
How different life with mercy could have been;  
kindness and compassion lacking, though pain remains.

Looking back I wonder, what life I could have made with you?
I grieved long over the image that soured long ago.
You claiming a life of love, betraying yourself and your beliefs,
yet breaking free from pain is what I choose to recall.

Seeing you now, I wonder how I could have believed that you
could have lifted me through this life,
and carried me though all that I have seen,
given me all that I’ve needed?
How could I have known you were not that strong?
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Sally A Bayan Jun 2018
* * *
* *
*

Faces of friends, of people i met earlier
are  glittering stars on this late evening's
dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed
in my mind...they're  hunched, going
lower by the days...slowed down by years.
it must be hard and painful...the arching,
the drooping of the neck, the curving spine,
they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise
each new dawn...do what they still can do,
lest they stagnate in their aging ponds,
diminish to a state, where food, pills, or
forgotten information are forced on them,
......like drugs, injected into the veins

........................
these wee hours bring back the years...
they  have been good...never mind the
hard times...there were, there are good ones
life is a long, wide stream of changing hues,
flowing on and on....my water bears the
colors each new day brings...gray, at times
with sadness and gloom....other days,
blacked by despair...some summers, red,
roseate with glee, or green with life and
hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and
the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm,
with a promise of stability..........white,
when accepting......the unacceptable...
........................
the amber grains and i, are alike
ripened enough to be plucked
be pulled out from an existence...the
signs are known...shown...yet, we wait
for when it is due to happen...and while
waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance  
and enjoy the sun and wind...and i,
while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills
and valleys in this mammoth space
of land and water.............called life
...................
the sounds of my days, i still hear,
i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing
off-key.....out of tune at times,
my strings are my graying hair,
i still can't stop dying the gray
i still want to highlight the dark,
but, one day, all these will cease...
............
one night, my face will be in one of those
many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky
sending a smile, to my loved ones...
...................
there is no other way, but forward
all are headed....towards an end...


Sally



© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
      June 26, 2018
...ahhh, the rains...do make us reflect longer on life...
mariamme Mar 2018
she collects thought
like seed pods blown
into untidy hair
by the four winds
that whisper her silenced name.
her thoughts are
precious black pearls
in forgotten oysters, washed
up on a beach somewhere-
and sometimes just as dark-
shining in the heat
of Summer Sun's
reflecting glare.
not unlike a
deer in the headlights
of an absent father's
old station wagon.
and she is as
broken as the
hoof-cracked windshield;
spider webbing
radiates through the glass
as sharp on the edges
as her mind.
coke bottle specs
with glass unbreakable
hide brilliance
or perhaps underscore it.
existence is itself
division from everyone else.
she reads Tolkien
by the empty light of
the distant moon
and words fill up
leftover spaces.
in her face is
the great face of
flower children and
sunlight muted
in the evening hours
spent dreaming up
a life better spent
a piece i wrote in high school <3
Johnny Agape Aug 2013
Can you hear my loudness,
In all this silence?
When you are near me,
Do you whisper to me quiet?
I cannot hear past the sound,
Echoes and echoes,
Chasing each other like waves,
Crashing like thunder,
Shaking the walls,
I tremble and shake.
All the outside disappears,
Into the blindness,
Into the colors,
Into the mindstorm.
Into the scream.
I fall into it all,
I float,
Wait to drown,
Lost in sound.
Till I was up on your shore.
In the quiet,
In the stillness,
I am whole.
My friend wrote this. It's odd how in synch we are, but won't admit it to each other. Or anyone else for that matter.
David Hutton Oct 2017
The motion that is an echo of you
are the ghosts that bear resemblance to you.
Zoe Walsh Sep 2018
nothing is wrong
but something doesn’t feel right
i am an actress in a play who has tears in her eyes
because the script changed and
now she doesn’t know her lines.
the spotlight burns on my skin
i know this is a defining moment
the universe has its eyes on me
but all I can do is speak echoes of what I rehearsed
Uncertainty and Anxiety press against my chest
as if trying to break through my ribcage
and crush my heart
i want to leave the stage
quit the play
burn the script
but I love my role too much
and I want those flowers when the curtain falls
Axion Prelude Aug 2018
Genuinely feeling hope for something good, and being lead by false hope to believe a lie as truth, are two different beasts

I don't hate myself for what I felt, or thought, but instead what I was lead to think was okay to believe

I was lied to, again; my words beckoned something I thought was genuine, and deceit was all that met me, just like every time before it

I'm sick of being here, of thinking anything gets better, because it's true that the those who spend their fortune at keeping an authentic heart for others will inevitably end up alone, indebted to those who only care of themselves

I give myself away too often, but only for what I objectively observe as being meaningful, but I'm afraid that closing off my mind will bring me to the dark place again, and I never want to go back there

I have no control of what someone believes or feels, nor do I know what that may be, all the same

I just take what I am given, if it seems and feels good; if it echoes compassion and sincerity, because that's exactly what I lack most

I hate being a slave to this paradox, but my freedom may only come with absolute truth

I have no more faith for that - I still hope; potentiality rings, but I know that's one sided on my end

A wish is a wish..
Alyssa Underwood Dec 2016
O morning sky of endless blue
Tinged with purply-pinky hue
You tell me of His mercies new
Whose heart pursues my own

O geese in wingèd winter's flight
Your honking cries arouse delight
And lift my gaze to seek thy sight
As wooing from His hand

O softest breeze which skims my face
And stirs with such mysterious grace
My soul to reach for Love’s embrace
You brush me with His kiss

O snowflakes falling to the ground
You pierce my heart without a sound
To crave a purity only found
Beneath a bloodied cross

O setting sun in half-light glowing
Waning day’s last glorious blush showing
You paint with fire my spirit’s own knowing—
This life is fading fast

O stars of midnight’s blackest sky
Paraded forth, you pull my eye
Toward One Who speaks this ceaseless cry:
“I’m coming back for you.”

O creeping fog to dawn’s light clinging
You whisper, Love’s veiled message bringing,
With haunting echoes faintly singing,
“Lose all of you in Him.”
~~~

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world."  ~ Psalm 19:1-4a

~~~
PoserPersona May 2018
'Twas a time I deemed thee love;
  the echoes lacked contraire
Sea moon shadows dance across
  this isle of despair

Entwined flesh eyes doth ne'er perceive,
  outside the mortal's scope
No sole charter giveth passage
  through salty waves unknown

'Tis what I think to see thee there
  on pedestals of gold
Forevermore you place thyself
  on stalwart shores alone

Unfurl thy sails for distant lands;
  the lighthouse shines once more
Praying to gods that long lost ship
  will find its way to port.
pa3que Feb 10
i ought to wake up
from this nightmare i’m in,

i ought to forget
the world that i’ve seen.

a bottle of saturn tears
in my hand,

ready to get emptied
on my every command.

she was who i shared
my dreams with at night,

now nights only trip
over fears that i hide.

we once danced in desert,
with sand in our eyes,

but she’s now in hiding
wearing a different disguise.

the stars cry
and milky way echoes.

i drank half the poison,
shattered my soul.

i weeped horizons
in your belonging.

  forgotten myself as
i’ve fallen asleep.

now you and i
  and stars remember.

    but new memories
   cannot be made.

   i’m leaving you now,
    alone, to surrender

     the past into nightmare,
that i’m living in.
Cné Oct 2017
The surf provides lullabies
as ocean echoes roll.
Too soon, the sunlight glitters
as the dawn turns gray to gold.

I wake and I rub my eyes
beside the sandy beach
My love beside me, languid lips
within an easy reach.

I whisper, sweet good mornings
as your dreams I brush away.
You stretch and yawn, responding to
requests to "come and play".

Lingered memories caress,
of last night's rising moon
with silver waves and ripples,
beyond the dark lagoon.

In shades of colors that mix and smudge
you take your time, no rush
My ******* tingle, at the thought
upon my skin, spreads flush.

In reverie, flutters reminisce,
your wanton body on mine.
Whispered moans in my ear, you ******,
"I'm yours", I hear on rewind.
When last night's... turns into this morning's
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
There's a sharp frosty switchback that never sees the sun in winter
  skies of blue. The frost heave cut-bank rocks tumble down to the
side of the road,  in the ice shard mottled ditch lay frozen stiff

Tall Sitka spruce marbled gray shadows mat the sparsely traveled
  corridor, paved with potholes, where the roads have no names
Sometimes listening quietly to the bare stillness, there are
  rhetorical questions heard in the silent reverie's say:

                        "Have you ever been afraid?"

The tree-line gaps above the jagged gray stone ravine, disappearing
  down the rugged mountain shade, falling into the pillow-top fog bank blanketing the canyon's murmurs below — headed towards the ocean

Crystalline spring waters gurgle up roadside — out of nowhere,
  where tired boots stand in reverent contemplation as it all sings out  harmoniously to the trees in the key of silence;   it was there
  in a gust of restless forbearance heard the frozen peacefulness  say:

                         "Have you ever felt alone?"

Gathering a deep breath of marbled gray shadows, silence bears
  a loud holler's scorn — echoing back and forth down canyon walls,
with the spirit of a voice a multitude strong,  evanescent
                             as winter's outgoing tide.


                      January 2019 — Jesse Stillwater
winter thoughts mused by an understanding poet friend's words
sara Apr 7
My footsteps are too loud,
they shout.
Maybe I should keep my voice down;
head, down.
Yet, frown
kept up
the right way round.

No wonder I feel upside-down.
Don’tbeatyourselfupoveryourmistakes,
we all learning.

P.s. didn’t realise that some people I know actually read this so shout out if that’s you x
ryn Jan 2015
.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...
.
Dedicated to all of you...

If you're reading this...
This is for you...
.
CK Baker Jan 2018
who lit the candles
placed eloquently
behind purple rock?
the sculpted radiance,
chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs

street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
and frontmen
shuffle their wares
as the madman
and pock face
sing their
holy blues

cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts

a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway

hula hoops
and ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy

beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow

a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
K Wolff Oct 2018
I took a walk down memory lane
Through moments of  happiness, fear and pain -
To look back and see how i've arrived -
Spurs me on with a stronger stride.
I feel that I've owned every mistake -
And healed moments where my heart would ache,
To view life through the objective lens -
Pulls me through days where it feels like the end
Echoes of the past follow me through life
To remind me of much kinder times.
Sometimes i feel really sad about the crazy decisions i've made.
Listen
To the whispers in the wind
The answer you seek
Is buried deep

Run
don't try to hide
light is shown
and shadows faded behind
Madelynn Nieves Oct 2018
Lost
In this moment
Where our lips touch
And the world falls away
Terrified
For the seconds
Where this ends
And we return
To the world
Released
From this spell
Cast over us
In those minutes of ardor
Consumed by each other
Blinded by the light we create
Ignorant to the circumstances
Uncaring of the consequence
Then the sun rises
And we find ourselves
Alone
Once again
Echoes of the night before
Haunting us
Creating an intense desire
Feeling wicked
I wish we weren't so - temporary.
I wish the words 'left' and 'gone' never existed,
And I wish no such assortment of consonants and vowels was ever invented.
But then there's no way around it,or is there?

There was a piano that I played.
An old one,but now its keys are broken.
And I keep on counting as more break.
A life,much like this piano -O the comedian that God is!
I keep on counting - as my friends go away.
I won't hear both-the broken keys,the friends gone.

Friend 1
(My first friend in college - a birthday gift from God,who went away the next birthday)
Remember how I'd always say to you,
'Don't respond to my crap. I'm again falling for a girl.'
And you'd reply briefly,
'Good idea. Falling fast.'

Friend 2
Remember how we'd always talk, starting with,
'Promise you won't tell anybody?'
And we'd talk for hours exchanging embarrassing anecdotes,
Yet,not get tired of it at all.

Friend 3
Remember how you'd say,
'I saw you sitting alone in college.I wanted to come.'
And I would answer,
'Yeah,I do that these days.'

I wish you weren't so - temporary - all of you!
I wish the words 'left' and 'gone' never existed,
I wish you all stayed.
I wish your echoes didn't torment me,the way they do.
Inspired by 'Echoes',composed for piano by Luke Faulkner
Salsa Sep 2018
Half a decade in
that was all I needed,
all the time it took to see
the world was an insult to me.

Was I cursed at birth
to live on the brink of death?
Trapped in this trance until
Poseidon's realm pulls me to its depths.

My pursuits to meet him have gone astray.
Countless trials that end one way:
under bright lights,
in a hospital gown,
tubes, tests, nurses pinning me down,
and a hundred voices asking me why
Why oh why did I want to die?
Well I was muting the agony,
executing my destiny,
see daylight please, it's meant to be.
You can't stop me.

And Plath said it best
I do it well,
my scars could attest.

Perhaps I'm not as strong
as everyone once thought
The echoes whisper
“You never did belong”
Neither here nor there or anywhere.

I fear I'm nature's mistake.
For the hands of fate, I must partake
in this sacrifice
to begin my demise.
This shouldn't come as a surprise.

I was only five.
I thought I could survive.
It's been a while. Some of my thoughts haven't changed.
Cné May 2017
shadows in the morning mist
phantoms in the fog
echoes in the murky light
that bounce around the bog.

from the chasms in my mind
where darker creatures dwell.
i looked into the deep abyss
and caught a glimpse of Hell.

where winged angels fear to tread,
my dreams in twisted pose
descend with me to Hades' realm
where nothing ever grows.

except the fear i keep within
which never seems to sleep.
and this will grow in leaps and bounds
as lower down I creep.

but faith will rescue all despair.  
the morning mist will rise.
the sun will drive the demons back
to darkness where they thrive.

the angels take me in their arms
and raise me from the grave.
the darkest places close again
and trees, in breezes wave.

dark though dreams can often be,
the dawn will ever rise.
i wear faith like armor
and see through his disguise.

the Devil, ever vigilant,
invades when i am weak.
even if i'm innocent,
my fall he'll always seek.
Inspired by Traveler and Temporal Fugue
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
Timur Shamatov Sep 2018
From a dream I wake
Where in I dreamt of you
Even thought we probably never meet
And we will never truly speak
              Know
                      That
I already miss you.
Kimberley Jan 2018
4"2 with the voice of an angel
he couldn't be more than ten
the only thing he ever stole was the hearts of those around him

a week later,
his body drains of blood
a mother's cry echoes around the town
her innocent baby
why'd they **** her innocent baby?
he was only nine.

a mother's cry echoes around the world
her baby's gone
blood drains from his body
one shot to the head
several to the torso
why'd they **** her baby?
he was only coming from school.

a shaken up officer stands to the left
Caucasian and worried
a grieving community to the right
African-American and terrified

straight A's and a bright future at seventeen
a future no-one could foresee
both labeled thugs
at 9 and 17

why?
because of the skin they keep.
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