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ash stains and cosmopolatin zines
bathroom savoring night-rain
like lorn and lone trucker tobacco
sky forged in dark blues outside a cracked
window, like you in the closet ****
but the door opened up enough to tell.

1. flesh simpering but the voice a sullen
conversation of silence and broke dreams
television with hundred and forty channels
and half open beer cans.

2. silence still drags kissing and murdered
autumns, shadow of hands over flush skin
lurking moonlight invited.

in morning i'll wake with a human
but tonight you are a god with your hands
roaming my hipbones & sleep with
you, my mind running thoughts
like trains on spinal cord railroads
Callum Hull Jan 2011
Is it naive to hope or dream,
To dream of hope, or hope to dream?

Some say it is naive to ask a question.
A question forged by a dream with hope of success.
Upon the topic familiar to the thespian.
A dream of which you hope would be redeemed.
For when you ask you believe it your task.
When you puck up some courage, its not what it seems.
To ask the question in the dream once had.
Although the answer you receive may or may not be.

Be as you believe in the dream.
The reply comes but not as a beam of warmth and ecstasy.
But a beam of darkness and regret.
So, the hope is gone, the dream is shattered.
With you now standing still and tattered,
With memories.

Memories of the dream now shattered.
And all the while your heart now battered.
Your outlook is now bleak
With you now feeling weak.
Again you repose the question with hope that.
That the dream once had could be more than a dream.
It’s 50/50, yes or no,
However.

We all know the results reside in the latter.
With more planning given to the former.
Due to the hope in a dream now lost.
You stand there now alone and cold with nothing.
Nothing but the ensuing darkness closing in.

Falling now as though of lead.
You try to stumble off to bed,
You weep a silent tear,
Among a wash of despair and fear.
That all will be lost and propped-up for the entire world to laugh and sneer.
And shout “fool!”

For they knew the aforementioned dreams were that of pipes.
And you are certain that they will poke and snipe.
To derive their own sadist torment for the woe that drags you off to bed.

You lie there now weeping
Sobbing and not yet sleeping.
With dreams of dreams,
And hopes of dreams.
And the hope to dream of her again.
This was written by myself at  3Am whilst unable to sleep shortly after plucking up the courage to ask someone out for the first time.
When you make a garlic chicken
special guests are also essential
Cross sections and interior views
forged all manner of ancient

The name may evoke evening
Experiment with cucumber, watermelon
Do not imply the expression of any opinion
increase in normal and immunosuppressed

Make an irony-free living
but never in such proliferation
Prepare to be bowled over by porridge
or other library materials

covered with a blanket of clouds
The dead began to speak.
In a class I recently learned about "flarf poetry," where you take a random (sometimes crazy/nonsensical) pairing of words, type them into Google, and grab random lines from the search results. Of course, for this poem, the string of words I chose was "Ubiquitous Nordic Chicken Beards" and the poem is a compilation of lines from the ensuing search results. Enjoy!
bucky Oct 2014
you forged your own steel in the molten lava of my belly, a pennyworth of paradise,
frozen tree branches dripping icicles down my back
this is what it feels like to be an active volcano
anatomy lessons are nothing like the curve of your spine while you're asleep
rising and falling like a familiar chorus
i know this dance well, i've memorized the steps you will take
locked it inside my chest and threw away the key
lake michigan warm underneath the mattress in your room
you, me, and stormdoor-fragile winter nights
you hold whispers in your palms like they're something holy
there's a word buried in your lungs, in the nape of your neck, and you don't quite know how to pronounce it
i can still feel your fingers exploring the dip at the bottom of my spine like there's treasure somewhere
you just haven't found it yet, and
you tell me my house is more like a graveyard, and
remember when we found red underneath our fingernails, and
remember when there was more ash in your hair than in the ground, and
i love you i love you i love you, and so on
this is a stolen book off a stolen shelf and it still says that i love you, and so on
we were never in love with each other, not how we were supposed to
"this will destroy you", but it didnt
you're bleeding on everything and my hands are starting to slip and grab my hand
(and this isn't how it's supposed to go, but i still love you, and so on)
this started out happy i honestly don't know what happened
A diamond noose stole the breath from her chest,
Where ribs caved beneath creaking whalebone corsets
And her hands lay useless against the curve of her waist.
An hourglass standing with each grain assigned,
A time and a place, a husband, no thought for her mind.
To be instructed and moulded into icy precision
Because in her heart the royal blue ran in vain
And her prison was forged before birth by name.

Fairy tales make pretty the twists of her life
As she's wound into tapestries, the good, obedient wife.

Let those who weave take for granted stillness in her lips
And forget to check the eyes which dip from sight,
For those who's power falls too far for her to reach
Means she must hide hide her only freedoms in deceit.
She'll whisper beneath men's ears and lace their tongues
With words that from their own have not be strung,
For what do women in titles' prisons have?
But the babes from further shackles brought,
And hopes that scheming years shall dull the locks
To free the blood of those whose irons are yet to be wrought.
Angie Acuña Mar 2013
"Misery is a powerful sensation.
It's funny, can tear people down and lead them to madness.
Which is also a weird feeling, madness.
It strangles you up and won't let go." She said

My mother is convinced that I am crazy, driven to madness, she says.
I don't know how, I say.
Mother, I only do what you have taught me, what you have shown me.
Is it my fault that I don't trust people because of you? I am a cynic and proud.
Others will not be the reason for my downfall.

My misery, you say, is caused from a lack of friends, from being antisocial.
Dear mother, the only misery I own is the one you gave to me over the years.
"Friends" have never had anything to do with this.
I never had any.

Pride will get you nowhere, she says.
On the contrary, mother dearest, my pride has got me everywhere that I have been.
You were no help.

No mother, it's not because I'm not pretty enough, because I don't wear makeup or because I don't do my hair.
The reason that I don't have a boyfriend is because of you.
I have seen one too many of your relationships crash and burn like a meteor to ever trust someone other than me with my organs.

Don't you dare yell at me, mother.
The way I act towards you is because of the shield that I have forged over the years for your snide remarks and evil looks. My attitude is yours.

Sweet mother, I have seen you at your worst and at your best. None of which are really great, but I know how you are and that's all that matters.

Dear mother, I know this seems like it was written to spite you, but it's the only way I could express this.

Mom, I want to thank you for making me this way and for everything you have ever taught me.

I want to say that I love you, mommy.
I love my mom guys. Honestly I do.
Kurt Philip Behm Dec 2016
A warrior can be an artist,
  but can an artist go to war

Can the craftsman ever breathe the fire,
  that tempered the blade he forged

The warrior-poet, not the poet-warrior,
  the difference in the score

All fury then his words inspire,
—to bridge the liars fjord

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)
JR Rhine Mar 2016
I declare my home to be tucked within the wreathed *****
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
where I know them as my silent guardians
watching over me;

til I taste saltwater on my tongue,
and find my taste buds alight
with the spread of steaming Blue *****--
doused aplenty in Old Bay--
spread atop disheveled newspaper on the kitchen table.

Suddenly, water becomes "wooter,"
and wash becomes "warsh,"
and I laugh and skip rocks along the waters
that baptized me in my infancy.

That is, until the Old North State
wraps me in her misty shawl,
where I find myself barefoot on grassy acres--
wild dogs running in packs amiably--
and I race makeshift boats of sticks and water bottles
down the ole crik.

I close my eyes and feel faint and brisk breezes
caress my face like a mother's hand,
gently guiding me through dense woods
where imagination and reality forged an alliance.

So where do I call home?
Well that's entirely up to you,
whether you send my head into an ear-popping,
mind-whirling dizzy spell--
euphoric in higher elevations and getting lost in the foliage;
or you put a plate of steaming ***** before me with saltwater kisses on your lips.

I am the Oriole of the Blue Ridge,
and the Cardinal of the Chesapeake:
The White Oak and the Longleaf Pine.
Born in Maryland, raised in North Carolina: We aren't always born in one place.
Shruti Gauba May 2017
Gather all your agony,
and whisper it to the sun,
so you know that a bitter life
is just a forged illusion,
for you still have roads to take,
you still have time to shine,
and the spirits you think you lack,
have been woven in your spine.
Say goodbye to your sanity
and be carefree for a while,
give a chance to all your wildness
so it can also smile.
Then pair it with adventure,
when you're about to revive,
then stir in some more wonder
and once again, you'll be alive.
a little piece to cheer you up!
the night is my truest love
come to life. The lullabies
soothe like the shallow stream
rounds the sharp pebbles
therapeutically. Your mouth
now the extension of the curve
that begins on my own and
then becomes aflame.
i am not yet dead and cold –
but I am steeled
the darkness is the furnace
that has forged me.  the floor
a peaceful mother of pearl.
the silence a lover
that appeases my nerves.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   03.01.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Companion poem to The Waning.
Gabriel Adam Jul 2012
When I rain, I pour.
But this year broke me.
Sank its fingertips
into my shoulder blades
and tore me asunder.
Nailed me to the
floors of this apartment
that weeps like a willow.
While you wrapped yourself in goodnights
I screamed into the floorboards.
I licked at your fingers
like a dog.
No matter how deep I dived
I never reached the ocean,
And I cried.
Sweet Jesus, did I cry.
But men aren’t supposed to,
so I begged instead.
At the age of twenty
I discovered shame.
I felt like calling for help,
but my voice cracked
like a frozen lake.
You’d tell me you were going out
with a few friends, and I’d beg you to stay home,
but my guilt tied my tongue down
with fish hooks.
When I rained, only ashes fell.
And no phoenix clawed its way out.
Only my naked back, flayed by the chains of the prison
I forged for myself,
bleeding out poems that I’ll never see
again.
******* out air from music notes
in order to survive.
This year I discovered guilt.
I could never count how many times I said I’m sorry,
but I tattooed it to my chest
so when I made love to you
I wouldn’t have to say it out loud.
I used to burn.
Burn so loud that
when spoke
smoke climbed from my lips,
I lived my life like a car crash
but sang like a music box.
I plucked smiles from strangers
and drank up the voices
of girls
like wine.
I played loud.
And at the age of nineteen I found myself unworthy.
I inhaled smoke instead of speaking it,
and never let the car
leave the driveway.
I cried ink from my fingertips,
and used you as a telescope to search for God.
With you, I discovered far too much.
I still feel that only shackles embrace me,
but I want to shred open my rib cage
and the let the songbird
out of my chest.
Pull the hooks from my tongue
so I can say
I love you.
When I rain, I want to ******* pour.
So the world knows my heart’s beating.
My wounds are canyons,
that I’ll stitch up with poems.
I want you to know me.
I want you to hold your breath
when you press your hand to my chest.
I want to scream so loud these
walls split open
to let the ocean pour forth from their eyes,
so I can swim to the surface and write my name on its face.
Sing the moon into my hands.
And free that fire from my music box,
so I can find my way
home.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Manifold Blessing

There is a reason wife rhymes with life
In her eyes I find the depths I must ever mine
Hearts of gold not made in any other way
The vain derived by expending softest feelings this all aligns
Molten gold flows into the mold only when honest truth fires singular hopes
For no other exceeds or matches this sacred bond that love has forged
In pressure I gladly steadfastly March this alone breaks my nature of stone
To another coupled selfless paths give rise to adornments uncommon
Her hand her voice most gentle but by it alone many storms unerring guide held the course
The day holds only empty clouds if she is absent the sun shines in vain all is tied together by her smile
She knows secrets that keep us safe in their power we run with never ending force all troubles are dispersed
Holy writ speaks to this matter when it says a man finds a good thing when he takes a wife
From these priceless cherished gifts all the earth is replenished no other way is it made whole
He who would hold her in small esteem troubles his own life and condemns himself to poverty
F White Oct 2013
I swim
through the ocean
of my own consequence
one I've  forged
with my own neurons and
feeble synapses.

I traverse
this plane
existing as I do by
the seat of
my own trouser legs
frayed edges show
only in the closest
of light.

I float
Backwards in my own
consciouness, my
existance a waking
moving riddle
my own eyes,
the eggs
on the skillet of
this reality.

this constant
cosmic breakfast is
a mystery to me...
copyright fhw, 2013
Dr Peter Lim Jul 2018
The beach
and I
alone
the winter night
I hear its sigh
mingling
with my own
there are words
in silence
between us
a strange kinship
forged in stillness
I can't explain why
my feet  touch
the soft tender sand
a vibration
it does seem
to travel through
my total being
am I in a dream?

I feel
there's life
hidden
vibrant
in its every particle
and atom
I'm reminded
all at once
nature is a miracle
in every manifestation
open to the sympathetic eye

the sea recedes
at a late hour
it sings a dirge
as though
in a painful cry

the sky
is empty
no cloud
is in sight
the moon shivers
the stars slowly
away they fade
and die

man and nature
each bears a heart
they share rapture
and pain they harbour
against the backdrop
of time and its temper
Sturm und Drang
the sweet and sad songs
they had at the beginning
together embraced
and sung

after tonight
I'll never be
the same again
for life's mystery
I have tasted
and drunk

the hours quicken
the trees they wail
and the winds they sail
in gentle sweep
the leaves are shaken
a voice ethereal drifts
through the waters
the ripples are silenced
I harken
as though
in obedience:
'  I'm the first
  of time
  but willed
  not to be the last
  enchained
  like Prometheus
  to unending years
  yet humans not one
  do know my tears
  and you whom
  I meet tonight
  will carry my message
  and relate my story
and agony
near and far
for how blessed
you humans are
to know
the taste
of mortality'.
Nicole Joanne Nov 2016
what's wrong with wanting to be in love?
I want to fall in love -is that such a bad thing?
we've been told that one does not fall in love ever when they are looking for it; but who decides that? who says that I can't find love?

is love suddenly not going to be love anymore because I was looking for him? what if we were looking for each-other? love can not be forged -the act of love can be, but love itself, cannot.

why can't I search for love? why do I have to wait for him to find me, or pop up out of the blue? Why can't I look down the path and scream, 'Love, I am coming for you. You're what I want and I will search everywhere until I find you.' Why does love have to be some mysterious lurker? why can't I notice love as a gust of wind before he becomes the full blown tornado?

Whats wrong with looking at someone you admire and thinking, 'hey, I think maybe I could fall in love with you' and actually, truly, believing so? You can't forge a feeling -so why not look for the spark? If it's there it's there, if it's not, it won't be.

So ***** all who tell me to stop looking for love,
because when I find him I'll be able to say,
'thank god I finally found you,
I've been searching for you my whole life.'

NJ2016
Gracie Knoll Jun 2016
I am accosted by Your love
Thrown into the turmoil of emotions
Given no chance to realise
That I'm about forgotten notions

Love ought to be a pure thing
But here it is despised
No one can forget Your love
Yet many try to hide

Impurities and long lost dreams
They think it's all they'll gain
What others try to offer them
Is always causing pain

Love now is no more than a toy
To be found and lost
To be enjoyed and forgotten
Yet they never realise Love's true cost

It is an unmoving thing
Forged from Man's first thoughts
It always is and has forever been
Yet now it is debauched

We claim that we know what it is
And yet we have no clue
Unless of course we have sipped
The Love that comes from You

You are yet still pure of heart
And know of Love's true worth
For it was You, the Mighty Craftsman
Who first divined Love's birth
Jude kyrie Sep 2016
I was born in the waves of music
so long ago now as I look back on my life.
It was a time when the music was faint.
barely audible almost silent.
I was a accident a beautiful one
but still an accident.
She was a beautiful young concert pianist
he was a guitar player in a rock band.
They should have hated each other
but that's where I came in
they didn't.
Her father was a control freak
all he could see was advancing her career.
After my parents met
it was something like love at first sight.
They slept together
on a bench on a new York rooftop.
I guess you could say
that's where I really came in.
Her father took her away
to her recital in California.
She did not even know his name.
But I found out later
she never married
nor did he.
When Mom found she was pregnant
her father said it must be adopted.
I became an IT instead the baby
or my grandson or even the boy.
Mom had an accident
after the news she was
to put me up for adoption.
She ran into the street
and a bike courier hit her hard.
I was born early.
But her father;
I still cannot call him gandfather.
Forged her name on my adoption papers.
when she woke up in hospital
he said the baby was lost.
that I did not make it.
I was put into the orphanage run by the Catholic nuns.
I never got adopted.
I guess I was bit too weird to keep.
I listened to music everywhere
in the grass the street the wind.
In the noise of the clanging city
Or the pattering beat of the rain.
And I knew somehow
She was out there.
I could feel it I knew it for sure.
I became a musical prodigy at seven
I could write music without lessons.
I could play any instrument
you threw at me.
The nuns at the orphanage
sent me to juliard.
I was their youngest student at nine.
Far away in California.
My life was changing.
There her father confessed
what he had done with my adoption on his deathbed.
Mom searched and searched
until she released the adoption papers in court
with the forged signature.
She saw my photo for the first time.
She said that's him...that's my son.
At juliard I wrote a symphony.
it was put forward to play
in central park for best new young composers.
The moon played
its magical music loud that summer night.
The park was full of the heart of New York.
And she was playing
the concert piano.
When my music played
it awakened something in her heart
I could see her feeling it.
She felt me.
She felt my music.
She felt her son.
The concert finished
They called me to the stage
to take a bow.
But she came to me
in her beautiful gown.
she was so pretty.
she held me in her arms.
I felt for the first time
the softness of my mother.
Her eye makeup
was running down
her beautiful face.
is it ..is it... you ...she asked.
I kissed her cheek
and whispered yes Mom.
It's me
It's your son.
Thank you for the music.
Don't you love happy endings
I do
Smiles
Jude
Mark C Feb 2013
Red
…rain, rain, red rain, scarlet rain, ochre rain, incarnadine rain, rain driving in torrents unseen in millennia, pounding the desiccated earth in a frenzy of hydration...

I... I never dared hope to see this.  In the last days...  let me see now...  this is so difficult that even my recollection grows dim...  

In the Last Days,  Council met and planned.  We exhorted the brightest, challenged the greatest minds.  We sifted through aeons of knowledge and philosophy, searching for the key to our salvation.  Plans were made and discarded.  Theories expounded... and proved false.  In time, we came to the inescapable conclusion.  

Our seed had grown thin.  Hundreds of generations of advancement, fine-tuning, and engineering had taken its toll on our people.  We had become threadbare; the canvas of our soul stretched beyond the limit of its frame.  We had become a doomed race.

(...rain from pole to pole, reaving nature through force of Will, rain into rivulets, rivers cascading into falls, scouring terrified hillsides, on an unstoppable charge to the lowlands...)

The inevitable demonstrated beyond doubt, some lost all reason.  Others chose their own end;  marching calmly, in ones and twos, or in families, into the hopeless portals of Ra’k Tanar.  A few of us chose to carry on, in the hope that something might be salvaged.

(...rain like the fury of a spent people, a whirlwind railing against futility, rain coursing and surging, hungrily rediscovering its soil, its flood-plains, its oceans, rain urging defiance, blood-red rain on blood-red clay, a million screams and a million years out of time...)

And in a way, we forged a kind of victory.  Ruined as we were, we were not without Craft.  Our best we gathered to the Hall of Treasures, under the icon you have only just uncovered.  We laboured hard, so that even with our passing, the land would not forever wither.  The seeds of your future were planted long in our past.  You are coming into your inheritance:  now, under the deluge...

(...rain like a thunderstrike echoing through the centuries, life-giving rain, angry rain, rain like the tumult and violence of all the wronged and lost, breathing, raging life into possibility all around, and with one last, weary, sigh, I leap into the heavens, rise up, become one with the sky, one with the rain, and fall in a billion crimson teardrops
Mitch Prax Jun 2019
There were so many
soft and delicate angles
in your smile.
Was it a weapon forged
to destroy me or
was it a cure created
to save me?
I guess time will tell.
Ady Dec 2013
There is a freedom in delusion,
It is artificially flavoured and cheap-
for anyone desperate enough to buy it.
Like this, there are many more copies of the originals.
It is the promise of Love,
The dissapointment of failure,
and the bitter taste of regret.
Yes, there is a blind happiness in the act of faith;
believing in the shadows reflected on the walls of the cave.
A hard truth to accept- the lies you tell to yourself
as you go to bed and succumb to wishful dreams.
Another day wasted-another mind twisted.
The vitality of grass and the prattle of the birds ceases
love fades away, as does the vigor of the summer.
Words once fluent, now cease to forced murmurs of dispassion.
There goes the first leaf of autumn-
in the cold harshness of the creeping wind.
There is honesty and pain in recognition,
Deceit and grief at the eyes of imitation.
Yes, there is a temporal taste of forged happiness;
A comfort in the fabric of deception.
Wrote it back in summer for a friend.
I remember you well
at the halfway hotel
dusty corduroy ragged
shambling shoes smiling
toothless and untethered.

You, shop door keeper
sidewalk sleeper
a torrent of tall tales
and misery sweet
You, invisible to those
who see beauty 
in possessions alone
while all you possess
hangs in blue plastic noose
from your weathered hand.

Me, the bearer of bread
hot soup for the soul
and soft blanket warmth.
We settle together
to watch the world wane
You tell me your story
hushed tones as sun sets
homeowner to street roamer
family man to castaway
as an eye blinked
and winter frosts left their bloom.

We shared our love of Cohen
as the stars forged the sky
you sang a little
with tobacco rough lungs
the sweetest sound
mixed with bitter tears
picking through all that remains
in the ashes of your life.

You thanked me for kindness
grateful for a chance at visibility
your gratitude reciprocated
by the impression left upon my heart
your face forever summoned
by Leonards finest song
I remember you well
at the halfway hotel...
I've met some wonderful people that live their lives on our streets, this particular guy has always stayed with me and I give thanks with this verse for all that he taught me. Oh and thanks and big love to Leonard Cohen, for the title, first two lines (slightly altered) and for supplying the soundtrack to my rainy afternoons.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2015
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.

Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly                                                         ­   
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.

Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.

Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.

In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.

On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.

Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Zachory keiser Aug 2014
I've made such efforts to forget,
to forget the sun soaked sheets in the early summer mornings

and of the way our eyes would meet after sweet symphonies of dreams divine.

Attempts To erase the savory smells of morning coffee, shared smiles and skylit kisses in the garden

Or of The warm sounds your feet made when they traversed the oak floors as if saying follow us we'll lead you to the light.

And they did, they led me to the sun, Where it kissed my skin and bones as if gracing me with an endless summer.

And Yet I still retrogress back to memories of the winter rain resting easy as it glistened on the soft pastel rose petals

So much like the way our eyes held passion in the beginning

And still I couldn't forget and cast away such an exquisite chapter filled with beauty passion and love

for those are the memories and experiences in which our true selves are forged. And I'm almost who I'm meant to be.
Lysander Gray Dec 2012
This morning is a picture postcard of our first ****.
Sweaty and enclosed
a symbolic fan dawdles slowly
over our youthful bodies;
Velvet with electricity.

I can still feel the starch strength of your hair,
read the invitation on your lips
(the only novel written solely for me)
and ignore the gooseflesh as I recall the magic of
your perfume from the deepest, darkest past.

Your mystery was forged out of the shade
which followed early mornings,
cool like gold covered ice,
sometimes we drank the Sun's wine
from the Sun's cups
and your ******* were bared to the sleeping city
pale and luminous as two alien moons
while overhead the early birds sang their song.

Now you live in the future,
as so many others do,
and I am left here;
with a faded blue rose
who's perfume has fled and now smells of old velvet.
Joe Bradley Jul 2016
I

The pistons rusted, the furnace grew cold and
I lost you at the coal face.

The cat had got it

and the rest was just noise

II

We left the strong-men, that mean looking lion.
We pushed back the linoleum ***** of a smaller tent,
liking the rubber on our hands.

I’m after the fortune-teller telling me
on the slopes of The Bones, she will say yes.


The tent was cloaked in this rotten perfume.
So smokey, you couldn’t see your hand for your fist.
I was dealt the Queen of Pentacles,
her the Hanged Man.
I watched her nose reflect in the crystal ball.

III

I watched a ghost
depart the dunking stool -
a soul disintegrate
from a Romany curse.

I was dizzied by the strike of a lampshade.
those shoulders I stood on
Were yours.

I rocked as your body was taken away.

IV

The storyteller had the world on his back!
Half Atlas, half time-snail, he was
Sticky with aphorism.

We listened to his TED Talk and when he left
the soil was fertile with prayer…

But nothing grew
til the sweat of the shovel-man
granted the earth some water.

V

Acceptance.
The attendant sprits
Spoke wisdom in
basic steps.
‘One thing at a time’
A stone cracked.
‘One thing at a time’
An Aegean Daemon watched,
A genie whispered…
‘One thing at a time’

VI

‘We’re putty.’
-Sarah stood up in class, obnoxiously-
‘Forged in volcanos, capsules of perfect evolution.
We’re of earth, of mud and rainforest and canyon.
Of the same stuff as moons, the sparkles
across a twilight ocean, the particles
caught in sunbeams. We’re the dust that worked.
We moved towards this... this beautiful complexity.
And you can be anything.’

VII

I drew a smile in lipstick
Across the face in the mirror

VIII

Sewing Machines.
dumpf dumpf dumf
Carolina’s hands.
working the tender silk.
Dumf, dumpf, dumpf,

IX

Ella’s lips around his *****.
David thrusted like a Spartan.
she comes
loudly.

X

I trust, honestly,
I trust what I see with my own two eyes.
I see us infected by Delhi Belly,
the muck from Gangees is flooding the Seine,
the Hudson the Thames.
It’s like the third morning
After one day of snow.
My father’s father
Has been forgotten.
 

XI

Brian awoke on another Wednesday
gratefully ******* his gums.
Unlike in his dream
he still had his pearly whites.

XII

The dogwood fire licks his face.
Sunrise through the dense Bitterroot and
Wakan-Tanka.
Breath.
‘There is no separation,
Us and the river.’


I looked into the wisemans face.
Lined.
But all I wanted was to sketch an outline,
and step in to the silhouette of
Someone else.
DJQuill Jan 8
Light that betrays us
A flickering lantern that misleads me into darkness
A stabbing pain that gives me joy
A lasting ink that marks my skin
An outcast of society, painted in black and lost in forgiveness-
A leader of the broken
Mysterious Aries Jul 2015
__________

To forged a smile everyday

And joined the crowd and be okay

My face tattooed the image of clown

To hide a man who's so feeling down
That MAN there denotes all GENDER...
Javier Garza Dec 2014
My life I owe to all of you
You've kept me alive
Were my strength for so long
Were the bright side of life

This peace I've achieve thanks to you
You kept the sinister thoughts at bay
You each gave me hope
And were the light at the of the tunnel

This victory over the war inside me
Won because you each stood by my side
All of you kept me latched to humanity
You became my family
Our chains of friendship forged  

These thanks I give, they're for you
You kept me from fully shattering
Mending falling pieces
Became the definition of my life
The rainbow after the hurricane
TJ Feb 2014
the need to express
my unhappiness
mingled with my mask
of forged smiles
gifted to me
since i was a child
pretend to be
who they want to see
that's who you should be
my mind tricks me
the you, you are
is never enough
a shameful mess
blessed with a voice
hushed and ashamed
uneventful
tamed...
but the pen explodes
the paper is alight
fire burning
breaking the night
expression
confession
simple poetry
gifted to me
since i was a child
foolishly i wrote
staining blank paper
with my woes
my depression
my questions
betrayal by family
alone, lost, abused
searching for approval
embrace your child
mother, where are you...
why have you gone?
father is blind
sister is brokenly
holding me tight
protecting me
from our mother
our father...
trapped in a house
closed in
stay in
force normalcy
they must never know
you held your mother
while she wept
your blood staining her sheets
how foolish of you
to ever speak
close your eyes
sing a sweet lullaby
everything will be alright.
just random thoughts molded into a single place... whether it forms together as a good poem, you can be the judge...
Isn’t it funny how
Earth, forged from the universe
Will die by our hands?
blush Jan 2013
in the quiet
I’ll remember
a hundred lifetimes
with you

fallen cherry blossoms
and my breath
stolen like summer

the forever bereft
fantasy
forged and fraught

beneath fingertips
of ecstacy;
lips
of sorrow

the truth of hearts
running nowhere
but here

the shadow
of your voice
slipping like rain

the sound
of your feet
in the wet distance

and something of
your ample body
and wide embrace
lingering like a nebulous
of violent/violet dream

across the broken/blue
horizon of my soul
M Apr 2014
I still remember the color of your eyes that day
it's still my favorite color
they were the color of gold
but not exactly gold
white
but not exactly white
they were the color of the sun behind the clouds
just as the sun rises
and the color of the sun behind the clouds
right before the sun begins to set
they were the color of the star I stared at
while me and another girl I loved
talked about our dreams
(she longed for the cosmos-
I only longed for her)
they were the color of what I think my soul looks like
the color of what my wings were before I fell
the color of a halo,
of God's throne, of
the love I feel within my chest.
they were the color of what a spark feels like
as it pierces your mind
and electrifies your lungs,
sending you into deadly spasms-
and yet, they are glorious while they last;
you never thought you'd enjoy dying.
they were the color of an angel's blade
and the color of the inside of my eyelids
as my body burned away from looking at the kingliness
not meant for me or any mortal-
they were the color of something I never thought
I'd see again,
the color of a place my soul had almost forgotten,
they forged a connection, a wormhole
to something bigger and more powerful
than I could ever imagine.
Like a long-lost brother
or finding your house in the middle of a strange city-
like seeing your mother for the first time and
instinctively knowing who she is-
like I was being called home, to my true home,
and I could only get there
if I just could reach, a little farther...
Heaven is present in everything, I know,
but it was personified in your eyes.
Qweyku Nov 2016
my lips parted
humbled by your resplendence
enchanted by the mystery of your beauty

so i spoke the words of promise
forged on an anvil of insanity
fashioned by a trembling tongue
the fire of fearful fidelity

a passion extinguished by acceptance
reborn from the sated ashes of embrace
reignited with the kindle of emotion
the inferno in the flame of your breath


                  © Qwey.ku
Devin Weaver Feb 2013
I would that I could clasp hands, at once, with every diasporic man
And our hands could merge and rise up as a single fist
And all the subjective shades of our own colors and the
Daze of our own druthers would be shed in the process
Yes, I find that I absorb the pain around me like a fine osmosis
That unifies the minds forged in our generation’s social suffering
And I wish my skin would grow akin and reflect a synthesis
Because there is no bliss when men bisect people into “us” and “them”

I would that I could turn my insides out and transform my ***
Organs, as a moth does surge inside a closeted cocoon
Only to emerge with wings and the power of new found flight
And I wonder if I too could sing the perspective of new heights
Because there is only ******* in a world where those who
Share the same ****** shape cannot share the same heart
Are condemned to be kept apart by taboos viewed through institution
Started by confused men, afraid to admit that making love is a free art

I would that I could push my hand into the ground and grow
Roots that drive deep, past the sand, beyond the rending flesh
Of our loved ones’ bodies and mesh with the immortal earth
As if I could bolster, with my chemical composite, the site of true birth
Because when the mightiest of the world’s glories can be
Bought and sold for the price of arbitrary ******* figures
Written in the blood of forests, in the torn face of mountains
Then we can stop ignoring the forlorn thought of dark days before us

I would that I could bring back all those lost before their time
That a rhyme could sting the cold cheeks of slaves who never
Saw a western sunrise comprised of multicolor, of many brothers
That I could brush softly the minds of couples buried not together
And scream to them that time left some bereft of victories
Yet to shape their scene, yet to substantiate their dreams

Then I would quickly reseal the doors of slumber that guard
The restless dreamers of the past before revealing the
Horrors of societies stepping once forward, then twice back
Yes, before the haunting words of hateful choruses should
Ever shape their reposeful, moral-less, and peaceful sleep
For the hopeful eyes of soulful passing activists should never weep.
“Where am I?”

I awake in realization,
all that energy
went into the marrow
and not the muscles,
after all,
climbing close
to the top
just to plummet
right down,
bones breaking,
It was a fall
towards
the bottom
and I
am
on
the
wrong
side,
back where I'd begun,

“Get up, you've a long way to go...”

The mud and bone floor
I once forged through,
like before - it's not pretty,

"A waste of time and breath having fallen on this side..."
"But how?”

Remembering how
I bent myself from
the edge
where I fell,
the frost on my nose,
it's still there,
cold down my face
when I look
back up,
frozen to the bone
when its face
fills my eyes
without escape,
marring the sky
as I lie
in the valley,
so low
and
alone,

“No creature should roam here long...”
“I should start crunching around the border.”

“It's my time.”

But,
flying above,
there is that dove,
the one from
the frozen tundra
of the crest,
the one that
led me up
and almost over,
it circles closely,
the close friend
who never spoke
to me,

“Hah! Your wings tell
truths in the wind...”

I listened to its spell
without a grin,
it was then
I climbed a cliff
to reach
where it perched,
instead finding
a **** crow
huddled in
the snow,

“How ugly.”

In that moment
I jumped,
falling too far,

“And now?”

Here it is again,
the failure of evolution,
a stupid creature,
an idiot savant
who created
my great mistake
and misfortune,
a hallucination,


“You're here too now?”
“Go away, useless bird!”
"What help are you?"
“Let me walk around this mountain alone...”
“I regret following you.”
“How could such a beautiful bird not know how to sing?”

**"It's still my time."
Madelynn Nieves Aug 2018
Simple seeds
Turned roots of trees
Built on lies
The most famous
‘Everything is Fine’
Climbing the branches
Escalating the deception
Until there is no way down
No savior around
A prison of invention
Forged by the best intentions
A forest of fabrication
In the spirit of deception
She Writes Sep 2018
Fly
You were not forged with wings
To spend your life perched upon a branch
Watching the world pass you by
Rianna Mar 2016
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Counting
Does not
Help the
Anger that
Is in my soul.
I have been cursed to become this abyss of endless cruelty and sadness. I cannot be saved and to be frank I do not wished to be saved.
I am a knife.
Do not complain
Of what you have forged me into.
トリシャ Feb 2014
it was autumn last year when we first met,
just one step away from each other
(so close yet so far)
cherry leaves crunching under my feet
blue skies and russet cobblestone
the smell of cinnamon hanging in the air
branches snapping in two like brittle bones
and my unlit cigarette dropping to the ground in surprise
as he fell
falling down down down to the ground
gravity gripping him like a soul-******* monster
and his fragile limbs stretching out
rustling paper flying out of his bag
in a spiral dance to a song i could not hear.
frail eighteen-year-old knees scraping against the pavement
lurid irises latching onto mine
as he fell
and my hands shoot out as if to catch him
like palms aching to touch delicate butterfly wings
and even then
i now realize
he was asking me to save him;
to stop him from falling.
but he was already one step away
(so close yet so far)




it was winter last year when friendship was forged.
pink blossoms giving way for achromatic snowflakes;
shaky familiarity giving way for a solid bond
amongst wordless run-ins and shy hello's
and sitting across each other over cups of hot chocolate
(so close yet so far)
we learned about each other
reaching out past thickly built walls
about pets and family and friends
(china dolls and nickels and handmaids);
and maybe we learned a little about falling in love too.
but he bristled at the mention of dreams
and i learned
that in his world of half-shattered glass and dead seas
dreams were distant stars
not meant to be picked out of the pitch black sky
and he insists they were not meant to be;
i wondered
if he meant to tell me that neither were we.
i told him i didn't understand,
asking myself if looking into his eyes
have always been this painful
but he shakes his head and steps away
(so close yet so far)




it was spring this year when i admitted
i wanted him closer;
that i was tired
of having to reach him through broken chords
of him being a chapter i had to read over and over
of having to chase after a firefly slowly losing its light
tired of him always being a step away
(so close yet so far)
i told him
i wanted to keep his dulcet smiles deep inside myself
caramel bites sweet against my tongue
to tread my hands through his hair
like floss that would melt if i don't hold on tight enough
to have him sing to me;
velvet tones echoing in the silence
jars of honey reserved just for me.
i wanted to run my fingers across his spine
like the ivory keys he spins melodies out of;
to tug him closer and closer and closer
until distance is no more
and there's nothing but lips against lips
skin against skin.
but things don't work that way, he says
my fingers flat against his waist
(we can't work out, he adds;
as if i hadn't heard)
it was a whispered lie against fabric
his body shaking
like a man deprived of a drug he so desperately needs
his eyes irresolute;
uncertainty crippling irises that used to shine
as bright as the northern lights
but he takes a step back anyway
(so close yet so far)




it was early summer this year when i lost him;
he had a girl hanging from his arm
and debonair friends waiting at his every word
(they might as well be valet de chambres)
and not once did he spare me a look
not even when he was only a step away
(so close yet so far)
that month flew by in yet another blur
empty beer bottles in my hands
flimsy cigarettes back between my fingers
broken promises embracing me like an old friend;
as if the forced laughter
did not distort the syrupy voice
that used to drawl in my ear;
as if the empty kisses and i love you's
echoing in my head
did not feel
like repeated slaps against my cheek
like repeated punches into my gut;
and as if his vacant words
did not paint his eyes colours
that i never wanted to see.
eyes that never looked at me;
as if i was a discarded toy.
as if i was the soul-******* monster
i had (tried) to save him from.
someone not worth being around
someone not worth being near
which justifies, i think,
why he always remained a step away
(so close yet so far)




it was late summer this year when i realized
that this is how it has always been;
that to wish and to hope
was to wait for a shooting star
in a world grazed by neither beauty nor light.
that even prior to our meeting,
he had always been a step away
(so close yet so far)
i was born in november, he in october
i was born on the 6th, he on the 7th
i was born in 1990, he in 1991.
even before we were born,
we were already a step apart
like binary stars only destined to orbit but never touch
like parallel lines never meant to ever intersect
never meant to do anything but run close to each other
as close as it can get
but never meeting
forever a step away
(so close yet so far)




it was autumn this year when he lost himself;
gone were the iridescent irises i fell in love with
gone were the caramel smiles i wanted to keep;
gone was the boy i once knew.
like a tree kissing its cherry leaves goodbye
a butterfly bidding farewell to its brittle wings
the ghost of a boy i lost to shattered dreams
in a shell of fragile ribs and untuned keys
even then, he never strayed closer
not to me
not any less than one step away
(so close yet so far)
and i wondered if this was cruel punishment
for something i had done
handcuffs locking around my limbs
as i await the executioner's axe;
because there is no pain
quite like watching the boy i love(d)
crumble into himself
broken and vulnerable
knowing i myself was helpless
merely a felon awaiting my capital punishment
with him always one step away
(so close yet so far)




it was winter this year when the world lost him;
the boy i'd loved
with the fragile limbs and glitter orbs
having destroyed himself
giving in to the promise of a world
better than his tattered own.
reduced to nothing but a lifeless sack of ivory bones
like the branches and cherry leaves
from when we first met;
now contained in a velvet coffin,
still a step away
(so close yet so far)
i ran my fingers against the coffin glass
like he did with piano keys he loved
as much as the stars;
the coffin made with chiffon velvet
like the voice
that used to flow like milk and honey
in the silence of the night;
and his funeral clothes
black like the starless skies
in the desolate cage he'd locked himself in;
a stark contrast to the pastels
that used to paint his irises colours
that render the rainbow dull if compared.
only it's all in my head now
because he is gone
and even now, he is still a step away
(so close yet so far)
just leaving this here. messy and pretentious and hardly a poem, really.

— The End —