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Shofi Ahmed Oct 2017
A fine mole down
the blue mountain sky
cannot be weighed out!
It's the cosmos's gold dust
the earthy depth triumphs.
Oh earth, our close clay-star
is far ahead of the day at noon.
Ahead of the moon
ahead of the Neptune!

With a million dash of curiosity
every new sunrise paints
upon her black box with the roaring fire.
Yet the ****** is a veiled wonder!

It has the heaps a room for everyone
and time for the timeless times.
Guess, with her longhand
what an inside scoop did it pick out?

You too can be in the know
It's the feminine beauty all in all.
Forget if you have already
seen million and one.
The earth is eyeing on only one.

Her closest admirer is the star
of the very luminary bunch
with open eyes in the hearts.
Her dead man is waking up
sniffing the daylight by her.
Yet to make the discovery
both are still wondering outside!
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
their trench members filling packs with canister and cane
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from a glorified perch
the elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly in a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and pierced broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
is a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Ilion gray Oct 2014
Under the skin of god
I have heard stirring echoes
Escaping silence
traveling the interstice
of night and Dawn
cross the ageless air
I heard a voice speak
With its ancient language
out of the endless quiet
It whispered
Like a tide of blind sparrows
like angry angels
confronting heaven
riotous shrieks of children
of the interminable trials
the fields of perished souls
heaps of hearts
dry and vacant
amid the roar of steel and glass
clashing with concrete
from the ceaseless days unquiet
drops of rain inflamed
falling from an everlasting
of the endless life
I regret

The child shouldn't have
walked alone
on this earth
out among the sleepless horde
there are no angels
only the heat of God's eyes
igniting our cancerous cells
they explode
defeat these temporary shells
we call souls
the days go on
those with tired eyes
that are forgetting
the beginning
You were born
finger tips
for love
The Skin
The soundless
Willing its way
the wild streets
           the destruction
of justice
           the city's

Amid the distraction
of the palace
Painted in white

of revolution
a new day
Without fear
without wanting
and those believing
cannot be numbered
when they
walk across the land
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
The little zero is big magic.
Count on any number in the number set.
Zero can give the heaps the giant leap,
yet no number can square it,
not even the complete set of digits.

Science trailing through the zero and one  
leads the digital age, continues to grow.
What's in a number is in the know,
but what's in a zero?

Now let’s take a trip into the matrix
without the arithmetic pill of the zero orb.
This time let it be with a poetic dose!

Should you not bask in the sun,
dipped only dew-deep,
shimmering in the sea of its deep
shadow in one little drop?
Can you touch a moon
up high, waxing lyrical  
above the billowing ocean?
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
There is a six seasonal turf on earth.
it isn't an acre of Moon truly an earthly Skookum.
A land so unique is written in stone
as if the enduring heavenly dew
streamed down on this patch of land!

Meet here the open future shows up at the earth's
hub-moon's anew rallying to the untouching-sea
the Indian subcontinent's corner to the ancient wind!

Naturally a hidden gem its in her element.
Her very soil the complete colour wheel matches
The birthplace of the great prophet Muhammad (PBUH)!
Destined to be the golden cut above the rest.
Amusing the heaps of the mindful minds
Sylhet stands on cloud nine eye to eye with
the pivotal soil of Makkah the centre of the earth!

Ah, the deep footed earth how mystique black
beneath it every morning the sun off the heaven’s hill
spreads a new diaphanous gold-light-rug, yet to paint
a footprint, a colourless magic, let alone the centrepiece!
Listen to the morning birds sing here deep in the midst
mellifluous-shrills fill the air unveiling the dream scenes!

The times anew numerating the bounties of our land.
Craving to sip in a dew-potion on our blossoming rose
cirrus clouds dancing over the seven seas here they drop!
Banish the midday blues singing the deep sea’s song.

Nestled amidst the Rivers Surma, Kushiara and Monu
Perched on the shades of the trees each one is a canvas.
Glows with changing Bangladesh's unique six seasons
as they swing and leap in the branches of the trees
and murmur with the upstream and the autumnal breeze.

Stunned angels on their way heaven taking one more
sunset potted in the starry bowl look back at the wee hours.
They can hear pianissimo on this shrouded perennial land.
It never falls asleep is awake with a numerically perfect
circle of 360 spiritual dynamos from the centre they hailed
with a handful of earth and lived here as it matched.    

A deep seeded truth, rock solid Shilahatta in Sanskrit.
Clothed in an enduring vesture minted Sylhet loops in
with the Hebrew Bible’s Shalet, a ruler, a shield!  

The ****** earth sways moulds into a mole.
Ah, the little drops make the mighty ocean.
And with a single word on the lips
the maestros’ great epics begin to be told.
Just with a mundane handful of earth
Primed Sylhet masterpiece begins to unfold.
Keeping you on board with the whole ball of wax
lo, it unveils the mirror of the face of the earth!

Plopped still in the inside track amidst the full show
with the whole nine yards on her least hold!
Believe it or not Sylhet is cherry-picked chosen by God!
The subject matter is about a land possessing a deeply seeded truth. The prime significance of which is its scattered afar but matches the pivotal soil of the centre of the earth!
Dennis Willis Nov 2018
Unless we can eliminate
all the DNA

As long as there is DNA
Things will always get better

That's what it does
May trash planets

And heaps of itself
Along the way

It will
Find a way out

Of here
and take us

it's poems

to recompose

of course

Or have we
not seen it yet

in safety

The Chinese boxes
of reality

Confound me to beauty

Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Valsa George May 2016
So unexpected was the meeting
It was in the dim candle light
of a city restaurant that I saw her
How time had etched its marks on her
The long dark curly hair
has turned all white
The even set of pearly teeth
now discolored with missing gaps.
A weeping willow with gnarled branches!

Did she recognize me?
Her searching eyes registered
a limp awareness
Soon I saw her cataract eyes shining
in unclouded recognition!

My memory like the arm of a crane
lowered to plough up the hard crust of the past
and rose with heaps of broken rubble
I nosedived into the past
to the little village
where, as children we ran round
the long necked shady trees
until our little heads went dizzy

Stealing behind the tall grass
how I would suddenly yell out;
‘The thief is in hide
Come and track me if you can’
forcing on her an arduous search,
all the while giggling at her vain efforts!

How we ran after the ripe mangoes
that fell in ones and twos
when the winds shook the fruit laden boughs
and how we quarreled over the yellow ones
like mongrels over a piece of bone

I remember once when the drizzle
suddenly strengthened into a heavy down pour
with thunder and lightning accompanying,
how we ran dripping and frightened
seeking shelter in the empty cow shed
at the backyard of a house,
clasping tight to each other!
She was then a little girl
with springing feet and dancing steps
naïve and naughty with all mouth and ears

But as time skipped by
she kept a safe distance
No more I saw the former ebullience in her
In its place, a quiet reserve settled in
The chatterbox no more opened her mouth
To my questions, her answers were mono syllables
My efforts to walk by her side
always ended in futility
either she would quicken her gait
or lag behind at snail’s pace
Seeing me somewhere
she would walk away with eyes down cast
But I always noticed a faint smile
lingering on her curved narrow lips

Around it, I built my dream castle
where she reigned as my dazzling queen!
I am not sure how it was with her
One day even without an abrupt goodbye
I had to leave my hometown to an alien soil.

For long, she came, sailing in my dreams!

After a couple of years when I returned
to the land of my childhood
the mute witness to my unuttered passion
I knew from a close friend
that she was forced into a marriage
much to her consternation!
She is reported to have confided to someone
that she hoped the ‘thief who stole her heart
would one day, come out of hiding’

We met again
We heard each other’s cracked voice
and stood unable to recollect all

Much water had flown down
under the bridge
And we floated in the rush of currents!
This poem has to be understood in the light of the highly orthodox milieu of an Indian village of the time between 1960's and 70's when no computer or internet facility was available. There was a lot of segregation between the sexes and no free mingling was allowed. So there was no open expression of love. In a society where arranged marriage was preferred, even falling in love before marriage was seen as a taboo !
Kevin J Taylor Jul 2017
The first poem takes place during the lifetime of Lord Buddha.

The second poem follows in the years soon after Lord Buddha left his body.

The third poem is the mind of the boy (the spirit of the boy in the first poem) in restless meditation. He has yet to attain full enlightenment. There are multiple voices suggested by parentheses and which are whispered words. If you prefer linear thought or literal interpretation this poem may not communicate to you. Just as a painting may be abstract, this poem is wide open to your own connections, thoughts and emotions. If you like, you can skip to the fourth poem.

The fourth poem, in three lines, lies within this portion of eternity that is forever present time.

Boy runner (the first poem)
Approaching Gautama where He sat a
boy examined Him politely. (This-that?)
Gautama spoke and there the unnamed boy,
who sitting a while with Him that day, thought
and over the days ahead returned, and
leaving only for food, drink and service
that Gautama would not be distracted
from His goal, until, upon returning,
he saw Him glowing in the morning light
and so began to dance with Him beneath
the tree. A leaf was shed, was gathered then
and the boy, who while tucking it away,
Gautama asked if he would run for Him,
to village, crossroads, field, grove, wherever
Gautama wished to speak. And so he ran,
and soon arriving, announcing thus His
coming—holding high the leaf he carried,
and which had never died, living—living
and green until Lord Buddha left His body.

Depths of Green (the second poem)
Depths of green—from canopy to forest floor
In streams of raucous livingness
And there, and where about, a sanctuary
Falls in heaps, in stone walls run aground.

And with, nearby, afar, by ins and outs
Through every place (perceived)
Wherever listened for—vibration.

A single voice in Pali—a single voice
Leaping, leading, dancing, sweeping.

Hello. You greet me.

And if I split myself and stand (the third poem)
And if I split myself and stand
At every corner of said universe
On any selfsame summer day
With any selfsame afternoon rain
Will this, though thought—this slip
Where densities of interest fail
(Or by failures to perceive)

This leaf-boy-runner
Eight portions of beingness
The full, and fill of prime creation

(Perhaps where life has paused
Or slowed enough to perceive
At any speed
The speed of perception
The true speed of light
The wavelengths of laughter
And of any thing)

While density shifts
Where inertia has failed

(The density of my interest
The shift of my affinity)

There is no doubt
It has velocity
It gives back light
It bends the universe
It has location
From which expands
All space
Not already filled
With the logic of otherness
And even there it bends to will

As (my breadth of vision)
A torrent
An avalanche
A fissure in nothingness
A co-creation of All
This theatre
Our audience
Of stelae
Beacons of lostness
To wander by
In search of wavelengths
Of affinity
Where you might
Where I have
The curves beneath our frequencies
The pitch and roll of their design
Their width

(We have
Each other)

In all that vastness
An ordinary leaf
From this
For that
(I am)
The breathless

Cool in the shade (the fourth poem)
Cool in the shade
(still) dancing
with Lord Buddha
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry with common things.)
Terry O'Leary Feb 2017
Awaking blithe each morning,
with eyes upon the World,
I wonder, are we mourning
with ebon flags unfurled –
or are they but a warning,
some draped like snakes and curled,
stray stars and stripes adorning,
sent from the netherworld.

I wander through the garden
with nothing on my mind
and say 'I beg your pardon'
alarmed at what I find
as winds begin to harden
and fate begins to grind.

Confused, I watch my neighbours,
they're wide-eyed, unafraid
to halt all useful labours
and join the death brigade;
the ritters rattle sabres,
the frail and fragile fade,
morticians tap on tabors,
the potentates parade.

The military blesses
(in tunics somewhat browned)
its crimson-stained successes,
**** bent and heaven bound.
Such scenes no more distress us:
a ****** battleground,
dissevered heads with tresses
and arms and legs abound;
the fourth estate suppresses
the heaps of bodies  found
(collateral excesses
discarded in a mound).

Society regresses,
now living by the sword,
with torture and its stresses
upon a waterboard;
a captive kid confesses,
his innocence ignored -
fallacious facts and guesses,
the guts of justice gored!

With canting vindication
a big brass bully brags
(with pearls of perspiration
and swollen tongue that gags)
of third world  subjugation
for gelt and oily swags,
of human rights' castration,
and on and on it drags.

The manifold migration
of refugees in rags
while searching for salvation
soon finds compassion lags;
uprooted populations
are fleeing from their flags
else dying of starvation
as ***** hunger nags.

With trump cards politicking,
two little hands (all thumbs)
may send the Mad Dog siccing.
Insane! All sense succumbs.

Atomic timepiece ticking
until the Reaper comes
as Geiger counters clicking
drown out the droning drums.

Cast out for not conforming,
I wander day by day
to find the earth deforming
as nature wastes away,
with bees no longer swarming
(expunged with garden spray)
and ocean depths transforming
(neath plastic overlay).

With CO2 performing
the climate's led astray,
the atmosphere's been warming,
the grasses ashen gray,
eternal tempest storming
while permafrosts decay,
and ozone holes are forming
in deadly disarray.

The people profiteering
descend a slip'ry *****
destroying, never fearing        
of running out of rope;
instead they sit back sneering
“our wealth’s your only hope”.

Yes, Armageddon's nearing,
it's doubtful that we'll cope,
for Evolution's jeering,
she's scanned our horoscope:
we'll soon be disappearing
with whale and antelope.


The multitudes were jumbled,
some milling ’round the mall,
while politicians bumbled
when bracing for the brawl.

The World around us rumbled,
our backs against the wall,
as bombs were tossed and tumbled
across our broken ball.

My kneecaps creaked and crumbled
but I, too proud to crawl,
took but a step and stumbled  
yet found no place to fall.

And no one heard me grumble
although I tried to call,
or maybe I just mumbled,
as strength began to pall.

Well now the World’s been humbled
I seek an urban sprawl,
but since the feuds were fumbled
there’s nothing left at all.
Arianna Jan 20
"... the threads I have rent,
and like precious jewels
they lay in shining heaps
of crimson, green, and gold
about my feet..."
Loreena McKennitt - "The Lady of Shalott":


Loreena McKennitt - "Penelope's Song"
For He who's hands are Gods
Drifts wearily
amungst the drugs of men
Crouching the trash heaps
Blending life with death
He does not hope nor linger
To he, time is the wind,
And is of no consequence
Its length,
or your breath
Perfection is not being the best of something, its about the true balance
Within all things.

My life is filled with endless apologies

Sincere and heartfelt promises that are shallow and empty

It's not a conscious thought
The words aren't spoken with known deceit or intentional mal-intent
But somewhere in my brain, buried in my subconscious, I know...
A self-sabotaging automated programming constantly running
And regardless of my cognitive actions or conscious thoughts, desires and intentions
My automated programming will find a way to inevitably run its code, follow its routines and execute its prime directive

And that's not a cop out
They're still my actions
Conscious or subconscious
Actions resulting from subconscious "thought" are those I'm too ignorant to see or too weak to change in that moment

I don't know what's worse
The subconscious lies and heaps of horse fertilizer, day in and day out, I shove down the throats of those who cross my path
Or the incessant feed of regurgitated words, phrases, thoughts, ideas and worst of all.... hopes.... that is being forced through my digestive track only to be excreted by my body and re-absorbed by my central nervous system


The worst trick of all

And it always works. Without fail
Because it psychologically and emotionally preys on everything I want to be
The Hope that THIS TIME I'll get it right
All those things inside of me
All of my
This time it won't be wasted
This time I'll come through. You can count on me!
I promise!
This time I'll be on time
This time I won't be late!
This time I'll meet expectations
This time I'll EXCEED expectations!
This time I won't let people down
This time I won't....
                                    ..... let



The saddest and ultimate cruelty of lies
Created by the Devil to prey on the weak and gullible
If **** is living your worst day over and over again for eternity;
Then repeating the same detrimental behaviors over and over again for life, sustained in this perpetual motion by something so simple and harmless looking as "Hope" must fall at the Devil's hands

A wolf in sheep's clothing sprinkled in fairy dust
The worst of thoughts and beliefs are kept alive by Hope
Hope is a disease; a psychological virus
A damaged idea spreading from person to person, hijacking their system, and infecting their thoughts
For Hope is not a singular idea, isolated in seclusion, yet ultimately wrapped up and packaged out with other ideas
No, Hope is the vehicle that all thoughts that follow must ride in and by which be delivered
It is the Uber for ideas that follow
And like an unscrupulous and unpitying Uber driver,
Hope takes your brain to a secluded spot against its will and does as it so pleases
But unlike survivors of such horrific events
I, like a wide eyed doe in the headlights
I continuously expose myself to the exact same scenarios
over again

But not to worry

Hope will lose its magic
And the void created will be filled



And worst of all,


Denial is Hope's evil twin

The not so secret malicious trickster who, even though wears his emotions somewhat more clearly, is still capable of a lifetime of successful pranks

But unlike Hope, Denial doesn't always reveal his trick if the tricked has yet to become aware of the ruse
Instead, Denial will let them build
Stack upon stack
A colossal suspension bridge built and supported on Denial
And when I, with blind faith, cross that bridge
Putting everything and anything on the line, without question
That's when Denial delivers its reckoning
And in one all encompassing swoop it swallows me whole and any resemblance of "life" with it

Hope and Denial
My Atlantic and Pacific Oceans
and Me, a tiny island
Flanked on either side by the endless majesty of each
And like this planet,
I too,
Am a sphere spinning
A tiny island against the enormities of the the deep blue
A shipwrecked survivor
Floating on the driftwood of my subconscious
Left to the will of my environment
A helpless passenger on this ship of life
Constantly spinning between Hope and Denial
Some days calm and serene
Others, tormented by storms
Monster waves,
Flashes of lightning,
Ear shattering crackling explosions of thunder
And howling winds so fierce they must be the breath of God

And regardless of what scenario lays before me,
I'm left repeatedly with the same "choice" and same action

Enveloped with fear,
Hanging on for dear life,
Like a helpless and horrified child.....

On the verge of soiling my pants
Written: May 28, 2018

All rights reserved.
zebra Nov 2018
Oh the virgins ravenous vault
college girl ******
a seething abashment
with mixed loyalties
who belongs to no one
ferocious for annihilation
*** blast
poured out from essence
spread shanks
wet spot
hot shots
meditative and gleaming

huge hearted
she is one and many
choking on desire
far flung in Turkish bath fantasies
a singing **** tearing heaps of suns
like burns and spatters
her ***, a high pitched note
his ****, rage at bay
poised hot **** ****
gasping fire

*** criminal's

foot kissing
****** biters
Sylvia Plath was referred to as "The Smith College ******" in some biographical material. I love her poetry, like incredibly, and so by the proxy of her literature I remain very much in love with her both as a writer and as a woman, albeit a vivid fantasy. That love remains amplified by her suicide as I find myself still aching about her now, 50 years after her death. I remain continually mesmerized by the appalling dread, yet sensuality of her draped corpse hanging out of the oven. Her dead body is an ineffable poem of grace in form and shuddering despair. I always want to rescue her.... It gnaws! This poem is prompted by Sylvia Plath, a Goddess of modern language, her youthful passions, and inconsolable despair.
I'm bitter by trade as of late
bathing my tongue in bourbon
leaving a permanent impression
on my old favorite armchair
bingewatching Bergman and questioning God

I've come to the conclusion that
self-loathing is poetry
and there is profound beauty in letting life whoop you
the most fragrant flowers grow best when planted deep in horse ****
and the best art is birthed from beneath the massive piles of **** that life heaps on our tired backs

Yes, this is the stuff of inspiration
the art of imperfection
the sunny side of a dark attic
the bluff hand on a bad deal

so im just gonna stay here
sip my bourbon
and let it ride
the armchair apocalypse
I may not be here tomorrow
but if I am
ill have one **** of a story to tell

Revision. Deleted a good bit from the first version. I think it flows better now.
Stephen Dec 2018
If ever I were loved
Perhaps then I'd sleep
My dreams found clean
The ledge unleaped.

My hunger sated
And thirst quenched
Misery faded
Noose uncinched

My lungs a new breath
And ears a new song
One not of death
But of gentle tongue

If ever I was loved
Surely I would know
How to see the best
Inside of my soul

But here found the truth
In miserable heaps
My soul uncouth
Worthless it keeps

If ever I were loved
I might let it slip
Then god up above
Would tighten his grip

So I'll lay here forever
Until she comes along
love found never
And hope found wrong.
In terraced ranks
of brick and slate
they stand in rows
and wait their fate.

The street lies in
abandoned zones
deserted now
the cobbled stones.

And all that’s seen
on darkest nights
the distant red
of rear tail lights.

By day exposed
as light breaks through
a barren land
a desolate view.

An empty scape
where bleak wind blows
where buddleia
and nettle grows.

Where rotting wood
and old tin sheets
and bricks and rubble
lie in heaps.

In terraced ranks
of brick and slate
they stand in rows
and wait their fate.
Haley Lorish Nov 2018
Bittersweet and lemon treats
Tanking troubled hatless heaps  
Salty horizon flogs sweet beach
Sandy skin, too soft a peach
Your thumb brushing my left cheek
Can you still smell the apple’s reek
Skewed hearts remain in heat  
Devine reminds a heart to beat
Kept up in the saddles seat
King of every bit of hate, wash
These battered palms disgrace
Love has sunk the ship of face
Tulips lack the need for space
Whips of stars appear in plight
Have you only fight or flight?
Good wills only break the bank
And I’ve only left myself to thank
Becca Nelson Jan 30
Have you ever been so angry
That it burns a hole?
A deep scorched hole in the very center of your soul
And when that fiery anger passes
Because it always does
The hole turns cold
It floods your center
Then pushes throughout your veins

When the cold hits me I curl inwards
I want to stop breathing
Guilt of the things I’ve said or done
Bend my head into a sorrowful bow
As if I’m wearing a concrete crown

Anger is a cold poison
It won’t **** anyone
But it attacks our minds
The bridges we so carefully built
To our families
Our friends
Those we love
It chews through wood and steel
And sets it all on fire with the burning of a thousand stars

And when it’s over
You and I are left
Surrounded by heaps of smoldering ashes
And a cold hole through our chests
Because anger
Anger is a vile
And cold
Lily Oct 2018
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so ******* the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.
The last band competition of the season was a couple weekends ago, and the last song of our show was Feel This Moment by Pitbull ft. Christina Aguilera.  I couldn't pass up the opportunity to write this poem; I love marching band so much!!
Ryan O'Leary Jan 16
432 was the amount
of a crushing defeat
for 202 Toe Rags.

432 is a symbolic figure
for Ireland and not a
poetic metaphor either,
it was the date St Patrick
arrived here from Boulogne
Sur Mer in Northern France,
where it was a tradition of the
local mariners to paint a shamrock
on their fishing boats.

432 has often been associated with
the 4 provinces and 32 counties.

John B. Keane's "Field" was 3 Acres
1 Rood and 32 Perches, a classic
representation of Ireland.

202, or TOT will become iconic also,
not as a number, more the word!


TOT  |tɒt|
verb (tots, totting, totted) [ no obj. ] (usu. as nountotting) Brit. informal
salvage saleable items from dustbins or ******* heaps. local authorities frown on totting.
Janis, she just mocks, how they knock off every berry
And the snow on the branch, now, “Calandra, never worry.”
Seasons come, like they fall, and they spring forever weary
In the Valley of the Orchids, rare are birds unto a journey

Feeble, does he brew; with the stones, shall he marry
Corralled is the smoke, tossing hills as it carries
Fuming seas in the sky, past the bricks and the rye
Cabaret, hear him, nigh does his skin peel and fly

On an arch in a prairie in a province in a land
Where the children are told how to fear their hands
Atop smoky pine feathers that burst when they're touched
We stomp and we squeak to the air on, we march

A prison laced in reddened storms drones on mountains ever-scored
Looking north by north bygone, the test, remiss, we’ll move southward
But on the sky sits Cerise Range and all around in spheres, a cage
And then, a beak we see invade! A crash and splat; of juice we’re made

May the fly, the mayfly evade the day the children hang
The Brewer, haste has made, pours his broth, begins the day
Hide, little child, like the fly, become the blanket on the marsh
Become the stock, but don't give up, next month won't be so harsh

Jude of June, that's what she’s called, she grooms her quill and tests her ink
The One of Blue, another name, she writes for everyone to breath, she blinks,
“O small brown bird, you speak the path? Well I have ever shone on some.”
The Summer Sun, that's who she is, who waits for Janis, soon to come

Jewel in the eye, dome of peace
Returneth casts our masks beneath
Iris besets, “Berceuse, my mess.”
Sad, for slowly nights a guess.

Part-time, will’o’writs she can dust
A cat's tail christened, paw in a gust
Navigating, where galleys waste strewn
The suns of Aude across its boon

Deliver us Toulmask, lost and protested
Past Bejeweled Silken in millions, nested
In Scepter where embers aroma holds on
To the sands like rocks destroying its spawn

Into the nest, deep. With Man, reborn against winds and dusk
Will best the heaps, lifespans of each, in caverns each a husk
Cut deep with scythes. The Trembling, Bellowing, Festering,
Reckoning, unending Octobering deathening, surrendering:

You! Bird, the bell rings
Brown bard, the sun sings
Sky guard, no venerate
Berried lark, thou emirate

Welcome, into ends and to makers
Watch with, admire, be your desires
Forget time, velvet rubs you and penetrates
Valley’s of orchids that start, to disintegrate
Finished July 5, 2017
Omar Jan 22
The moon got drunk

and missed the show

that starless saturday night

while I was freezing

on the park bench

circles of smoke

around my head

heaps of ashes

at my feet

writing a merry christmas

postcard to you
jdotingham Sep 2018
/  she looked at me from across the table;  her eyes barely still, her thoughts barely able.
i looked at her from across the table; the me she once knew, the eyes are a fable.
                   she asks questions
"how you been?"
"doin' much"
yeah. you?
           you can boil the tension and it wouldn't dissolve on a spoon.
            she asks why i chose what i did all them years ago. there's no nuance on the question. there's no 'wavering remorse that things could and should and would have been better' because we both know it probably would've been. unless i got AIDS or some **** like that. she asks the question for closure. thing is though; some doors fail at the one ******* job they are given, like the one in the caravan; sometimes, they can't help but stay open.

i don't know.
"that's not an answer"
i don't know.
"for **** sake! just tell me why you chose that path"
i don't know.
"... but you ******* picked it!"
            her voice raises. people look. she quietens down. nobody likes public displays of drama. it makes people feel uncomfortable. a bit awkward. the little ******* sin of 'i feel a bit uneasy in this social situation'.
i know i picked it. i do. i don't why. why the **** would it. it just sort of happened.
"it just sort of happened?"
"you've not changed have you"
changed a bit yeah.
"but not really"
i have a bit yeah. we all do. it's what happens when time mo-
"shut up, please. i'm asking you why you picked that over me all of them years ago and why i still can't ******* escape you. just tell me why, don't turn it into a parade of ******* again. that's your problem is *******, just comes out of your mouth in heaps and heaps and ******* heaps, you hear me?"
you want the truth?
"yes, of course i ******* do. of course... the truth and nothing but the cunting-god-****-truth. swear by god if you want. i still ******* love you, after all these years, i just want the truth; that's all i'm asking for. not the *******"
i don't know why i picked it.
stand alone (as of yet) draft excerpt from "awhiterose".
Arianna Feb 15
"Birch bones litter the highway
In irreverent heaps:

          Castaway carcasses,
          Reindeer sacrifices.

Surveying the carnage on this smoking wasteland,
One durst not look back!

All the years that trod behind
In lockstep, prisoners...

I never wrote of Love, though the opportunities were many
Among the rose-perfumed lantern light
June after golden June.

Alas, the hours plod behind
Over the crinkling pages of poets
And childhood fairy tales,
Concealed behind my eyes
(Dark, the better to hide them),

Memorized in the lingering scent of violets and roses
Rolling in pastel clouds from lung to lung,

Inscribed in the grooves of the lute string
I now wear 'round my neck;
And from time to time,
I imagine it still echoes with some long-ago serenade..."
Musique d'écrire:

Ensemble Céladon - "Puestos estan frente a frente":
J Feb 19
Driving home .
The sun sets into heaps of cotton candy over the hills and sprinkles the sky with frosted sugar, illuminating your face and hands on the wheel.

First date.
Two teenagers sitting in the car, stealing glances and hiding their innocent smiles under tightly pursed lips with the hanging question of who will kiss who first, only to result in the soft intertwining of fingers.

One looks down and focuses on their frayed jeans, smiling ear to ear. The other looks over, feeling warmth spread from their chest to their cheeks.

February 14th.
Neon lights dim for the girl with strawberry lip gloss and shaky hands. She gazes at the crowd over the sea of couples and fixates her eyes on a single rose. A petal softly floats down onto a table. The piano begins, her voice following.
If life were pink.
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
In the Plymouth Pass where I have passed
I witness buckles gaining mass
The paper cuts within my brew
Lampoon another step anew

Here lies where my skin was sewn
Wheezing steel, nature-grown
The gasps around my mind can see
The ***** yellow tether

Where I have seen my lover last
She kept me in a dress of brass
I long to see the Painted Crew
And eat the early morning dew

Dying’s cheap, dying moans
But living’s false and lies alone
For I believe that there’s a seed
That dares to croon, “forever”

I am strapped to a crown of birds
A shepherd of a mangled herd
We saw the Creviced Brigantine
And dreamt to hear a Byzantine

But speed, it saunters with a lapse
Cleaving instantaneous gaps
Who keeps watch to study time?
I’ll lock my learned head

In mondegreens, I taste a word
That chimes the gong of Lost Kyntire
Delouse the tongue with saccharines
Postcards via magazines

The wheels don’t turn, no, they collapse
Into a delta off the maps
I weep the street with sweat of rhyme
To lose what I have read

Where is Homer’s furrowed lining?
I forget my ink a-shining
The sun berates my slanted sleep
Which leads me to a voidless keep

The ties I twirl have never told
Me money’s green and fakes a fold
This jagged jingle holds a pen
That rakes a love of wealth

My mind is braised and stamped for finding
Reasons for a word’s rescinding
By my sins, I rest on heaps
Of famine-stricken sermon-sheeps

My steel-laced cries have never sold
A penny for my growing old
I decry the breadth of men
Who drink and die to their own health

Christ, I tire of my treads
I sense distaste of the well-fed
Sprouting my depraved behaviour
To find the sport in slaves and saviours

I can’t read with eyes of grain
I can’t draw the dated pane
My limbs belong to Nation Trusts
My child shall have my feet

A Mannish day usurps my bed
As the net that keeps me wed
To depots of deserted paper
And sickened lines of perverse vapour

The printed blue fight to remain
Twenty-four stallions breed to maim
The Court of Mobile states my ****
And treasures it like beets

Berries of the freesome smell
Southtrail deers degrazing ****
I am born to hear the hiss
Of driven serfs endowed with ****

Gratitude is served in rocks
Given life by stale warlocks
Augurs of the larger days
Reducing me to innocence

The Marshall spits a shallow well
Coagulates into a gel
To stress this life, I’d be remiss
And slowly stripped by vicious mist

I should chafe to serve a clock
Which underlines the formless flock
Yet I try to pave my way
To tangible incessance

Vivian Mills, an architect
Loves a state she can’t protect
The walls are hammered willow trees
Mercury arrows, guileless and creased

Edward Crael, a charlatan
Only writes on jars of tin
Where hate is love, rendered stale
And echoes through the past

Lonny Winn, the One Prefect
Cries over a submerged wreck
She feels the transit’s caving knees
And drinks away her soaring pleas

Finnick Gaelan, the Captain
Feels the weight of northern winds
He prays to long for wayward gales
Yet permeates the past
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