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CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
CK Baker Oct 2017
a slow walk up centennial
and i still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the turkish blend and dust pack

a novice mixed duet plays
brahms on broken strings
an erhu and overcoat
veiling the blue heeler and sphinx

maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home bedford falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
Tammy M Darby Nov 2013
Hunched over the worn desk
In the ***** yellow light
Trying to arrange thoughts in array
A  small mad woman with a pen in hand
On the paper drops of life did lay

The mind soared to the golden heavens  
Dove blindly into the gates of hell
Using her favorite metaphors wildly
Dark poetry from a ghost-filled well

Eyes shining with frightening excitement
The feather pen moved on its own
Stories of a thousand lost years
Through legends of Troy, Atlantis, and fairyland, she would roam

Weary now of endless imagination
The ink dried the words would keep
Impish smile of triumph on her face  
Rest her mind in an enchanted sleep


All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby
All Material Stored in Author Base.
patty m May 2014
Two Moons
through an onion skin,
gulls ride out approaching storm;
I embrace the corner of my bedroom.
A brief inward look tumbles from the bed,
my heart rises.
                Ice and sun, reversible stars, the driving pistons

behind this bleeding vision

My thoughts a scarf tail whipping wind
descend into darkness

I search for landmarks in unfamiliar territory
clinging to the floor until a cold draft finds me.

Voiceless, hunched, in the corner,
I'm shaken by seismic tremors.
'
Dark as a crow, I wait in despair for something to enter,
a pattern of deeply etched lines, stars that won't burn out,
a shadowy presence of something fearful.

Flames crack like small bones,
springs fly from clockwork mechanisms,
all the disparate forces spin in ghostly dance.

Eerie symmetry conspires to do me in,

Hope and Reason stretch out  their hands

                                                  too late.

Darkness swallows me.
From the void of infinity,
I retrieved words desperately sought
Craving the full impact of my letters
No matter the harm to my soul it wrought

An obsession forces me from my slumber bed rise
Depicting on paper visions of monsters and warrior queens
That emerges from deep long dreams
And where the magic lies.

Sleep reveals those who breathe
And yet emotionally dead
Shuffling through the world
Unknowing and uncaring
Frightening normal with dread

As the ribbons of heliotrope crept closer before falling
Pausing
I heard the ghost of my pen calling

They found me quite cold
Window sash blowing
Ink on my fingers
Hunched over my desk

A story unfinished
Fellow Poets
I leave you to imagine the rest

@Copyright Tammy M. Darby Jan. 5, 2019
Sally A Bayan Jun 2018
* * *
* *
*

Faces of friends, of people i met earlier
are  glittering stars on this late evening's
dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed
in my mind...they're  hunched, going
lower by the days...slowed down by years.
it must be hard and painful...the arching,
the drooping of the neck, the curving spine,
they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise
each new dawn...do what they still can do,
lest they stagnate in their aging ponds,
diminish to a state, where food, pills, or
forgotten information are forced on them,
......like drugs, injected into the veins

........................
these wee hours bring back the years...
they  have been good...never mind the
hard times...there were, there are good ones
life is a long, wide stream of changing hues,
flowing on and on....my water bears the
colors each new day brings...gray, at times
with sadness and gloom....other days,
blacked by despair...some summers, red,
roseate with glee, or green with life and
hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and
the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm,
with a promise of stability..........white,
when accepting......the unacceptable...
........................
the amber grains and i, are alike
ripened enough to be plucked
be pulled out from an existence...the
signs are known...shown...yet, we wait
for when it is due to happen...and while
waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance  
and enjoy the sun and wind...and i,
while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills
and valleys in this mammoth space
of land and water.............called life
...................
the sounds of my days, i still hear,
i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing
off-key.....out of tune at times,
my strings are my graying hair,
i still can't stop dying the gray
i still want to highlight the dark,
but, one day, all these will cease...
............
one night, my face will be in one of those
many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky
sending a smile, to my loved ones...
...................
there is no other way, but forward
all are headed....towards an end...


Sally



© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
      June 26, 2018
...ahhh, the rains...do make us reflect longer on life...
JG O'Connor Jun 2017
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.

Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear  
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.

Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
alexa Aug 2018
the coffee is warm
as it slides down my throat,
the heat spreading through my chest and
down to my stomach i know
the sun is rising somewhere up to my right,
amber rays hitting my hunched shoulders
and back,
but my mind is focused on the lines swirling in front of me,
words strung together just begging
to be said aloud,
letters floating all over the page until
they take the shape of
my best dream and worst nightmare,
my apologies and angry rants and
all the times i’ve fallen in love without reciprocation
and the boys i’ve hurt and people i never want to forgive.
i write about early morning sunrises
and late night stargazing
and all the feelings i’ve never felt,
strangers i’ve never kissed in
foreign streets but i know
one day these letters will float off the page,
take shape in
a little place called Reality...
but for now,
it’s just me,
the coffee,
and my poetry,
melding together under
the rising sun.
-a.c.b
ryn Jul 2014
This feeling I have that drags my spirit
And I indulge in its lowly zest out of habit
My feet they move in a trudge like manner
Shoulders hunched inwards non receptive to splendour.

How heavy it is in my heart I weep
For a life been dealt in a single, swift sweep
Cards that has been dealt from aeons past
Oaths recited loudly so that they would last.

Amidst the crowd of mask-faced happiness
Unconvinced, I slipped past unfound lest I be careless.
Discomforted in what on this path may lie
Discontented as such that my heart whines a cry.

Rigidity of routine when sensibility took over
Bruised bad and battered well my heart tumbled after
It felt like it's the end of my dream laden days
Reality sinks in, picks on my heart and there it stays.

I don't want to leave my coveted dreamscape
I don't want to destroy my only means of escape
On the ***** of fantasy, forever I want to stay
But it's crumbling away alarmingly like sun beaten clay.

I deceive my heart into thinking that there's still hope
Truth is I may have come to the end of the rope
Heart wants to hear a faint whisper of reassurance
Mind chides heart, it judgingly delivers it's sentence.

My cries cannot be heard, a wail of futile pleas
Banging on locked doors for which I don't have the keys
So weak this spirit for it has thus been broken
Morsel by morsel, this hapless soul is being eaten.

This burden I'm carrying seem never to have lightened
It is the dark of this period I wish to have brightened
Someone, anyone help...please show me a way
In this god forsaken pit I do not wish to stay.

However there exists yet a slim little chance
Key to courage is somewhere if I could afford a glance
Chances are that I may never even find it
I'll be trapped in a hole in which I can never truly fit.
Evan Stephens Dec 2018
There were
those thickets
of flat
graying trees
and a frozen
skin of lake
out by the
hunched rink
behind Georgian Woods
the terrace apartments
where Dad lived
after he left
the family.

Left to my
own devices
while Dad
delved in books
I slipped out
the sliding door
through
the frost-grass
and the
snow branch gap
into the
unfolding stillness
of the drowsing park.
Sometimes
my sister
was there
with me
in the woods,
our play
always some form
of running away.

In the early
years Dad
smoked a pipe
his thick
blue rug scented
with Captain Black
**** tobacco,
the white tin
with the rigged
ship logo.
The humming silo
of the air purifier
Dad's concession
to my convulsing
asthmatic chest,
close-gathered lung

like the branch bark
that scraped
my lip
as I ran in
the park wood,
blood slipping
across my face
and down
into the ache.
Corey Jun 13
Grandma was sitting in front of the TV again.
Watching her favorite ball players and
answering puzzles correctly
until she felt too tired to continue.
Always looking for a playful fight
with her favorite grandsons.

Grandpa was reading the newspaper again.
Always gathering information about
politics and world affairs,
and then telling others what he could.
Informing his family of what’s happened
in Washington that weekend.

Grandma was hunched over outside again.
Dirt collecting under her nails and
caked to her palms as she planted
new flowers in front of the house.
A calm Thursday afternoon,
not too chilly for April,
full of birds chirping around her.

Grandpa was working downstairs again.
Always tasked with some new project and
asking my help when he didn’t really need it.
Showing me how to use tools and
measure things correctly,
and telling stories of things he’s made in the past.
Heather Moon Feb 2014
Dad
So my father,
he goes into the store to buy his $10 a pack for cancer
while he still attempts to hide his addictions from my sister and I.
Now I don't think it would bother me oh so much
but his frugal attempts to sweep the dust under the rug is like using a mop instead of a broom...
We see the crumbs leading to your door from the cookie jar.
Yes, we all have flaws, but you,
you
weave shamefully through the under layers of darkness, devoid of any resemblance to a heavenly nature, you fall like a night creature weaseling through crooked creaky cement alleyways, your gremlin spirit set ablaze.

LIFE, I revel and roll within the taste of each second, I run the grain of life across my tongue until saliva fills the creases and far reached corners of my mouth. I tap my finger to my lips like a true virtuoso, a connoisseur of life. Life.

My father's addictions completely derail me,
not even so the notion itself, I mean yes, but his blatantly obvious ways of avoiding confrontation not only from us, but also from himself.
Like Pinocchio's nose, my fathers back gets hunched more and more, his breath quickens when we draw close.
Father you are not prey, in fact if there be a predator, it is you unto yourself. I can no longer help but to roll my eyes when you tell me for the fourth time in the day that you must take out the trash so as to have a smoke.
I am fed up, excuse me sir, the trash will still be there no matter how many times you take out the "trash" .
The only "thing" that won't be left after you're repeated offenses of the benign chore will be you're dignity because you are so naive and ignorant in the way you dodge truth. How can you live respectfully when you don't respect yourself? Nor do you value what you are spitting out to your own daughters.
I am addicted to life,
I breathe it in with passion,
I embrace the truth within me
and have an eagerness to expand my wisdom.
How come father you do something that you know is a betrayal to yourself? How come you hide away in that old bar, the one with the flashing(flickering) light on the outside, dingy worn out red leather(plastic)booths on the inside, the bar located in some musty  little hole in you're brain and a blind spot on you're heart.
You sit in the back in a lonesome booth slumped like some chump, stuck in a stump, you ooze and wheeze not even grasping for air, no fight left within, you are like mucus, a toad melting into the ground. Sinister and swindling in the greed of you're gut. Your ***** mopey yellow eyes and the shameful acceptance as you indulge in the baths of life's luxuries whilst you poison your body, trash what you hold dear and continue to block out that little annoying voice.
The voice with the cracks in it,
worn out from you're games, the voice that nags and pleads. The one that catches you before you order another round, take another smoke break, the one that pulls you, tantalizes you with it's simple sweet natural charm in hopes of distracting you from your self harming ways.
The voice that chimes in the second you raise your fist to punch me. The voice that is screaming at you when you lock eyes with mine and can see my fear.
Yeah that voice, the little punk one that returns even after the crime of your actions has been committed.
After the music stops and it's just you and the world.
but even then
I don't think you will hear it.
You're living on the edge of the pavement father.
No you wont hear that voice, not when you're twisted and contorted into the sideways way of things. You killed that voice long ago, when you wound yourself deeper and deeper like a clock in time,
when you twirled yourself into that little empty pub, with a quiet pool table, with no hope, a sanctum of greed.
Yes, you're guilty, yes it was you.
It was you who killed the voice inside of yourself.
You killed it when you traded
your dignity and your truth
for yet another
$10 dollar pack of
emptiness,
lies,
and forfiet.
Callie Richter Oct 2017
I was born on April 5th in Harlan, Iowa. I've always hated when snow is still sitting on the ground by then.
My mom never once showed me affection, bringing me to parties and leaving me with strangers.
What about my dad, you ask? I'll dig in my desk drawer and find the piece of paper that lists seven possibilities because I've always craved what I'll never have.
But on a happier note, I was adopted as a three-month-old baby.
I spent my childhood with my nose shoved in a book way above my expected reading level.
By the fourth grade, I was in love with sports, especially, soccer.
My alcoholic grandpa was by far my biggest role model because I could only see light in people at that age. About once a season I'd see his rickety old truck pull up on the wrong side of the field to get a front row seat of my soccer game.
When I was thirteen my grandpa passed away. I still watch every Cubs game for him and dream of travelling the east coast like he always used to do.
By the time I was fourteen I was into the most popular things at my high school, they definitely weren't in my best interest. You see, I've always tried too hard to fit in.
Yes, I'm hearing all this about who you used to be, but Callie, who are you now?
Who am I now?
Well.
My name is Callie.
Calista Carol Leanne when moms mad.
My favorite color is light blue.
I have an older brother, whom I love dearly.
I love watching football and screaming at the t.v. during any Dallas or Iowa State game.
I'm proud of my home team in every possible sport and cheer as loud as I can when we're winning and even when we're not.
I love watching That '70s Show while sipping an Arnold Palmer.
My home away from home is walking the beaches of Okoboji until it gets chilly enough to start a bonfire.
My biggest passion is, by far, playing soccer. I love the feeling of strapping on shin guards and tightening cleats before I run out of the locker room all hunched over trying to get my hair in a ponytail and get outside so I have enough time to warm up before practice.
I wake up every single morning to my alarm of my favorite music with a smile on my face ready for the day to begin.
Stop.
I said who are you now?
I mean really. Who are you?
Who am I now?
Well.
Sometimes I dream about getting married to some boy without a face, just to take his last name and rid the sin that comes along with being a Richter.
I cried in the bathroom stall at school the first time I heard a rumor that was spread about me. I tell everyone that by now I'm used to it, but the truth is each one buries me again.
I throw myself into physical activity and school sports because the sweat and heavy breathing puts my mind at ease and gives me a sense of accomplishment. Throwing myself into my school work obviously, doesn't have the same effect.
The boys at school still give me side glances, give me propositions, and make wisecracks about me being easy because maybe they'll have a chance, not to date me but to get with me because of rumors they heard over a year ago.
I'm so insecure about so much of myself that most days I would much rather crawl under a rock and die than show my face in the hallways between the bells.
Don't tell anyone I told you this though.
You must keep it a secret.
I mean, what would people think if they knew?
I think it's better off that they just see me as...
My name is Callie.
Calista Carol Leanne when moms mad.
MJL Mar 29
Nick was a lost boy
With a whispering heart
He held proper Victorian sadness
Until his public strength bowed
As it does with the artistic type
His soul beating modal
And his mask of gilded paper mache
With glue dripping and drying to fragile dreams
He needed to get back to the pastures of Tanworth
Yet London had other ideas
And his stiff upper lip cracked
He was a poet, you see
Who danced with trees...
And everyone knows
Butterflies don't ride bikes
Though that would be beautiful
To see one on a banana seat
Sailing down a country lane...
Alas, butterflies can simply fly away if a bike objects
And feel no pain
But Nick was hurt as he fell to the ground
His sickly hunched posture told of a great weight
Shoulders struggled to shepherd the world
With only Flower his power
And Pen his staff
Sadness met the River Man
And the River Man broke down
Poor, the fame of falling poets
Rich, the earth’s garden of toiled words
Caked under soiled writers nails
A headstone,
"Now we rise
And we are everywhere"
His tailwind to us
Go and look at what our fellow poets eyes do see
And bid hello to another artist’s soul on parade
For, as with you, they too are simply lost
And desperate for a garden to share and grow


© 2019 MJL
For Nick Drake, and to poets everywhere. Thanks for sharing. Thanks for your rich souls. London here represents what the world wants us to be. Butterflies, the crack from reality.... May we all meet the River Man on our own terms, with a smile, on route to our own pastures of Tanworth.
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