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M Solav Sep 2018
Oh it's all hanging threads,
Hanging ligaments with drops of red:
Vines without poles - flesh without bones.

Events roll out in scarlatine flashes:
Eyes in crowd flap down their eyelashes
And in silence the suspense grows strong;

The bricks are set, the façade is over,
But from within, the house still lacks a structure:
One penetrates rooms without walls.

A memory from the depth is brought up,
A storyline used to link so many dispersed dots:
Leaves are flying free as the childhood tree rots...

Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging sources, hanging roots:
Scars over the sun revolving in loops.

And the conduit narrows down,
Leaks a single bolt of light to glow:
An empty room as throne and crown

And a thorn, pain escaping death,
A frown of estrangement in the face
Of all that's known - what's most unknown.

Spectators stare deceptively
While promises of relief are spared;
They too are suspended in the air...

Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging loose, hanging dead;
Waiting for the artisan to ease the noose.
Written in October 2017.
Savanna Feb 2015
Come away
Come away with me
Meet me at the hanging tree, down by the sea
Some didn't make it past
Past the hanging tree
But we will both flee, sailing into the sea

Come away
Come away with me
I hid a raft in the wood, beyond the hanging tree
Some didn't make it past
Past the hanging tree
But we will both flee, sailing into the sea

Come away
Come away with me
Leave it all behind, and start again with me
Some didn't make it past
Past the hanging tree
But we will both flee, sailing into the sea

Come away
Come away with me
Sail with me to somewhere new, far beyond the sea
Some didn't make it past
Past the hanging tree
But we will both flee, sailing into the sea

Come away
Come away with me
Even if we die tonight, you'll still be with me
Some didn't make it past
Past the hanging tree
But we will both flee, sailing into the sea

Come away
Come away with me
Our story will live on, The Bodies on the Sea
Some didn't make it past
Past the hanging tree
But we will both flee, sailing into the sea

Come away
Come away with me
Meet me at the hanging tree, down by the sea
Some didn't make it past
Past the hanging tree
But we will both flee, sailing into the sea
I mean no infraction upon Suzanne Collins' "Hanging Tree" lyrics in her "Mockingjay" novel. I was only inspired by the lyrics to write about other citizens of Panem who may have have also tried to escape after the first Panem rebellion.
Shofi Ahmed Jun 2017
There is a sun
shining cool
hanging low
and beneath it
is a smiling rose.

Between the two
which one are you?
n-khrennikov Nov 2018
The bare hand
hugging thoughts.
reminiscing the sigh
Heart broken, eyes broken.
Peaches of mandarin and orange
Rise, burn, smell of the other day.
In the silence of the small room
  I hear everything,
and darkness lies
in the castle
of the ego.
n-khrennikov ©
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
It streams down eye to eye
from the unseen but the all seeing.

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

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

A tear in the corner of the eye
as if it's diagonally weighed down
with the 360-degree open looking sky.
As close as within a fingertip comes the Moon
still, a sea is ahead forever untouchable!
JG O'Connor Jul 2018
From a second story window,
In the Lisbon evening sun,
She leans out the balcony,
Loosening the bed sheets one by one .

She handles all the lines,
Dropping the sheets like Gallants.
Pegs belaying pins,
Hauling in the halyards to balance.  

They fall unfurled in the calm, 
Sails of brilliant white.
As all the sailors  rush,
On the cobbled decks of the night.

The church of Sao Roque,
Sounds the four bells watch.
Flipping the sandy hour glass,
Of a slow descending sun.

A whisper of evening breeze,  
Bends the sails as they lift.
Tonight they will be a hammock for ******,
Tomorrow shrouds for the sailing dead.

With folded arms she leans,
On the bulwark balcony.
Behind open French doors framed in the light,
Of a flickering flat screen TV.

As Admiral,  she watches Old Gloria,
Mechanically complaining up the hill.
With a full cargo of the blind,
Pointing their mobile phones.

The seas of rooftops red,
Disappear in the twilight.
At last she hauls those flapping sails,
And closes her portholes to the night.
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
It’s still hanging low
since the moon
came down so close.

The seven seas dance
beneath her polished feet
but could never touch it.

Then the intact moon,
in fact, once did unleash
only when one popped
out ahead of the rest.
Down from the earth
luminary Muhammad
Peace be upon him
pointed his finger towards it.
And into two halves
did the Moon split!

But the man wouldn’t touch it
remained with us all
with every human the Moon dwarfs!
Commemorating the birthday of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). One of his miracles was that he split the moon after some pagans asked him to show them a miracle to prove he is a prophet.
Cweeta Cwumble May 2016
I followed my dear friends to the edge of a cliff
and was greeted by a peculiar thing.
There, standing on the edge of the earth
was a swing set waiting just for me.
Her thick black seat and strong metal arms
cradled me while together we flew
into the starry night canvas, sprawling
dark blue, except for a splatter of twinkling
firefly-speckles, from the cityscape
to the moon.

Each time she lifted me I felt closer
to the heavens. I raised my chin
and let the gentle kiss of raindrops
wash away my sins, cleansing
and revitalizing my body like a baptism.
I’ll never forget the smell of the rain
on the freshly-sprouted grass, with dew drops
made from the breath of my friends
hanging delicately in the sweet air
like glass beads strung on a wire
while the crisp wind carried me higher and higher
and the most brilliant masterpiece ever created
was painted across the entire night sky.
HANGING WITH WORDS

I don’t know how
they found out

( my old poems )

about my seeing some
new words.

“We’re just good friends
me and the words

we like to
hang out together.”

“You know...
just doin’ stuff!”

StuffstuffWellgiveyoustuff!
they screamed without any punctuation.

My old poems
went back to their books

in a huff
and slammed the covers.

Refused to
even talk to me.

Wanted nothing more
to do with me.

They’d packed their pages.

Left me
with nothing but

blankness.

“We’re going home
to the big thought in the sky!”

“Goodf?@*ingbye!”

The new words
came out from where

they were hiding
behind the wainscot .

“Phew they sure was mad
as ****!”

“Ok!”
I sighed

“Which one of you guys
wants to be a haiku?
Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
On the very edge the living earth
dared to replicate Queen Fathima
The Queen of Heaven’s footstep.
That way is graced by
thousands of the prophets of God!

In the name of Allah she descends
on the Night of the Ascending.
From the odd night an unnumbered zone
The Night of Measure unlike the rest
it doesn't geometrised is a transcended location.  

The earth steps in the gap making way for her:
The only asymmetric Golden Ratio.
Slips out to the symmetric prophet flock!
Sequenced in symmetric phi she moves on
in the veil, exposes her unique divine closeness
her golden spiral reaches out closer to God!

So pretty she is the paragon work of art
the sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty in her shadow is burning fire.
She is 'Zahra' pure light the luminary dynamo
the only one woman had no shadow!

The great women flock mirrored the earth.
Treading across on every atom on that angle
perfectly aligned down the Moon.
Until those beneath the skin atoms
bang, explode on approaching
the vibration beneath Fathima’s foot!

The seven seas billowed up
floating on the clouds.
Choreographed like a little dew.
Hanging low on the rose
just to drip down on that hot spot
like a cool honey drop.

Even the Moon on the horizon
fancies to sip from this drop.
Ah, the lunar punter rowing down.
The sleeping beauty wakes up
eyes on the silver dance.
Eying on every star in the night.
The Moon is floating down
slices of the moonlight pushing the boat.
Full of fireflies rolling over  
to the cup of this pretty little drop.  
Poetry in motion is a sea on the ground
the same is known as the Moon in the sky!
The storylines jump ever more
on that way over the shady grove.
Painting the colour of the winds
the sky rains down on that spot
singing the sweetest title song.  

Never was a woman prophet of God
nor was paradise hidden anymore
to one woman it was the open shore!
The heaven turns upside down
turning for the earth the last stone.

For the rest of the rocks
it was the stepping stone.
As many times more
the earth may try on
it will still be tangent fluid
until the very one woman
The Queen Fathima steps on.

Her presence connects the dots
the nadir and zenith perfectly line up
intersect into one grand perfect circle.
She will close it with the pi once for all
without a gap spilling new decimals.
At last putting it all on the map ‘as above,
so below’, all in all, a pure scientia scenario.

The Heaven will open its grand door
where The Queen will stand on.
No more reverse engineering physically
the original, Fathima will step on,
on this last turned stone.
Paradise starts from here on.
From the one great woman
from beneath the mother’s foot!
Anecandu Jul 2018
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,

Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,

The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
ryn Nov 2014
.    _ _
     /   /  
  /  /  
 ||
    
enticed by   \\  the alluring
promise of everlasting sweetness•i had
shed all trepidation to indulge in this lone
songstress•hanging on its own, just enough
within my arm's length•seemed so easy but
a formidable test of strength•i had reached
and plucked without in mind, the doubt of
myth•held it for an instant before sinking
in my teeth•it's the sole mouthful that
had brought about this perpetual
racking cough•it's the apple...
that i should've never taken
a big bite        out of...•
Do you know that blue streams
are sunbeams?

Do you know how much it gleams
when you lean over the edge
of this cliff

and how your dreams
are waiting
in the water

forming
a riff

to let you
swim
through
the dim

of light
reflecting
dancing sand?
Improvised vocalization:
https://jmp.sh/Zucznqi
L B Jun 2018
Later at the same address
A storm of words reaches flood stage
A couch is bobbing in the currents
towards its mangled ruin-nexus
of matchsticks in cyclonic flow
among the renegade
trash
hanging
from the limbs like tinsel

Meanwhile
chair heaved through her door
Like the river
I am not above my rage
at this stage
of more than enough....
Cleaver daughter's got my goat
Turns my words on dimes
Lays into me
her score of blame
Each blow to drop me further

presses all my buttons at one time
despite the flashing
Warning! Warning!

“Fine! Fine!”

She blows-out through the afternoon
right past me
in a torrent of curses
A stubborn perfect storm
of words
has taken out parental dam
and blown out toward the Bay of Freedom
to the sorrows of her day

The river may ***** its whip
But its got nothing on her

nothing is left standing
in her way
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Hanging on to each day, trying to sustain,
as a spider on a web hanging by a thread.
Weaving our way through time and pain
left to hang by lovers, life and death.

Making my way through life;
strength and power of spirit take their leave.
“Be brave, chin up”, all clichés borne out of ignorance…
what do they know of me?  

Each must travel this journey on our own terms.
No flack jackets to spare us from hearts shot through by pain,
no maps to guide our way.
We stand; alone, vulnerable and lost.

Where is the one to guide me on the right path
through showers of pain and cobwebs that bind?
Let me see through this to a future of love and life.
Let me see you.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
CJ Tims Aug 2018
I am standing on a tightrope
As you’ve taken the net from beneath me
Once again.
See one wrong step,
One wrong move,
And i’ve ended it all.
So as your words
Shoot arrows past my head,
I haven’t the time
Nor the energy
To dodge them.
So please,
Take the net,
Shoot the arrows,
And hope i survive the outcome
leila Jul 2018
catcher hanging
made of silver metal beads, feather and ring
love it
tube hanging
metal tube
wind chimes
moves gently
chimes
hang on bearing wall between kitchen and living room..
G. government
O. organization
O. ogle

You...

..yes you are so interesting or threatening to the government that they feel compelled to watch you all day, every day, constantly and a tech company is aiding them in violating a core principle of freedom; the right to privacy.

A tech company is complicit in a tyranny against freedom and individuality while selling you knowledge?

I hope Trump finds the courage to start hanging traitors because Google will be the greatest weapon against freedom ever created by man.




    There is not such a thing as democracy.
    There is no such a thing as freedom.
    There is no thing called capitalism.
    America is a myth.

When I opened myself up to you
you were so gentle with the things you said
you didn’t know that you were saying the wrong things.
Tightrope walking is not an art that anyone can perform
it takes so much practice
with one wrong move you fall.
Dropping the ball and hurting everyone around you.
I’m so sorry I dropped it too early
sorry that you weren’t ready
that you don't know what to say
that i don’t know how to explain.
My depression is something I can’t control.
Some days I just feel hollow.
My numb is your bored.
My anxieties are biting your nerves.
Your anger kick starting my worry.
You saying “Why are you so sad.”
“If you don’t know then it’s not a big deal.”
"Don't be so mad."
“You can’t let yourself think this way.”
“It’s all in your head.”
You don’t understand that it is all in my head.
Giant thought structures made of lead.
My brain chemically organized to make me feel dead.
When I tell you I’m wishing for death
please
don’t make me waste my breath.
Nobody Feb 2018
I’m wearing these shades, to hide my face.
Since you’re all staring so hard;
watching me just in case,
maybe I’ll slip up,
or reveal a hidden mistake.
Hanging onto my every word
“What does that mean?”
“How can we be sure?”
I'm not your t.v show,
don’t put me on your pedestal.
I’m not your savior,
I can’t heal your soul.
I never asked for this,
so go turn your head;
quit looking at my mess,
or waiting for what I say next.
And go save yourself,
because I can’t help.
ryn Oct 2014
tell me...

will tomorrow bring,
     all the things
i'm longing...
    stowed upon its elusive wings,
tirelessly beating
    and fighting
to show what's dangling
and hanging...
          ready for the picking...

                          awaiting...
such time so it could begin its need for unloading,
                   delivering
                                      and dropping,
its gleaming
                      treasures
on those who are deserving,
        in no way lacking
so they could be at the receiving
end of this pressurising,
           inking
                      of dwindling
                                        words...

carel­ess thoughts conceived only to
              fuel
           my deranged ramblings...
incessant mutterings of a shattering
                         mind...

           bending backwards, almost breaking,
         risking...
the chance of ever fully
                                          mending...

hopin­g and praying
   for a sentence that's pending
dawn's approval...

allowing
   the rising
of the sun...
                  paving
            ways for thriving
                                          wishes,
unbarr­ing
                  gates for soaring
                                                dreams, unlocking
                   latches,

relieving...
the heightening
                     anxieties of grieving
                                                        ­ hearts.

constantly whispering
                               utterances, promising
good will, happiness
                              and titillating
                                                     ­ sanity.

we're thinking...
     the earth is spinning,
         the moon is setting,
     so the sun must be rising
                         but...

             tell me,
                           tomorrow...

                                *is it coming?
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
At times I heard the songs of the giants
who opted to sing for a glass of wine!

Like Omar Khayyam would sing to the grove of vine,
while singing their lullabies they wouldn’t mind,
defying the bloomer stars in the moonlights
gladly treading on the black alleys of the night.
Didn't they budge, didn't they bend to pick up  
a potion of the sea, billowing in the dark?
But they opted out, just for a glass of wine!

To paint a glimpse of that gorgeous Saqi
till now they shun, lending the sun a paintbrush,
‘cause "if only it was colourful enough,” yet the sun
paints the enduring shades of the blue yonder.
But they turned around—just for a glass of wine!

The moon hanging low over the ocean took a pause.
The earth weighed down so deep is brimful!
Every sunrise paints new, loves to shine on once more
That delved-deep earth vintage taste, cooled in age-old,  
now close by the hands breathe in, full of warm south.
Yet they opted out—just for a glass of wine!

Even the time is speechless, ask me not but why.
Still keeps an ear bent on the wall of the leaning sky.  
Nor those who pop out with an inside scoop are ever drunk.
Nor they leak out, it’s a sea off the sea or Abe-Hayath.
It ain’t that small, it is the deathless spring of elixir!
Oh me, oh my,
I hate to sound trite,
but I guess in the end
we all die, so
turns out to be true
whatever way.

Oh me, oh my,
I hate to sound trite,
but I could really use
a lullaby.

Great Papa, he left.
Great Mama, so close.
Mama, in the deep end.
Sister, she ghost.

What's love got to do with it?
It just so happens, in my world it's all.
I am conditioned to serve in the name.
No matter how hard servants seek servants,
the wardens and the masters pick up on the scent,
come running over the distant hills to close in on the ****.

I am conditioned to serve in the name.
Here they come running to stake their claim.
Robin Lemmen Aug 2018
Losing is a game I have mastered
I win each and every time
When it comes to us
Battle wounds won't heal
If you keep pouring salt into them
I feel so lost and I so strongly wish to be found
I keep hanging onto memories
Because at a time when I was most unsure
And feeling like I had no clue
Who I was or what it was I needed to do
You made me feel safe and you felt like home
It didn't matter how little I understood
About the world around me
You made me feel like I was enough
Like I had a safe space to come back to
You were the only person I have ever
Felt that way with
So when you left so did safety and belonging
And ever since that day
I have been screaming your name
In silence to myself
As if somehow that would make you reappear
But it doesn't
It never will
It only makes me feel more lost and like
Nothing I ever do will be good enough
I want to so badly, but darling
I just can't seem to let you go
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