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Robin Lemmen Jun 2018
Your honesty doesn't taste the same
As his did in the light of rain
Hoovering above me caged in
Staring with hunger painted by pain
His eyes cried tears of silence
Yours scream words to me in vain
Pointless conversations are all
I can bear to swallow
Nowadays.
Umi Apr 2018
Love is a bottomless pit,
Once you fall into it,
You are but a lost soul within seas of emotions,
Only your other half can guide you back into the light,
Only two single winged birds are able to take flight ~

~ Umi
nosipho khanyile Jul 2018
our destination is the journey
edged with culture
curved with meticulous attention
infested with corruption
fumigated with potential
waiting to reveal itself to the world
taking time to perfect itself
because like fine wine
we don't age, we mature
into something so different
refreshing the norms
creating a new era of dimensions
a relentless spirit
perfectly flawed
oh blooming flower
a tree known by its fruits
a shackled continent
waiting for the chains of judgement
to break
freeing the truth
this is africa
CK Baker Jan 2017
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago

You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen

There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the *****” Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif

But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey

There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death

But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:

he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
SøułSurvivør Feb 2015
~~《♡》~~

may your penship be worthy
may your heart be bold
may the parchment that beckons
be edged with pure gold.

may your sails be caught
by a breeze off the sea
may the coasts where you sail
be nations free.

may your mast be lofty
a pen full of might
may your skies be scarlet
only at night

may your stars be bright
as you sail where you will
may ink flow like a river
from an angel's quill.

may dimensions make music
may your muse scream
may you dream your life

may you live your dream.

~~《♡》~~

soulsurvivor
2/3/2015
Thanks to all the poets here
who inspire and bless me.
Hello Poetry has been the
best poetic experience
I have ever had...
Thanks to all of YOU.

A special thank you to
Thomas A Robinson
He knows why...

~~《♡》~~
Scurry hurry
Shaking hands shaped by worry
tie the knot of plastic
A bubble home for the hard green cup
where brown and white
mixed lay married.

Wash rush
Dainty legs in dark blue denim
hasn't time to be romantic
A worn out sister played by hope
shuts the door panting.

  It clings to a robust tree
  head hidden under rosy pink    
  protective shield
  edged in yellow

  The fireflies

  
Sticky webs of empty lies packaged in boxes of deception by the wizard that doesn't work
sit dead on the small bedside table
like the results they provide.

Boxes and boxes of cozy containers
and cards of capsules
47 I counted them
current and extras
They choke my sight
then I am groped by the smooth blue robes worn by the youthful shepherd
posing aside a grey rock looking yonder
into the distance as insta-natural as possible in a pastel painted picture framed in wood against the wall.
  
  Unstable molecules in tiny airtubes,  
  many, breakdown and explode
  like little landmines
  A bio-luminescent lit ***** assaults a  
  dense night flashing brilliant
  to find a mate
  Six strong neon-green throbbing blinks
  Six slow seconds of unimaginable
  wordless dreamless dark.

  are bright.

  
I turn my head
The whole unsettling mass of reality
is torn apart into vibrant colorful morsels,
then reassembled
as my eyes  
settle
on

Her

"Oh God, if you're here, heal her now
and you'll have me. Show me what those confident tongues so eagerly confess.
Please!"

NOTHING
Another sticky empty square
covered in thick black-strap molasses
slapped to the face of the fool
who likes sweet things.

BUT

What happened to the omni-this, omni-that CEO of God enterprises?
"Go on Death" is what that means
"Go on Death do your job" is what it does

"It's your time.
It's to test your faith.
Gods plan."
All slogans for the man
who believes and dies.
  Culture creates the fool
  Hope keeps the fool
  Belief kills the fool
Thanks for doing what all those boxes
and all the pictures
on all the walls of the world do

FOOL

Her face,
a gaunt kind of skin-to-bone sight
a bad flavor
like a meal with no taste

Her mouth,
crack-lipped, framed by dry
delivers deadly blows to a heaving chest
that says; "Give me air"
yet lungs say no

Anguish,
is ****** from the pit of my cold stomach
then up through the spirit of a warm heart
I plaster the feeling in the shape of water.
My eyes puddle

I weep

It sticks

Love,

Falls

Fluttering as a twinkle
through soft beams of sunlight,
the drop glistens
plops
then dies
on the pink and blue checkered blanket.

All I have to offer are busky palms
to soothe this battered body
before you are torn apart by what
puts things like us together.

I swallow her frame

Her calf - bone

Squeeze and move

Her thigh,
my hand wraps completely
pinching a sausage sized piece of muscle
not big enough to walk
between plump thumb
and meaty middle

Squeeze and move

Her hip bone is angular
It fits flush in my hand
like the hard front peak of a cricket cap
when held above the grid

Squeeze and move

My chunky tentacles massage over
wire-thin barely blue throbless veins
that decorate her meatless paws
and twig-like fingers.

Squeeze and move
  
  It's after midnight
  Thick curds of desperation push
  again, through a splendid backside
  a special toosh
  slogging a dancing night-fever
  to beat the two-to-four,
  a beam as bright as a green day
  cuts through the black pitch of night

  

I hold her hand
A thin filling between two slices of mine
I look at her eyes and turn away

Have you ever been pulled from the center of  your heart, ripped head first through the narrow crack of your own chest, tossed aside like a skin-sheet onto a concrete glass-covered floor then squashed beneath the majesty of a billion dancing floor-clapping feet attached to a shapeless void shapeshifting as slideshows  between all things gone, here, and still to come, stopping on the body of a small blue boy that sings in ghostly echo;
"Don't turn away from this.
Look till you see me through the eyes of another because this too
will happen to you
Clap clap clap clap!
I'm coming for you.

Trapped in a square tunnel made of brick, walls wide enough for one bus no brakes to speed through, no escape,
I accept what will squash me
I Face it
I Stand before it

I stare at her eyes staring back at me
A deep dagger stare
Two parts steel
meshed
until there is only steel
It melts

I simmer the room in soft whisper;
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
I hold her hand,
patting the top as I warm the bottom
I smile for her, at me
I smile back, as me
  
  A skillful mimic
  Here I come
  I have light and breath
  I see yours
  I come at night
  Not for genes or ***
  I hunt and gut
  Hawking down I come as death

  
The gaps between her labored breaths become bigger and for a second I drift at the sight reappearing on the sandy dunes of an empty dessert space pushed by a dying wind I can barely feel.

A sharp salty tang toils the tip of my tongue and brings me back to her.

Her eyes

They have changed

Open

But

Soul

   less

     Soulless

     Desolate

   Like

That dessert

And that place where


*The Fireflies Lose their Light
Noah Dec 2014
Blurred images
Hazy edged pictures
Images with burn holes 
Things to see behind
Clouds of lingering sleep
This is the first time in awhile
I've actually felt okay
The world is still moving to fast 
And me too slow
But my mind has a window
So I can see and hear 
Though my throat still 
Struggles for sounds
My hands form letters
That form words
That form phrases
My thoughts on pages 
My feelings on paper 
My soul wrapped into words
That will never be spoken 

These are my own words written by someone else, hope you guys enjoy my first poem in a while, things are actually improving. If im lucky i'll survive -Andy
Skaidrum Jul 2015
.
You're wielding a double edged sword,
it may **** your opponents,
but it's cutting your soul,
as well.


Can you conquer,
the darkness of your own
shadow?

.
A word of warning,
the path of the warrior can be swayed
by the road of the demon.

This ones for the both of you,
Kal, Lycan.

© Copywrite Skaidrum
Carter Ginter Mar 2013
Burning desire
With a flickering flame
A bright shining sword
With a double edged blade.

It's win or lose
Sink or swim
This ocean of possibilities
That I'm drowning in.

But there's no single way
To define who I am
So why even try?
Labels aren't worth a ****.
People are not cans of soup that can be labeled. We are who we are and that can so easily change.
Ask 7 different people who I am and you'll end up with 8 different answers.
Really bothers me when people try to live by or up to their labels. And when other give them, ruining potential possibilities.
Cindra Carr Jun 2011
Night filled glittering skies
Cloud bright trimmed in lines
Sloe-eyed music pops and fades
Drones straight edged across the lies
Drugged up players in a lit up world
Smooth cries fill the ears of hardhearted rituals
Flashbulb strobes beat the pace
Fist raised groups of hazed out praise
Rushed up feints in the days of the lost
Last light shines as sloe-eyed music pops and fades

cc2011
karin naude Nov 2013
the veil
me, captivated from 1st introduction
expression of character
extension of the wearer
women forced to express, communicate, and develop new communication methods
limited with resources reveal, the eyes
they reveal what the mouth dare not speak
deviance, love, hate, pain, or dead soul
they connect between souls effortlessly
only seconds needed to be edged into my mind
to echo eternity
often forgetting the owner, remembering the moment
piercing eyes revealing life lived, dreams forgotten and compromised made

on the other side
i long to see the smile or grin belonging to the eyes
long to connect verbally to know what created the captivating eyes
walking down the street i long, search for :
the thing that makes us human
how we recognise each other
how species compare

the face
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of
      women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.

Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic
      jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or
      sycamore.

People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Mary Gay Kearns Jul 2018
One each end of a shelf
Victorian figurines
A boy and girl
Like crystalline
With stiff edged lace.
Never fell in love
But still precious
Bought by a Godmother
Who did not have children.

Then the plaster dancers
Spied in a box of my father’s
Given by a poor grandmother
Loved these two
With their net “tutus”
Such graceful arms
Long pointed legs
Felt their life twirling.

The difference between
Two worlds
The rich and stiff
Poor but beautiful.
My bedroom shelf,
With a poster of
**** Jagger,
in the middle,
smiling.

Love Mary x
This was my bedroom shelf in Streatham London.
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
The broken biscuits lay in a tin
An ordinary oblong tin
With turquoise pattern
And pink embossed flowers
Gold edged to finish the job.

How many times I visited
That tin on the middle shelf
In the top half of a cupboard,
Sawn door, to allow for fridge,
And quietly took out the tin.

Broken biscuits were my delight
All shapes and sizes tasty bites
Wafers,  bourbon, custard creams
Rich tea, digestive all suited me
Sometimes fig sandwich, pleased.

Love Mary
Thank you Mum and dad .Love your daughter .
Are you that Stone-Edged as to penetrate
Which even Donkey's Ears refuse to sound?
And on that Bed, that White Sheet's Cry debate
Useless Tears as your Ring boasts your Account
Which of these Ways, Sir, must you Stark-Rebel
And addle yourself carelessly to Sin?
Your Canaan - burnt - to Red District's Level
Selling yourself in Circles for a Fin
Unthinkable, your Role upturned thereof
Though many Blinded Eyes considered Cool
All to solicit Pink Ducklings whereof
Plucking Wily Snails their Poison to Fool.
No-One has asked you for this Flipped Request
Save to drink this Tonic and do your Best.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
zebra Apr 2017
"Claim me,"
she whispers in a plea
"claim my soul as I wilt"
Crimson lips parted,
head thrown back
in ecstatic ache
jugular bared
she needs to feel
that sharp -edged love,
skin and barriers broken
as she melts into
the underworld
of a new grace
a magenta cry into
the inky sky
sacred silence penetrated
as only gasps are heard
milky ******* decorated
with red liquid ribbon,
his nourishment,
her demise
******* pierced with
beads of her sunset life flow
as he ***** and bites...
and howling
into heaven's delicious gate,
she writhes
Her soul dissolving
into his night
and as his spirit
absorbs her vermilion soul
their power rises,
black as coal
…………….
your lips
stick black  
sanguine smile
tremulous murmurs
oh happy blood blossom of deaths surrender
sacrificial lamb
cats sparrow entranced
thighs on fire
sobbing from a thousand needled kisses
******* tearing blood
each wound a weeping mouth licking
milky white alter of cold stone
saturated alizarin rust
legs wide
feet and ******* trussed
in chains and drenched rags
for cruelties arrow
o crimson queen,
pomegranate half eaten
mouth smudge black
agape
snake tongue dancing
through cherry lips twisted
darkened eyes of fire and blood
a wash in devils incense
beloved veiled
in evils cradle
bind not the demons kiss
then face down my love upon the crypt of mist
black heavens gate
pupa
vampires bate
a blood moon shaking
a scourge you are now
goddess of pleasures wretched
in the Tuileries of the abyss
consort
your every piercing fang
duck tail ****
a boiling cauldron
desire
spills out

dark cupid witch
legs tied to throat
devil ***** twitch
******* in a mote
ive got the itch
feet scorched in rope
hot ******* *****
hells dark pope

vampiress *****
dark girl feeding
the sun is no more
loves the bleeding
****** horror
Amy Leigh Oct 2018
Misguided —  we    were    inseparable,   but   things
as  they  do,   always  with   certainty   like  life itself,
change.  These different directions on winding roads
upwards and  even  edged  to  cliffs —these  dangers
in solemn  yet  ostentatious  affirmations: the  I don't
knows   paired   with   the    I    am    sure's.    Which?
Between  the  I  love  you's  and  the   rarity  of  these
honest intentions - these naked  affections with tears diluted  between  breaths. Surely, it was true; true as
formations   upon   mouth   tongue   cheek   in   ***** patterns tracing  up  and  down  skin, hands to thigh
and  then  some — yet now.

© A. Leigh
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x




My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
It is there still on the Alan Bay Road. Love Mary xxxx
Robert C Howard Jul 2013
If I could be a fly on Einstein’s wall
I’d buzz about from chair to curtain
watch him check out plans and gadgets                                            
and scratch remarks on his papers.
When the clock edged to noon
his stomach would growl,
he’d fold up the prints and say,
“It’s a relatively short walk to the café.”

With Albert out I’d take the run of the place -
practicing banks and dips and vertical lifts.
I’d munch on scraps of Brie and fowl
left fused to the edge of his table.

When the tumblers turned
I’d buzz back to my wall, eager to witness
whatever this sage would chance to say.
He’d go to his desk to file reports
and stack them neatly into a tray.

Without warning he’d rise from his chair
scattering papers across the floor.

“MASS AND ENERGY ARE ONE, ” he’d shout, -
“CRUSHED TOGETHER BY TIME! ”

I’d buzz and swoop and fly circles and loops
and taxi in on his collar.
I’d beat my wings to cool his brain.
But wait…Whose voice do I hear?
Oh, it’s you gentle reader.

“Stop, hold it right there, ****** pest!
It couldn’t have happened that way!
Have you no shame or respect for God’s truth? ”

But I’d stare you down with my compound eye
and scornfully twitch my wings.
Consider this, troubled sir,
you’re the one scolding a talking fly.

*July, 2006
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
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