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Cindra Carr Dec 2010
Sun-filled mornings burn bright
Warm smells of life dashing by
Squint eyed despair peeking out of the dark
Bright memories gone degraded by time
Broken life shuffles slowly by
Rings click on the spokes of a chair
Wheels turning slowly around
Bumps on the door jamb from failing sight
Lost mornings sunny dipped in light
Burns on the minds sticking to life
Soft darkness covering slow moving despair
Bright days dissolving into lost nights
Squint eyed despair and fumbling thoughts
Slow moving wheels and dangling legs

cc1210
Timmy Shanti Sep 2017
Come September
All the leaves shall fall.
Longer shadows...
Days will shrink and wither.

Come September
Bitter winds shall blow.
Muffled up,
I’ll struggle not to dither.

Fingers fumbling,
I shall light the air,
Fighting cold,
Still thinking of the summer.

Thunders tumbling,
Water is the world...
And every single breath
Feels like no other.
24 IX 2017
Gold is cold.
Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
alexa Aug 2018
i see visions of you in my subconscious,
words tumbling out when i see your face,
fumbling to find
the proper adjectives to describe you
i can’t
because there is no one on this planet
who can love me so intangibly,
so inarguably i can't
even focus because you’re always on my mind,
every other thought tinted cerulean,
every thought turned
patterns of your words so weaved into
my life i thank you
for being the one constant in my life,
so consistent in bringing me up
from the depths of my own darkness i don’t mind
that the pain is draped over my heart when
your face is draped over my mind.
-a.c.b
but i still hung up the phone crying....
Keith Faherty Oct 2016
The
weight of the world sitting dumbly on
those fructose eyelids.

They, in turn.      melt into the mummified  
morning.

laying in the corner forever like a
favorite-shirt
ruined in the wash.
Every other stripe on you is stained pink
from
some cheap volunteer tee that ******              up
The whole load.

Each ray from the blinds
Takes some life away.


Searing past you- into the floorboards
with
quiet fury.

Time passes_
It shoves us down into compact spaces.
(but)
I thought of you
In a shoplifter's prayer.

(There is something left that evaporates out in the form of you)

I imagined you
Still.
But growing
Like
Crystal salts
Crusting up the pores of the earth.

Vapors fumbling upwards to rehydrate
My dry fingers_


We make decisions . that stick around.

We break off blisters. Rip little things that hang off our lips.
We take breaks before we need them.
Take too long to say
**** this.

Thoughtlessness.



Somewhere out there, they are screaming loud.

Somebody either cares or
Doesn't.



The marks on the carpet know better than
us
How to last forever
zebra Jul 2018
i nearly called her last night
to tell her that i found out i was a character in a book
about
a poet who hated poetry
that doesn't spill out over boundaries
into ashes of desire
and obfuscates
that we are weapons
like boiling pots and empty cups
no one can drink from

using each other
against each other
desperate
which is why i am afraid to love
why i don't have smooth charm
why i cant make sense suddenly
while her wit
is as swift as a gazelle

i became her pathetic expectation
a self-destructive idiot

useless

fumbling with matches
setting myself on fire
with every word
like a good poet
until i was  
burnt earth
Lawrence Hall Nov 2018
For David Jones, 1895-1974
Poet, Artist
Pte., Royal Welch Fusiliers

One can go back to one's own home…
and everything is so changed that one is a stranger.

― Graham Greene, The Ministry of Fear

I went away, a young and foolish lad
Imagining I would go home someday
Made manly in the war, someone to respect
Admired by all in the old, familiar scenes

There was only exile. Echoes and screams
Fumbling through the flashbacks for charger clips
And stepping carefully lest the lawn explode
In dreams lit only by parachute flares

While waiting for the order for volley fire
And is the safety on? Or am I off?
Jordan Sears Oct 2018
He clasps my five, fumbling fingers in his
Runs his thumb over the rocks that mark our forever
The fall and rise of the current; his breathing
The depths of the lake; the blue pools in his eyes

And I'll linger like the fog above the water

                         Every morning--
                         Every evening--

                               Always.
Nylee Feb 24
I have to lift my thumb
type another word
Use my finger to erase
All my mistake
A second well spent
A tool better grant
All becoming part of my rant
Simply said
but cannot be conveyed


An uninspiring living being
Nothing is happening
Only two pages of
Not any more in sequence
My identity missing
other time spent grieving
My dreams all lost
I am left alone

A dream of many gifts
What way it went
an unambitious woman
came back
Unwilling
to every thing
Moving the muscle
Even an inch

The same words
dance again
Creativity gone stale
every trial
So daunted by
Ever lack of effort
No improvement
what count to keep
losing the grip

An another day
Come and go by
twenties to thirties
queen of laziness
Unsteady not focused
pretty same letter
I am not getting any better
opportunities run away now
As I step towards the goal

So taken aback
Relenting to every decided fate
a piece of cake
Rock solid one at that
bundling and fumbling
No excuses to my thing
like a diamond never found
never cut or polished
laying just like carbon.
tabitha Sep 2016
you are a beautiful man
i have thought this truth before
many times
while watching you stand in the door
my lovely elvis presley in disguise
your hips and feet make crowds rise
memphis has put a sparkle in your eyes

let me have no other! so you can feel my love, unweathered,
it would all be much better if you just--forget her,
the only thing that makes miles distance is fear
so do a little something for your soul, and come on over here

i have sung this song before,
hummed the very same tune
to younger ears a couple years ago
look at me: a mockingbird marionette, fumbling
a millennial juliet reincarnate, crumbling
beneath familial fears and plain lack of years

it's not what it seems!
do not drink the poison!
i will see you on the other side*

i mean, it's just a ride, but
my ears have started to ring from
the sound of going mental
the sting of crashed potential
the forget-you-forget-me riptide
i still see your face, i step inside
i must move on and live my life
but how lovely would it be, to be together?
to cross time, and space
for the intergalactic sparkle of your face
for the pure pleasure of watching
each other make each other
happy

we used to write poems for each other

i have pictured myself there
in the pink atmosphere
floating with you, fellow air sign
for quite some time
i have prepared my body and my mind
for the pull of your gravity
washing over me, my skin, my spine
to let you have me
my atoms would surrender
on every eve

i wish i could do for you what you have done for me
we have crossed rivers, we have crossed seas
you have made me stronger
deeper than i ever thought i could be
your tongue holds the key to a trove
of life's most sweeping intricacies, so sweet

i now
admit
defeat

this poem obsolete
Cydney Something Dec 2018
I collapsed the seats of my Rav4
You watched my *** the whole time
And saw an opportunity
As I bent over between the front seats
One, two, then three fingers
While fumbling to turn off the hazards
Biting a seat to keep quiet
Accidentally turned the music back on
"Stay In My Memory" by Bim
The song from Him
**** him, I'll ******* instead
The hazards were off
The music still on
Your fingers making my body quake
From the inside
Twice
Strong enough to throw me around
Like I was someone cuter and smaller
And put me on my back
With a hand around my throat
Kissing at me like a dog
Making me submit like a *****
Three, four, five
"On your knees"
And you threw me there, too
Six
Around we spun
Getting rug burn
Lost count of the quakes
They started to blend
With the aftershocks
"Are marks okay?"
And then you left one
A hickey on a weeknight
And a Monday, no less
Next time, we need a bed
Rug burn is a *****
OC Aug 2018
A curse upon you
for casting me the role of
a blind tracker
who's anxious with each step
lest his fumbling fingers
his stumbling stroll
will wipe clean the footprints
you left in the sand

----

A pox on your head
for sentencing me to
hang
from the smoldering debris
of my crumbling hopes
by a noose tied and fixed
to the moment
your turned back has
crossed through the door

----

Be ******
all that is you
a decaying piece of cloth
wrapped around dried up bones
produced from the depth of the past
rattled and hastily poured
pretending to feign me a future
with your crickety crackling song
VineBabe Jan 25
It started with a hug
years of desire and affection
summed up in one simple
heart warming gesture.

Foreign sensations
a little fumbling to find my Mark
we fit right in.

Perfect opposites
the Lark and the Owl
Cold and Warm
the Neophyte and the Teacher

Forgotten fears
and new found peace.
We must meet again.
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