Chris Neilson Jul 2016
They're all going to Festwich!
a festival in Prestwich
some bands are rather kitsch
with anticipation the air is rich

Half a mile from my abode
it's only down the road
rock bands set to explode

The chopper's in the sky
fireworks set to fly
i'm not going, why?

It was sold out months ago
my reactions were too slow
I'm now feeling the blow

They're walking past my window
dressed down with a place to go
to a rock n roll tribute show

Rock chicks, metal heads and loons
bands playing my favourite tunes
sporting Led Zep's runes

It's happening all so near
I need something to bring me cheer
I'm crying into my beer

They're all going to Festwich!
I'm going to build my own mosh pit
in my garden where i sit
where i'll stay 'til it's moonlit
Rock n Roll baby!
Jake O'Donnell Jun 2017
Currently online.

Two chat heads active.
My fragile heart though, in one.

Friends online: 87.
Last seen: 16:43
Really, ignoring me?

But who are you talking to?
Delivered. Delivered. Is this deliberate?
Are you busy, are you with someone? Who is he?
Don’t you see what you do to me?

— Minutes since message sent: 320 or more,
Years together: best part of four.
I’m not counting but
Is he the one from your instagram?

Friends nearby: 6.
Last seen: 23:55.
Nevermind.

Flick up to clear all apps,
And with that my heart.

Night.
dan d Apr 2013
We're all as dead,
as burned out,
as the stars that shine
above our heads.

We may shine as bright
and as blinding
as the sun
before we die.

Yet mere points are we,
in time and in space,
and the sum of all of us
is not enough
to illuminate the darkness,
the ever-growing darkness.

Not all shall die
and cease to shine
before their light
has reached our eyes.

But the night sky glows
with faded echoes
from long ago
weary from their journeys.

And so to shall we,
in time and in space,
traverse infinity
merely hoping
to illuminate the darkness,
the ever-growing darkness.
CK Baker Mar 2017
the walls of inside passage
look the same
from sound to straight
tugs and plugs
dot the coastline
and the quartermaster rolls
giving time for evening glare  

pods are in sequence
and the high tail smashes
and jaws at the krill
white bellies and sea cows
bob and weave
as bow heads glide
over haida gwaii  

northern lights dance
and tlingit chant
as the tide settles softly
on savory shores
their getting hungry in hoonah
as the blue back and beating drums
mark the life blood of the sea  

driftwood nets
and sitka spruce
surround the cook house
ravens and tinhorns
man the scullery
kerosene lamps flicker
as clam shells roast on open flames  

villagers stroll
on pebbled sand
…in the harbor of souls
where ships set sail
on might and mass
into the steady winds
of the golden skies


ice fields (to the north)
of kryptonite blue
cutting hills at
a glacial pace
knuckle clouds
above the snowline
where warlocks
craft a hidden trade  

trappers, skinners
muscle shoals
grizzly feast
in kodiak bowl
determined pilgrims
on dead horse trail
in search of gold
the holy grail
Jasmine Aug 2017
I am the shadow of trayvon martin
Lying on the ground just as he did
I'm black just as he was
I wasn't planning to die that day either
I wasn't threatning nobody either
that day
The gunshots echoed
just as loud
when I was shot down as Mike Brown
yet his name echoes through the streets years later still
mine followed me to the grave
They don't care about me it seems
If I cried "what about me"
Who would ever see?
because my hashtag has even been drowned so deep in the depths of R.I.P's that I can't barely breathe anymore
When we think black brutality
Why do the names of trayvon
Mike
Tamir
Sandra
Rush to our heads just as fast as blood once rushed to theirs?
Does my black life, too, matter?
I can't blame you
That there have been so many deaths due to oppression and police brutality that they all seem to sound the same
No matter how loud we scream Black lives matter
We will never be seen as the living
But the potentially dead
We cry for justice to a system that's no longer built to accept us
A president that tries to forget us
A black voice will always be too loud to a world who never intended on listening
Who am I?
Besides a hashtag and a t-shirt with my face on it?
A black lives matter sign and a melanin fist?
A statistic?
I am black excellence
Regardless of how much sin you may see in my kin
A piece from the perspective of Black oppression victims unheard
Lynnie Defelice Aug 2017
She slid between the shadows,
of the walls in every room.
She hoped the sun wouldn't crawl her way,
as she cried for the moon.
She's learned to hide amongst the paint,
slipping in its depth.
Watching from the inside,
deceiving her own breath.
It was cold where she walked,
the night with wind so strong.
How could she know this smart escape,
when her heart was just so young?
Well you see, she never fit in,
this weird world of light.
So she fell away from the day,
and slipped from people's sight.
She saw into every person,
that thought they were alone.
They never knew she truly cared,
and from their heads she'd go.
Yet they felt this kinder relief,
when her shadow appeared towards theirs.
She would stand so brave and tall,
as she gave them all her air.
And one day she won't have enough,
she surely won't survive.
But she helped many others,
to make them feel alive-
This poem is about all the people that help others, but the others never realize. This poem is for all the introverts, including myself, who never really talk in public.
CK Baker May 2017
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weight
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!


duke making his own trip
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
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