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Shofi Ahmed May 2017
It streams down eye to eye
from the unseen but the all seeing.

Far from the Mars far from the Neptune
skipping all the planets hanging in space
only on the cheek of earth, a drop of tear fell.

Every angel in the heavens' shore
has heard of this lore.
It’s timeless long mesmerising beautiful.
Far from the blue yonder sky
hunky dory is delighting to the eyes
the stunner is made to measure.

A tear in the corner of the eye
as if it's diagonally weighed down
with the 360-degree open looking sky.
As close as within a fingertip comes the Moon
still, a sea is ahead forever untouchable!
Wade Redfearn Jul 2018
It isn't like that.
It isn't a left turn too early,
a lark awake at night,
thick brown light in an open field;
unpredictable: a bad or counter-miracle.
It is only wanton.

You know how it is
Suddenly, something trapped between your toes:
the world has a strangled voice, it is
unroofed. You want the comfort of normal walls,
normal light, normal noise; in your hand
is a hot brand you'd halfway use
to smith it back together
and halfway swallow.
I had different plans for this vacation
than destruction.

I had plans. You had plans. The earth
planned its axial tilt; the weather planned
its burning; we put aside too little water.
A few plants were familiar -
the ruined piñon pine I remembered from the placard.
One lonesuch tree that made a little niche
at a defiant angle into the air
and outlived all except its orphaning.
How we thought we could fare better, I cannot say.

Ten feet up by one hundred feet over:
one liter water per mile climbed:
fatigue. Fatigue.
The quiet supremacy of all these rules for living like
transit and occultation
refraction and dimness
peristalsis pulling down
huge loads of sunlight
into the ***** gully
like bread and meat.

You will not see the bottom
no matter how hard you look.

If blood I am, then what kind of blood?
Unsettled and unsettling. The circulatory system
has an apt name: sometimes I can feel yesterday's blood
in the same neurons, saying the same thing.
I have no choice but to repeat it.
Time sheds its significance.
I have no continuity:
I have rhythms.

The new day, on fire and sitting in the trickle
you held a golden fish in your palm
as if you had made it by will
and cupped, it circled in the valley of your fingers
and I ate from the vision of care.

Erosion: isn't that what made these furrows?
I beg it to unmake me
flat like a seabed and many fathoms green
where the sun will never reach me.

In the penumbra of your anger
I do not fear dying,
only dying unclean.
Heights are all the same.
They would all break me and none would enough.
The grasshoppers and gecko hatchlings
all die in their way, rubbed in the hot dry dust.
Parched, I gnash my stone teeth
and tongue of chaparral -
I am making a song to say
die with me
but smile at me.

Then I see it through flashes of temper,
frame by frame, like a fingertip behind a pinwheel:
a dream of something distant that is also true.
Dreams of freedom alongside dreams of dying.
Cindra Carr Dec 2010
Wishful thinking and a smattering
Freckles sprinkled across her cheek
A winking *** brought tight aloft
A slick line of buttery soft
Feathery light against my find
A curve brushed with a fingertip
My smile flipped slid away
Her mouth flashed a blurred flirt
She touched the flush
That brought the heat her lips flicked
Eyes closed with a bunched fist
Hair tangled as her fingers wove
Lips parted brushed a last kiss
Heat gone left with frayed thoughts
Wishful thinking as she slipped away

I am love
I walk the earth tainted red
For I cannot watch from above
While their destiny hangs on thread

I am love
I weep for those who cannot
For the hand dipped in blood like glove
For the corpses of ages that rot

I am love
I see them hold arms instead of other's arms
Scream as blood taints dove
And burns as their fingertip harms

I am love...
Am I love?
The poem is for this ill-fated world where we live in. We always say we do this, we do that, for love. We bring wars to others, and say that it is for peace...for love. But is it?
melancholy eyes glaze over
the old honeycomb wallpaper pattern
and the mottled ceiling, paint peeling
noting every crevice in your new apartment
my consciousness dips in and out
of every nook and cranny, catching
fragments of the conversation.
you should always be the centre of attention.
i'd tried to entertain the notion, you'd noticed
my eyes in the ceiling and ushered me back
to the boring evening tea room with a gentle
fingertip or two pressed to my wrist.
do you wish you were somewhere else?
would you read my tea leaves and tell me,
what does the future hold for us?
Deadwood Jawn Feb 21
I always adored those eyes.
Glimmering with cherry-flavoured relief
As you hear
That someone finally
Understands the knives
Deep in the veins.

Eye to eye.
Ear to ear.
to fingertip.

Practicing appreciation. An antidote to chaos.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
( for Maureen )

She is teaching Timothy
to read

even though she
can't read herself.

Tongue firmly in cheek
she traces the words

with a tiny fingertip
that knows the story

off by heart she
could read it in the dark.

She is "pretending reading."
She has my every nuance and pause

by rote
making great efforts

to teach Timothy
the puppy

but Timothy the puppy
is more interested in

the un-thrown stick.

Timothy the puppy thinks this reading lark is
strictly for the humans.

"Once..." she begins
in a Fairy Tale-ish voice.

Timothy the puppy
barks in acknowledgement.

Timothy the Puppy's mind thinks.

"...upon a time
a long long time


Timothy the puppy looks
adoringly at his little mistress

with such an immensity of love and
licks her finger as it

travels over the words
the story's journey.

"Oh you..!" she scolds
"...are not even paying attention!"

"It's no good...I give up!"
she frowns at the unhappy creature

throwing the book away
in a prissy hissy fit.

Timothy the puppy
full of the joys of

a dog's life
( it's the only life he knows )

chases the fluttering pages
that fly like an exotic bird

brings Hans Christian Anderson back
his mouth full of words.
jee Feb 27
the brain and mind are not the same thing.

a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.

it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.

the mind has no such manuals.

it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.

it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.

it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.

the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;

hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.

away from people who haven’t quite learned,

that the brain and mind are not the same thing.
they say mind over matter. but mind is the matter. it matters to the creaks at 4 am and the cries in the bathroom stalls.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018

Rusted scythe
perched on a nail

high up on a wall
a sleeping pterodactyl.

I can't stop myself touching
it to see if it is - real.

Smacks its lips
laps up my blood

from my foolish fingertip
deceived by shadows.

It's grin glinting
the smile come alive.

The ghost of a horse
whinnies in the stable

that's gone long gone
the then merging into the now.

Or maybe Mr. Death
too tired to go on

hangs up the instrument of his trade
time to retire the old bones.

“No way to make a living!”

I back slowly away
blinded by the sunlight

that screams. . ."Run!"
Chloe Jackson Apr 10
I bare my soul in your embrace.

Each velvet kiss or fingertip,

That brush against my porcelain self;

Cause colour and light to ignite my veins and flowers to grow under my skin.
Chris Saitta May 21
Books are like the sun’s rays,
Still giving off fingertip warmth,
Though long cut off from the source.

Books are sunlight and Greek silence
Captured in glass firefly jars.
Shylee W Aug 2018
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.  
It’s the way that trying something new doesn’t feel like a monster with you.
It's letting the world have me, arms open, falling. Without censorship.

It’s breathing into the world, past the artificial growth of moist woodchips,  
And instead, to toppling trees and roaring forest fires that are sometimes considered overdue.
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.  

Sometimes things have to die to be made anew. Like an eclipse.
That’s how it feels with you.  
So new that I’m rhyming in my poetry. Like a horror story. . . without censorship.

Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip  
Or a framed portrait of a happy ending, but drawn only in baby blue.
I’m holding the feeling on my chest and watching you cradle it like a silk slip

Or a baby birds nest. You might drop it
And if you did, I wouldn’t blame you.  
That’s what unconditional feels like. Without censorship.

Mine turned yours, then turned sour, with every hour, spent split
And that empty void, of a screen, in between, everything you're deaf to.
The world gives me back, curled up and broken bit by bit.
Happiness is the touch of your fingertip on my bowed-out lip.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018

I trace
with trembling fingertip

the naked calligraphy
of your body

my hands
creating you

out of this darkness

so that dawn
finds you

drawn with such
exquisite passion

that it tells
the sun

to look:

And the sun
reaching in the window

can not help but touch
to see if you are real.

‘Hands off!‘
I warn.
‘She’s mine!‘

And the sun

as I cover you up
my masterpiece

and finally exhausted I
... fall asleep.
Deb Jones Dec 2018
A love of Life
Changing like the scenery
From the window
of a slow moving train.
Wild and spastic
Serene and green
Mountainous ranges
Blue and purple swathed skies
Painted by a brush
Welded by a hand that
Draws our eyes
Life is given

A love of Friends
Appreciate them
Cultivate them
Love them
Revere them
And if necessary
Let them go
Don’t close a heart to them
We aren’t always
A part of the decision
When they run
Or when they choose to hide
Well met, well met we must say
Hello Goodbye...

A love of Lovers
Whether of the heart
Or the deeper ones of the soul
The touch of a fingertip
That glides along our arm
The butterflies that
Beat in our body
Given weight by
Love and desire
The quiet moments
The ones we remember most
The glance that tries to
Interpret the faraway look
The disquiet of loss
The suffering we endure
Our butterflies are just resting

A love of Children
We bear and hold them
Under the beat of our heart
Mated to us
For the rest of our lives
We rewrite history for them
If that’s what they need
We give to them unselfishly
We send them
Out into the world
Hoping we have given them
All the right tools
Welcoming them home
The home of our arms

A love of Self
Is the hardest of all
It comes in on quiet feet
When we least expect it
And are least prepared
We want to have a moment
Harbinger announced
But it’s quiet and proud
The feeling of falling
In love with ourselves
Do you ever wonder
Which moment in our life
Birthed the first doubt
I do. I wonder...

Views of love
From so many directions
Perspectives and
Skewed revelations
A message so profound
It’s hard to envision
We are each a sun
Revolving around our world
We were never the center
We are never static
Always Dynamic
Shed a tear
Or even two
Then step beyond
To find a sense of you
Onoma May 20
sunlight blinks

as a bird

flies by.

it's being

flown by

what air

and wind

cannot follow.

nor space.

substantial as

a passing thought,

a fingertip stroked

across water.

yet powerful as the

end of the world...

the beginning of the world.

though flown beyond both.
Fingertip upon the glass,
   Cracking the most painful smile..

Lift my head to gaze upon...
   the fallen.

Fly back,
   eyes dart around the room,

Unravel the sheets,
   Unravel my body,
   Stare up,
   Gaze. weep.
fall through the floor.

hanging by my hands.
   fire everywhere,
Cries in every direction.

A tug at my feet,
   A cold, blood-torn face says to me,
   "Go back."

All goes black.

Anger floods my veins,
I scream...
Blood pours from my fist

at the bar,
   watch her dance,
She doesn't see me,
   because I'm not there...

her smile is the most painful knife in my side,
Because it's not mine.

A sharp pain across my face
   Get it together man,

Black again, for just a moment...
   eyes, slowly open.
laying in my bed.

It's 8pm.
   guess I'll just sleep...

to float through the silence.

~Robert van Lingen
Onoma Jan 27
rain's perfect vision

of the ground, all the

way down.

the ground's slow

drink of reversible vision.

a woman's fingertip

spreading perfume

on her neck.

dying to be taken...

by something other

than life.

her heart rippling

across her shoulder


sudden, firm hands

on them--a melting mound.

to ease day

into night.

a tear crosses her lips--

she tastes her eyes.

the tick tick of the bike
a dog barks
letter on a Welcome mat

the midnight tick of time
the house sighs
Dad's whistle

ambushed by the smell
of honeysuckle
I fall into the Past

red barn
blue sky
a summer to last forever

Caruso 78
I listen to the scratches
like Time trying to sing along

I kiss the whorl
of a fingertip then
the all of you

your body
drifting away from me
on a tide of hurt

'I don't like the way
your eyes
touch me! '

starlings fly up
I walk upon close bitten grass
a sheep laughs

a car rusts on the beach
the roofless house
looks out to sea

the sea is sleeping
I watch it breathing
wonder what it's dreaming

the house hunkers down
its window eyes
gaze upon the coming storm

crouching under a cloud
a mountain
frightened by the storm

walking upon
the meniscus of sleep
unable to dive in

& here you are
years later looking like
an out-of-focus-photo of your self

Bandol( where I )almost
my fingertip caresses the map

Port Yerrock
where I alas...was saved
suicide can be so difficult these days

some dogooder being brave
I cursed him
for the rest of my days

that was in 1938 or '39
funny now
I lie dying in 1999

who would have thought
I would have made it all the way to today
now a me un-eager to go away

Death comes to visit
brings the usual grapes & flowers
"Now. . ?" "Not yet.." says Death

not at all who or how I
imagined it to be

takes my hand &. . .

the clock ticks on

past her death
the barometer registers a change in pressure
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