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Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.

And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.

The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.

Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.

It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth

Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.

Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.

Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.
Dumbstruck is a poem featured in my first collection of poetry, "Blood for Honey", available at and Amazon.
nadine Jul 2018
recurrent moonlit distractions
captured by words
tied down into morsels;
separated and concealed,
contiguous yet sheer greetings
of each other’s skin
had left wanton burns
and gushing streams
of a brooding lover’s propensity
for unsusceptible matters of the heart.

there, he stood,
on the precipice of tomorrows;
ruminating and scrupulous,
forlorn yet never dithering
over mundane and quintessential quandaries
of the tepid gloss of incertitude
dangling off syllables
dictated by sordid agony.

there, he stood,
in the midst of everything;
from the otiose adoration
poured out of empty caskets
to the lenitive shades of his eyes.

with the ripples of moonlight,
the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts,
there, she stood,
and waited.
and waited some more.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...


point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
can never
be given,
be taken,

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
could it be

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
Khoi-San Jul 2018
As the sunflower drops in afterglow
of shade  
And the gloss of the gleem fades
across the moonlit shadow
We are summoned by the horizon
into the magnificent light that offers
no shadow
The light of God is perched on love
without  side effects...without a shadow of doubt...crossing the night
into  dawn
The light of God holds no shadow it only awakens to love
"We exist on the edge between the gloss and the reality: the mirror's edge."
And the glass has shattered
in a spiderweb of a fracture,
Ensnaring our very lives, so
we run. Immersed in flow.
Gliding over rooftops,
Knowing everything as intuitive.
Run, jump, climb.
No refrain,
Just a blur in time.
It only pauses for one moment:
The deadpoint;
Pendent suspense,
Caught without rise or fall
as the arch is rent.
Here we make sense of it all.
Faith is instinct,
Our grasp of it is immense.

Sometimes I can hear the broken reflections'
whispering echos on this fragmented mirror,
The edges of it running parallel to my ear.
She speaks to me,
My city.
Like it's a dream.
But I've never felt so real.
What she told me,
Taught me how to live.
When you don't know what to do,
Run for it,
If not to get away then to feel.
Line One by the character Faith Connors (voiced by Jules de Jongh) from the game Mirror's Edge (written by Rhianna Pratchett)
Dilsha Kawindi Nov 2017
Smooth, silky hair tied in a high ponytail
Clear lip gloss
Fingernails painted pale pink
The perfect girl next door
Pastel cardigans and sweaters were her thing

Waking up with red, swollen, puffy eyes
Staring at her reflection in the mirror for hours
And reappearing fresh cuts on her wrist
Yet no one knew the blackness growing darker in her

What's done is done
No way to go back in time
A little attention would've been sufficient to stop it
But to be fair
She got it in the end
As her body laid on the ground
With blood gushing out of her hand
rocking on this swing again
where I crept into the moon
so many nights with
and without you

twirling tongue spells
whispering kisses on the wind

I sat in blackness
sky light communion
praying begging manifestivals
for just the slightest uplift
in your shadowed lids
to peep ignite

while you steeped in other brew
as if I could pry you
from your own entrapments

you employ them
in places you won't let me
because you're scared
to open your hand

dailies distract the knowing
and warm your frigid sheets
then you wonder why
there's no space
for we

I know I'm Sunday mornings
flung swift at your door
requiring all your insides
from turned-out pockets

but I'm also
high-gloss, full-color
content symph in inter-D
and every last **** one
of the funnies

plus those coupons in the middle
to places you've never been
they kick back everything
you've thrown in
10,000 folds

uncreasing dewy
unto you
underneath it all, I know who I am... and who you are
Tommy Randell Apr 2017
Sitting in the pub it was all I could do to stop myself
taking the knife from my pocket and like some Shylock
give you your pound of my flesh right there and then

It was all I could do not to slit my belly hip to hip
to spill my steaming, roiling innards out
across the table-top and into your … flat … white … lap

I could see it, my glistening, glowing need for you
hanging from my fingers reaching it out to you
offering it, to your gloss-red lips

I could see it, visualise it, feel it
as I closed my eyes through the last wave of pain and shock
I would ever take from you

And then from somewhere, from between my shaking hands
over and above the baying bedlam of nerves alight with raw fire
from deep down in me, where the root of you has always been in me

I would feel your Kiss
Lightly ... but at last in the right place
and at a time that mattered to me for a change ...

Then, You smiled and talked about the weather
We had liqueur coffees
Benedictine and Tia Maria

The March sun, weak but warm through glass
caught the feathered edges of your lips - beautiful and cruel
In ten years, I thought, you will have a moustache.
This moment happened - metaphorically. In a pub 'The Valiant Soldier' which used to exist in Exeter, Devonshire, England. It is a bright and vivid memory.
Christian Bixler Aug 2019
for a moment
ripples under gloss
a declaration
Tree rings seen in a desk.
Cece Nov 2019
i can't cry you a river,
i don't have that many tears left to give,
but i can cry you a poem.
i can sift through our memories
drown in our old love,
and cry because it's all gone.
i don't have that many tears left to give,
but i can cry you a poem.
i still have words
and rhymes and
way too much time.
i don't have that many tears left to give,
but i can cry you a poem.
i can take you back to the old days,
love letters and lip gloss
and sweet innocence.
i don't have that many tears left to give,
but i can cry you a poem.
maybe not a sonnet,
and i can't sing, so it won't be a song,
but it'll remind you of spring and summer and good.
i don't have that many tears left to give,
but i can cry you a poem.
a poem that i can throw in your face,
to make you regret the fights,
the cold, the shattered pieces of me.

i don't have that many tears left to give,
because i cried them all that night.
i wrote a whole poem, thought of the title "cry me a poem" and scratched the entire poem bc i thought of this so :)
Remembrance into our respective pasts,
Gloss over our eyes whilst our perspective drifts apart.

I hold my hand o'er the candle to remember the flame.
I toss myself from the roof to feel the flight again.

The rainsoaked flame wanders through my bones,
My home,
My dampened heart keeps burning.

~Robert van Lingen
kaari Jul 2018
I asked where everything went wrong
Yet I kept the answer to myself.
I think most of who has died,
Although their energy resides,
Somewhere, implied.
against my goodbye, the habits approach,
i sighed, not to my surprise,
it was the parasites.
i thought: let me fall asleep before it begins,
your touch feels like pins,
i thought you were my medicine.
sometimes the clouds don’t clear up
until you wipe the residue from the windows.
yet, cleaning the surface has a purpose.
even though i confess,
i feel like i’m the villain
in my own horror show,
just let me go.
YOU weren’t a person,
it was the act of running from it all,
providing a thin gloss,
to cover what i’ve lost.
this poem is my favorite i’ve done, it’s something i’ve worked on for a while combining different poems i’ve written and taking inspiration from some of the many poems i’ve posted. so you might notice a line or two from here was already used in prior poems, but this is put together with more organization and meaning. a lot of my other poems are written quickly to express my feelings. this one has evolved to represent me as of lately.
zebra Jun 2019
***** bunny ****
a ****** with bangles
shaved and pierced
dried and shampooed
Spoosh, Tick Tick, and Trashed

is it true Jesus is Shesus
and has no ***** anymore

i love you
***** Juice
waddle cupcake *****
mambo Dancing Shoes
i am Kimbo the Love Doctor
******* the palm of my hand
***** sniffer extraordinaire
in limbo
eating ****** snacks and disco biscuits
looking for a whipped cream buff puff

jam split *** cracked cheeks squeeze tight
and your Black Metal Veins
burn like melting *** of fire

so what would your ideogram look like
a hot dog and Kleenex with Skunk and
***** **** glob pearls
blond wig wavy curls and Haven Dust

I am banana float
Big Flake
and your my split thizz
a new genetic fricassee

sleep is temporary death
and i'm to tired to feed
on shadowed veins

my personality a mote
like a goat with a tote
**** fueled *** and barbiturates desert
make a face like clevererd meat

kiss me *****
jugs with *** plugs and Tootsie Roll toes
girl friend
spreads hemic tide for **** water
i like lip gloss icing eyeliner
floating in Marshmallow Reds, and Pink Ladies

*** prance Foo Foo Dust
licker of rugs
stinker with shrugs
in a puddle of Drowsy Goofers
built not to last the aftermath
like a penny side show

in instinctive rhythms
and midnight madness
while hungry for tranquilizer therapy
i feel good
like a corpse buried in your hips

say something in your oral tradition
gag gaag a googoo
pass the tiaras
and Star Spangled Powder
private parts on public display
black girls gone platinum
chocolate upside down cake
with Blue Bullets between their legs
another lick please
snorting Lady Caine, and Mama Coca rotate Soft *****
pass for French with a horse **** cigarette
in a silver case
filled generously with saliva wet nose candy

White Nurse
like a golden snake with black bones
keeps her smokes between her legs
lucky strikes revival and Bumble Bees

i like my cigs smouldering  wet
dreaming of evil

Diesel, Golden Girl
Red Chicken
do drop in
wizard of fire music
"One pill makes you larger,
and one pill makes you small,
and the ones that Mother gives you
don’t do anything at all.
Go ask Alice
when she’s ten feet tall."
drugs *** death
Evan Stephens Feb 2019
It's around noon
& snow softens
to white puddles
in the street.

I'm standing
at 7th and Penn
& to the south
is a memory,
just a shape
in the air,
bent by a tree,
a little car,
a piece of lawn.

To the north is
what they now call
where spelling
"*******" in
Chinese characters
is enough
to qualify.

There's no gloss
on the water.
Winter wets
my feet
in gray laps.
I still have
errands to do.
Shinko Pan-ya May 2019
A violent wind
the breath leaves my lungs
limbs so cold
still awake
hasn't moved
to leave this place
my eyes gloss over
rolls down
my face
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