"flashpoint" poems - Hello Poetry

eloquence in this. kiss & cough. from dirt to light to love. days begin with dreamcoast, cast, and chase the air, or rhythm of rain. raygun. & flashpoint to ember. to knuckle. to cortex. she smells fantastic. she she she like, a sweet kind of thing. like, a nice incense. & i feel today is a holy day of the week.

0

Dec 13, 2014

Dec 13, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC

CoopLee

******

eloquence in this. kiss & cough. from dirt to light to love. days begin with dreamcoast, cast, and chase the air, or rhythm of rain. raygun. & flashpoint to ember. to knuckle. to cortex. she smells fantastic. she she she like, a sweet kind of thing. like, a nice incense. & i feel today is a holy day of the week.

19

Raindrops falling as we walk Pitter pat, on the umbrella we share Fingers intertwined, The crisp air flows over our skin As we walk in lock-step. We splash in the puddles Left behind from the dips The leaves sticking to our boots As we search for a soft dry place To spread our coats Under the boughs of a pine Feeling the crunch of the needles As I lay you down Our lips meet Cool from the weather Warm tongues chase away the cold As a fire is lit It burns. Slow, and hot. Out here, it melts everything away Skin exposed, it knows no chill As mouth and hands keep warm Wet and salt we crave The fire burning hotter Our legs woven together As the warmth fill us both We near the spark Touching the flame Feeling its sting Tasting its warmth on our lips Fire consumes us Burning within the depths Ablaze with passion No longer contained Wildfire dances within us Billows blow Flames fanned flashpoint Dwindling, we breathe Smelling the singe, fall together Skin steaming Aching from the burn Pitter pat, the leaves remind us The flames die down Arms like coils release To adorn the robes we wore Fingers entangle again Lips warm, bodies embrace Water drops cool on our heads Eyes sparkling at one another Onto the trail Our alter fire diminished We slowly walk away A spark burning within her

0

Nov 1, 2017

Nov 1, 2017 at 2:53 AM UTC

chrisamichaels

Spark

Raindrops falling as we walk Pitter pat, on the umbrella we share Fingers intertwined, The crisp air flows over our skin As we walk in lock-step. We splash in the puddles Left behind from the dips The leaves sticking to our boots As we search for a soft dry place To spread our coats Under the boughs of a pine Feeling the crunch of the needles As I lay you down Our lips meet Cool from the weather Warm tongues chase away the cold As a fire is lit It burns. Slow, and hot. Out here, it melts everything away Skin exposed, it knows no chill As mouth and hands keep warm Wet and salt we crave The fire burning hotter Our legs woven together As the warmth fill us both We near the spark Touching the flame Feeling its sting Tasting its warmth on our lips Fire consumes us Burning within the depths Ablaze with passion No longer contained Wildfire dances within us Billows blow Flames fanned flashpoint Dwindling, we breathe Smelling the singe, fall together Skin steaming Aching from the burn Pitter pat, the leaves remind us The flames die down Arms like coils release To adorn the robes we wore Fingers entangle again Lips warm, bodies embrace Water drops cool on our heads Eyes sparkling at one another Onto the trail Our alter fire diminished We slowly walk away A spark burning within her

53

~ *Apathetic city skyline This must be Drum Street There's critical thinking Digital tendencies Pigeons on the roof Kids in the library Hail and flashpoint Homeroom Their final resting place Who of you misses the bleak missiles of youth? And how they used to hit like needles? I can count your sufferings on my fingers See them hidden in the tall grass They move in secret With shadow blister As much as the caterpillar: Elusive and eruciform Sixteen crane wives Collect on the guide wire Their weathered plumage Strangely displayed Airplane debris on an uncharted wild Macabre flowers growing out of air masks, gone quiet The magic word is drear It's a sorrow-filled caw As if feathers from the grave Clothing our fears I can count the flock on my fingers See them separate in mid-flight Each a solitary path Fusing rage and grief Each a solitary path Fusing rage and grief* ~

0

Jun 23, 2022

Jun 23, 2022 at 4:08 PM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

Birds From Sad Films

~ *Apathetic city skyline This must be Drum Street There's critical thinking Digital tendencies Pigeons on the roof Kids in the library Hail and flashpoint Homeroom Their final resting place Who of you misses the bleak missiles of youth? And how they used to hit like needles? I can count your sufferings on my fingers See them hidden in the tall grass They move in secret With shadow blister As much as the caterpillar: Elusive and eruciform Sixteen crane wives Collect on the guide wire Their weathered plumage Strangely displayed Airplane debris on an uncharted wild Macabre flowers growing out of air masks, gone quiet The magic word is drear It's a sorrow-filled caw As if feathers from the grave Clothing our fears I can count the flock on my fingers See them separate in mid-flight Each a solitary path Fusing rage and grief Each a solitary path Fusing rage and grief* ~

35

take a look at the first thing next to you now imagine it but a hundred times brighter (all the time) if life is a glass of water sometimes i wake up and it's filled with caffeine instead to keep me running faster than i want it to there always has been a spark in my eyes that wasn't natural no one's quite sure where it's from but i used to think it was a superpower i used to think not sleeping for days was a superpower too it can be scary if you feel like a puppet that's forced to kick and hurt and attack it can be scary if you can't make yourself stop it can be scary if fun isn't fun anymore but danger it can be scary when you're fragile it's like a bubble in which there are no boundaries the world has no boundaries there's only me and my ideas and i seem to be way better than i'm supposed to how can you stop when there's so much left to do? (even if afterwards it won't be) the world is bright and colorful now but it can go back to greys anytime it won't go to neutral colors (it never does) you can't shut it down if the "it" is you, if the "it" is what you're up against if the "it" is constanly challenging you to go faster better faster faster faster "it" is so fragile if you stop it for a moment there may be no coming back there are so many fun things intense things death can be just one of them if you don't control "it" soon enough when caitlin snow first got her powers in flashpoint she had to stop them i always had a superpower and it will always have to be stopped take a look at yourself in the mirror now imagine yourself but a hundred times brighter (all the time) if i'm a good person sometimes i wake up and i'm a goddess instead (what can i be if not godlike if it feels like there's nothing that could possibly stop me?) there's always been times when i felt like i left my old self to come back stronger and happier i don't know if there's a happy because every single time i felt truly happy it was an illusion that doctors called "a chemical imbalance" if i can dress up and be a new me who can dress like this who can do this but if you'd stopped me i could be angry (i don't know an angry me, i always forget her) so i have a calm kind of angry-an angry where no one and nothing else can be touched or hurt but i can when i was confused about sexuality websites were calling it "hypersexuality" it can only be a superpower if i see lights and flashes others don't it can only be a superpower if people i'm in love with have a halo over them it can only be a superpower if i seem to stop the cars around me when i run through the street if someone whispered "high risk, too impulsive" i thought fun and passion the thoughts going through my mind always seem amazing and i wonder if the people who've written the bible felt like this if they did, i'm happy for them i can never forgive myself for things i've done (not sins, i'm too envious of people who are faithful) but i guess it's not, not if there's a spark in my eye that can disappear, only on certain conditions one of the last things on the wikipedia page for bipolar disorder are the suicide statistics

0

Feb 19, 2017

Feb 19, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC

domifrost

mania

take a look at the first thing next to you now imagine it but a hundred times brighter (all the time) if life is a glass of water sometimes i wake up and it's filled with caffeine instead to keep me running faster than i want it to there always has been a spark in my eyes that wasn't natural no one's quite sure where it's from but i used to think it was a superpower i used to think not sleeping for days was a superpower too it can be scary if you feel like a puppet that's forced to kick and hurt and attack it can be scary if you can't make yourself stop it can be scary if fun isn't fun anymore but danger it can be scary when you're fragile it's like a bubble in which there are no boundaries the world has no boundaries there's only me and my ideas and i seem to be way better than i'm supposed to how can you stop when there's so much left to do? (even if afterwards it won't be) the world is bright and colorful now but it can go back to greys anytime it won't go to neutral colors (it never does) you can't shut it down if the "it" is you, if the "it" is what you're up against if the "it" is constanly challenging you to go faster better faster faster faster "it" is so fragile if you stop it for a moment there may be no coming back there are so many fun things intense things death can be just one of them if you don't control "it" soon enough when caitlin snow first got her powers in flashpoint she had to stop them i always had a superpower and it will always have to be stopped take a look at yourself in the mirror now imagine yourself but a hundred times brighter (all the time) if i'm a good person sometimes i wake up and i'm a goddess instead (what can i be if not godlike if it feels like there's nothing that could possibly stop me?) there's always been times when i felt like i left my old self to come back stronger and happier i don't know if there's a happy because every single time i felt truly happy it was an illusion that doctors called "a chemical imbalance" if i can dress up and be a new me who can dress like this who can do this but if you'd stopped me i could be angry (i don't know an angry me, i always forget her) so i have a calm kind of angry-an angry where no one and nothing else can be touched or hurt but i can when i was confused about sexuality websites were calling it "hypersexuality" it can only be a superpower if i see lights and flashes others don't it can only be a superpower if people i'm in love with have a halo over them it can only be a superpower if i seem to stop the cars around me when i run through the street if someone whispered "high risk, too impulsive" i thought fun and passion the thoughts going through my mind always seem amazing and i wonder if the people who've written the bible felt like this if they did, i'm happy for them i can never forgive myself for things i've done (not sins, i'm too envious of people who are faithful) but i guess it's not, not if there's a spark in my eye that can disappear, only on certain conditions one of the last things on the wikipedia page for bipolar disorder are the suicide statistics

47

This is no love poem No love, no art work, no poem No music nor rhythm But of images Of farmers exultant Though they break their backs, Or their bones creak, With every slash of their sickles, The heavy strokes Wounding light in the fiery heat of noon, The gaunt-faced sons of earth, Bringing home harvests of gold To the people's granary, Where no greedy landlords are in sight. For centuries, the land robbers Had squeezed their souls dry In constant toil. It may be that their time is up. But this is no love poem No love, no art work, no poem But of history Of workers milling around a lingering twilight. Pounding their hammers with their might, Ecstatic at the thought of freedom, Yet battling still, long dreaded ills Of feudal ******* barratry, Imperialism Storing up for the people’s cause, Building a new commune in the new place Freed from the landlord-minded President From the imperialist ogres Of IMF-World Bank and Uncle Sam, The warmongers, From oppression And poverty and wretchedness That, like a python, had wound Around them to the end. But this is no love poem No love, no art work, no poem No fictive tale but of radiant truth. As throngs of men And women march Out of their homes With new-found hope, Gathering strength As from a blasting storm, Defiant now of lying saints or heroes Or of murderer Presidents Who speak with forked tongues, As the throng march out into the streets Flooding the cities, Ready to offer their lives for freedom To them would come such happiness, Such love No poem would express, No art suffice to render. This is no love poem No piece of art, no song Only a sense Of how it is to tell of battles won, Of folding in to feel the surge of triumph Though brief perhaps, Within this flashpoint moment Of the people's war.

0

Aug 12, 2015

Aug 12, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC

longlivethebutterflies

This Is No Love Poem

This is no love poem No love, no art work, no poem No music nor rhythm But of images Of farmers exultant Though they break their backs, Or their bones creak, With every slash of their sickles, The heavy strokes Wounding light in the fiery heat of noon, The gaunt-faced sons of earth, Bringing home harvests of gold To the people's granary, Where no greedy landlords are in sight. For centuries, the land robbers Had squeezed their souls dry In constant toil. It may be that their time is up. But this is no love poem No love, no art work, no poem But of history Of workers milling around a lingering twilight. Pounding their hammers with their might, Ecstatic at the thought of freedom, Yet battling still, long dreaded ills Of feudal ******* barratry, Imperialism Storing up for the people’s cause, Building a new commune in the new place Freed from the landlord-minded President From the imperialist ogres Of IMF-World Bank and Uncle Sam, The warmongers, From oppression And poverty and wretchedness That, like a python, had wound Around them to the end. But this is no love poem No love, no art work, no poem No fictive tale but of radiant truth. As throngs of men And women march Out of their homes With new-found hope, Gathering strength As from a blasting storm, Defiant now of lying saints or heroes Or of murderer Presidents Who speak with forked tongues, As the throng march out into the streets Flooding the cities, Ready to offer their lives for freedom To them would come such happiness, Such love No poem would express, No art suffice to render. This is no love poem No piece of art, no song Only a sense Of how it is to tell of battles won, Of folding in to feel the surge of triumph Though brief perhaps, Within this flashpoint moment Of the people's war.

64

Sands of time tinkling through an obscure artefact the light in you as you recognise your own. Why and how are long-trodden tracks, forgotten as my mind unfurls with a fresh green vine whence before the stubborn old clung dry, and crisp, those bitter octogenarians of perception. R&M;, those sweet surprises winking from behind a hidden door were small shards in the bright crystal of our day that felt woven only for us. You trailed your fingers in the lukewarm water And across my neck, both, at every opportunity the warmth of the day to turn to burning heat of us as light and inhibition fell. '.....a thousand kisses deep', you read And those you gave enthralled me Cruel-clever Fate, to plant us as seeds apart that sad, never understood genus or cure to find now the curlicues of tendrils touch And all to make pure, beautiful, joyful sense our flashpoint clear in its providence. How clear and fine, luminous, perfect your touch and kindness and intellect drew these feelings from myself, not forgotten but rather, felt in that day anew. an older......deeper.....creature are you curled in dark and bookshelves and things unmachinated You're art, and never be apologetic your sorrows, twisted mad moments and lust sift through you to paper, golden dust and I find you entrancing in no hesitation still, I find I've one eye on the snare. A red orb signalled our day into night red wine and red running beneath my skin I see you so clearly my dear, in mind's eye and know the feel of your hair in my hands and your elegance contrasts with slyness and salt and the glint in your eye with its knowing purport. Forgive me, I cannot relay all I felt forgive me, I cannot I know, more I can give? but know, incandescence you drew from me surely for you, kindred soul, have reminded me- live.

0

Jan 13, 2013

Jan 13, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC

cyan-tendency

Incendescence

Sands of time tinkling through an obscure artefact the light in you as you recognise your own. Why and how are long-trodden tracks, forgotten as my mind unfurls with a fresh green vine whence before the stubborn old clung dry, and crisp, those bitter octogenarians of perception. R&M;, those sweet surprises winking from behind a hidden door were small shards in the bright crystal of our day that felt woven only for us. You trailed your fingers in the lukewarm water And across my neck, both, at every opportunity the warmth of the day to turn to burning heat of us as light and inhibition fell. '.....a thousand kisses deep', you read And those you gave enthralled me Cruel-clever Fate, to plant us as seeds apart that sad, never understood genus or cure to find now the curlicues of tendrils touch And all to make pure, beautiful, joyful sense our flashpoint clear in its providence. How clear and fine, luminous, perfect your touch and kindness and intellect drew these feelings from myself, not forgotten but rather, felt in that day anew. an older......deeper.....creature are you curled in dark and bookshelves and things unmachinated You're art, and never be apologetic your sorrows, twisted mad moments and lust sift through you to paper, golden dust and I find you entrancing in no hesitation still, I find I've one eye on the snare. A red orb signalled our day into night red wine and red running beneath my skin I see you so clearly my dear, in mind's eye and know the feel of your hair in my hands and your elegance contrasts with slyness and salt and the glint in your eye with its knowing purport. Forgive me, I cannot relay all I felt forgive me, I cannot I know, more I can give? but know, incandescence you drew from me surely for you, kindred soul, have reminded me- live.

45

Please allow me to bestow upon you a nocturne The music of the night... Just listen to it... ...the reverence... Why must I sit here in grey silence, Listening to the hard rain on the window sill? I dreamt of you. Your smile. Every arpeggiated chord. Every melodic line. Every soft passage. I dreamt of you. I awake and read your words And fall deeper into enigma. Where am I? I dreamt of you. I heard a voice in my right hand. Trying to escape, it led into an appoggiatura of trust, A suspension of sympathy. I dreamt of you. All of these crazed non-harmonic tones Clashing high above my flashpoint. The dissonance carries. I dreamt of you. Am I just so lost in the music I see in you? Or am I once again over-analyzing? It's you! It's you! I dreamt of you. Where am I? Why am I not near you? This entrancement is becoming indefinite. I dreamt of you. Please come closer. Beyond this shadow of thought, Lies the key to a locked door. I dreamt of you. Your words pierce my heart like a dagger, Making the soft nocturne glow as bright as you. While I breathe, I hope. I hope we meet in our dreams tonight.

0

Jul 28, 2015

Jul 28, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC

EphemeralRain

For the Reverie Girl

Please allow me to bestow upon you a nocturne The music of the night... Just listen to it... ...the reverence... Why must I sit here in grey silence, Listening to the hard rain on the window sill? I dreamt of you. Your smile. Every arpeggiated chord. Every melodic line. Every soft passage. I dreamt of you. I awake and read your words And fall deeper into enigma. Where am I? I dreamt of you. I heard a voice in my right hand. Trying to escape, it led into an appoggiatura of trust, A suspension of sympathy. I dreamt of you. All of these crazed non-harmonic tones Clashing high above my flashpoint. The dissonance carries. I dreamt of you. Am I just so lost in the music I see in you? Or am I once again over-analyzing? It's you! It's you! I dreamt of you. Where am I? Why am I not near you? This entrancement is becoming indefinite. I dreamt of you. Please come closer. Beyond this shadow of thought, Lies the key to a locked door. I dreamt of you. Your words pierce my heart like a dagger, Making the soft nocturne glow as bright as you. While I breathe, I hope. I hope we meet in our dreams tonight.

40

So you want to use me? So you want to see where is the edge? Your aim isn't to light gas on fire so much as find the flashpoint definitively so when you come back you'll be in that safety zone, the one where you retain full control over each crease and fold But each moment to unwind my eyes roll up, tune out, my memories display corporeal because it's my distinct disorder I live in fear of the guilt my only reprieve found in glass containing first liquid and plant consumed into ash and emptiness that grants me passage to escape to pen and paper may in the end, only leave me mindful I'm not the money tree grown on the coastal cliffside, nor the home you've been dreaming up worlds away from here -- Gone When I know I am -- Gone Worlds away from here -- Gone What will I do -- With my new papers With so much freedom? Free from shackles and collar I wasn't born for you, born from you

0

Oct 2, 2015

Oct 2, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC

wren-djinn-rain

The Price of Life Eternal: "Worse Than First Thought"

So you want to use me? So you want to see where is the edge? Your aim isn't to light gas on fire so much as find the flashpoint definitively so when you come back you'll be in that safety zone, the one where you retain full control over each crease and fold But each moment to unwind my eyes roll up, tune out, my memories display corporeal because it's my distinct disorder I live in fear of the guilt my only reprieve found in glass containing first liquid and plant consumed into ash and emptiness that grants me passage to escape to pen and paper may in the end, only leave me mindful I'm not the money tree grown on the coastal cliffside, nor the home you've been dreaming up worlds away from here -- Gone When I know I am -- Gone Worlds away from here -- Gone What will I do -- With my new papers With so much freedom? Free from shackles and collar I wasn't born for you, born from you

36

They’ve come early this year, before the start of summer. Hot dry days for hot dry weeks leave bush and grasslands tinder dry - at flashpoint. A faulty vehicle exhaust? A stray piece of broken glass? A smouldering cigarette **** An arsonist or pyromaniac? A lightning strike in a dry thunderstorm? A forgotten electrical connection? So many ways to start a bushfire. A spark becomes a flame becomes a fire becomes a bushfire becomes a holocaust. Homes, businesses, infrastructure, livestock, pets, human lives, whole townships, our precious bushland, our wildlife and flora, endangered species … all at risk - all under threat. And yet, human spirit prevails. Communities unite in mutual support. Firefighters - many as volunteers - sacrifice home comforts, families and income for days on end. Others provide food, safe havens, funds and resources. Under threat we hold together and so we survive. Hot dry days for hot dry weeks leave bush and grasslands tinder dry - at flashpoint. Summer is still young. The worst is yet to come. We must survive.

0

Jan 8, 2020

Jan 8, 2020 at 11:26 PM UTC

john-wiley

BUSHFIRES

They’ve come early this year, before the start of summer. Hot dry days for hot dry weeks leave bush and grasslands tinder dry - at flashpoint. A faulty vehicle exhaust? A stray piece of broken glass? A smouldering cigarette **** An arsonist or pyromaniac? A lightning strike in a dry thunderstorm? A forgotten electrical connection? So many ways to start a bushfire. A spark becomes a flame becomes a fire becomes a bushfire becomes a holocaust. Homes, businesses, infrastructure, livestock, pets, human lives, whole townships, our precious bushland, our wildlife and flora, endangered species … all at risk - all under threat. And yet, human spirit prevails. Communities unite in mutual support. Firefighters - many as volunteers - sacrifice home comforts, families and income for days on end. Others provide food, safe havens, funds and resources. Under threat we hold together and so we survive. Hot dry days for hot dry weeks leave bush and grasslands tinder dry - at flashpoint. Summer is still young. The worst is yet to come. We must survive.

49

when i know i am looking out there i do not see a different man just, a person i find myself facing disaster i see the sun dying in your eyes born of fury in the darkness fall to dust in the night time is failing love - forgiveness i will hold you through the night and the moon is a desert where the wind cannot wail we fill our deadened sea with tears of joy and never ending hope is this the world you won’t remember? frozen in time a second in infinity your mind is alive warmed by a memory moments here are lost silence at my touch in dreams i follow you through voice a darkness grew flashpoint lost in a haze safe to stay from our mistakes a future that we fail to see in another world growing still endless time nothing wasted, nothing wanted and i can change the past my fury melts the past you’re out of sight - out of mind elements of anger wastes the night winter’s fury burns it bright elements of anger claims the sight winter’s edge obscures the night i claim the light

0

Apr 29, 2015

Apr 29, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC

ariel-hillel

traveler

when i know i am looking out there i do not see a different man just, a person i find myself facing disaster i see the sun dying in your eyes born of fury in the darkness fall to dust in the night time is failing love - forgiveness i will hold you through the night and the moon is a desert where the wind cannot wail we fill our deadened sea with tears of joy and never ending hope is this the world you won’t remember? frozen in time a second in infinity your mind is alive warmed by a memory moments here are lost silence at my touch in dreams i follow you through voice a darkness grew flashpoint lost in a haze safe to stay from our mistakes a future that we fail to see in another world growing still endless time nothing wasted, nothing wanted and i can change the past my fury melts the past you’re out of sight - out of mind elements of anger wastes the night winter’s fury burns it bright elements of anger claims the sight winter’s edge obscures the night i claim the light

56

my mind is set to blame accusations finger pointing flared anger and i feed it with a bottle of... whatever to keep it functioning smoothly oiled greased gears shifting noiselessly with an alert fixed to cast fault on whoever may cross my path. the only hope is time.

0

Apr 19, 2015

Apr 19, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC

susanjj

flashpoint

my mind is set to blame accusations finger pointing flared anger and i feed it with a bottle of... whatever to keep it functioning smoothly oiled greased gears shifting noiselessly with an alert fixed to cast fault on whoever may cross my path. the only hope is time.

15

Body Of a broken soul Soul Of a broken body Untold Puzzles in my head Heads And untold puzzlement

0

May 24, 2014

May 24, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC