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JDL Nov 2018
Hundreds of years gone
With a few swings of an axe
Amber tears, so long...
So many ancient trees are lost each year. May this poem serve as both a memorial and a dedication to what has been lost.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
In disaster and war movies
the protagonist (Queen) and her immediate circle
are protected from anonymous death. They may die (one by
      one or all at once)
but someone at least grieves.
Or the audience is full of glee.

But in Star Wars (for instance)
what about the many hundreds of nameless, faceless soldiers
in body armor and visored helmets, or planetary citizens,
who fall by the dozens or more, like the leaves this rich fall.
      I think
no one thinks

how one of them may have had her first lover the night before
and one may be leaving behind two sons he read to last night
and loved with all his heart.
Neither belief in God nor being a god entertained
can explain or forgive this oversight.

Ah, how sweet
the film in which no actor dies or if they do
it's from their own disease or golden age.
People grieve for the soul that left
and celebrate the soul that flew.

I was in Providence for a conference,
a town I had thought insignificant, not a city to be considered
a city in flight. But that night they lit
one hundred bonfires in the river running up through the streets
      and the face of every girl and woman with her lover
by firelight was beautiful.

Had the city been nuked
by a terrorist or rogue nation I would not have minded dying
      there,
with them, that night. It is possible
to be several million strong
and every homeless man with a singing voice belong.
nabila s Jul 2018
afraid of having you wholefully
for a fear of losing you pieces by pieces, slowly
from trapping you inside of me 24/7
to letting you go entirely
by saying i love you each and every single night
doesn't mean i want to be yours
i just wanted to feel, be loved, by loving
in case i don't get any of you
either because you're not used to me
or you choose not to
it doesn't matter
cause every time
my eyes scream 'you look beautiful' in every light i met you
my heart runs a marathon for the hope of welcoming yours into mine
even my nose sense a tragic yet desiring story of one who fell so deep
one became so in love
and for each time you smile, not for me, for who, but the world,
my existence has been blessed for letting you be one of thousands i've seen
one of hundreds i know
one of few i befriend
one of one i fell for

and when the time comes,
i know my invitation never really went away
still, didn't give up yet.
Dovey Sep 2017
Our short human lives
Compared to the Earth’s, are but ‘a blink of the eye’
At least that’s the saying
We’re nothing compared to this planet’s rotating


Do we keep the earth on orbit, constantly alive?
Will the planet care if any of us die?
No, I don’t think it needs us to survive


Can you say I’m needed if I keep someone sane?
Is that really a purpose, if it’s not hundreds who change?
And does it even matter if human lives aren’t needed anyways?
I’m not sure, and I’d really like an answer


Compared to our planet
Our lives are short, are meaningless
Compared to a star
Our planet is so small, isn’t it?


And stars burn bright, yeah
But they die too
And stars help no one
If they’re too far away from you


A star, in infinite space
Only can so long secure a place
And then something happens, and they have to go
Perhaps they destroyed themselves, just died, or were swallowed by a black hole


Despite how different we seemingly are
Us humans aren’t too different from stars
Killing ourselves, simply fading out, or letting that black hole swallow our heart

I’ve let a black hole drag me into the dark

I call myself a wanderer of the heavens
And if I’m a star girl
Surely I should burn in
an attempt to change this world


But I don’t think I shed enough light
I’m dying too quickly, can’t help a **** thing in sight
gabrielle Feb 8
if i have hundreds of eyes
i would only gaze at you

if i have billions of hope
i would continue to hope that you'll love me too
if i have thousands of hands
i wouldn't let you go

that is if i would have the chance to hold you
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
like furniture i am remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your TV screen
i am electromagnetic static
that illuminates your blankets
and i am the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she ever wrote
Once upon upon time
many years ago I met
girl so sweet and loving
she was to
me
Once upon a time long
ago long ago I fell In love
with this pretty called girl
Helen
Once upon a time long
ago I got engaged shortly
after that I married this pretty
girl
Once upon a time long ago
my pretty wife gifted me a wonderful son and so proud of her I
was
Once upon a time not so
long ago I lost my pretty wife to ill health that I'm slowly trying to come to terms
with
Once upon a time a very short time ago I promised
my pretty wife a
poem
to date I've written nearly
nine hundred and fivty all
dedicated to my pretty
girl
A poem promised to my pretty wife that turned Into nine hundred and fivty dedication poems to her memory
blind are the marks we make
the forms we take
as our souls are baked
liked bread
from the dead we rise
like fireflies
crimes are the lies
they once told you
as once upon a time
fire tied us to our minds
so now we must combine
sweat instead of cement
and make our beds in nests
instead of houses
blessed we are
that threats of harm
have never come to pass
and in hundreds
of pairs of arms
we have found the company
which protects us
so burn this ancient form of misery
like parchment in the dawn
though storms may temporarily
threaten our soveriegnty
i’ll keep you warm
until whatever comes after eternity
you ply me
with honey-soaked harmony
and still i'm happy to spy on you
daily
Lizzy Mar 2016
The Dancers in Black

Her dress was black and the shape resembled a flower. Satin off-the-shoulder sleeves sat elegantly against her ivory white skin. A plain black bodice and a plain black skirt, not too puffy but not form fitting. It was a simple dress, but she stood out from all the lavishly decorated girls that attended the ball. Her pale skin made her black dress look like a painting on a pure white canvas. A few black curls fell from her crown-like updo and brushed against her neck; giving her beauty an effortless essence.
Soon after she entered the grand doors, a man approached her. He was older, but not too old. Maybe ten years her senior.
“You are breathtaking, it would be an honor to dance with such a beauty.”
A small grin curled her lips as she took the hand he extended to her. They danced wonderfully in the ballroom. They swayed together like a tree in the wind, his branches twisting with hers. Her black dress melted with his black coat and trousers and they became one beautiful black bird, floating and gliding freely.
The rest of the guests froze, watching the couple in a trance. The room fell silent, even the musicians were hypnotized by the dancers’ grace. The couple continued to dance through the silence, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. Their gaze was locked, transcending reality as they stared into each other’s eyes. They were somewhere else, transported by their dance. An unfamiliar world was created between their eyes that grew and spread like a halo around their interlocked frames.
The guests were not amazed, not horrified, they were not anything. The feeling of Nothing swept over them like a dusting of light snow. Nothing seeped into their hearts the longer they watched the dancers. This Nothingness would be with them until the end of time.
The King entered the ballroom confused the the silence and the stillness.
“What are you doing? I don’t pay you so my guests can stand around in boredom.”
The musicians resumed playing and the guests went back to dancing. Men looked for the beauty in the black dress and women searched for the man in the black coat. They seemed to have disappeared. No woman or man in black could be found.
The guests danced and carried on their night like they would any other. But they could not forget the dancers and the Nothingness that was left in their hearts.
As the night came to an end, and the guests began to leave, the image of the dancers in black haunted their minds. They left through the grand doors like sand falls through an hourglass, consistent and calm until the room was empty. No one spoke of the event, but there was a sense of understanding among the guests. They all saw the event, they all felt the Nothingness that remained, and they all agreed it was best not to dwell on the matter.
They would think about the dancers in black every day. Every man and woman, and lord and peasant who saw the dancers would carry on life with Nothingness inside them and the curious beauty of the dance in their memory. Each one trying not to think about it because they knew that just the notion of that night would cause them to fall into the same trance they fell to in the ballroom. How odd it is to ignore a memory, all while knowing it will never be forgotten. How strange it must be to lie to yourself and know the truth cannot be denied. They shut away their knowledge of the dance so they could continue living life in the facetious way they had before.  
One of the guests was a poet. He could not carry on like the others. He could not ignore the Nothingness. After the ball, his writing became only repeated attempts to understand the dancers. And to understand why they made him feel so uneasy. His attempts failed over and over again for years, until the poet had nearly given up. After hundreds, maybe thousands of discarded rough drafts, the poet wrote his last sentence. He wrote it and never again felt the need to pick up a pen. It was simple and short, and everything he had been looking for.
“I saw Death, and it was beautiful.”
this is the first piece of fiction that I've written that i actually like
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"And people say that the Palace is
the heart," Lyn murmurs, looking
around the town. "The heart of
Aurelinaea truly beats within the
town."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Quite so, My Lady." Esshi nods in
agreement. It rings true; Aurelinaea
Palace rests and grows out of the heart
of the large island. It is even whispered
that there are secret passageways long
lost, that only the royal family know.
The towns are pulsing with the lives
of hundreds of thousands. From the
Palace, there is one street, a vein,
thick and wide, that leads down to
different parts of town.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
And like a heart, one vein connects
to many; thick and thin, wide and
narrow; several pathway, with
and without wooden fences, are
made of three colours; red stones,
yellow stones and green stones.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
All of them are winding around,
leading to several coloured houses,
gardens, markets, docks, grand
angel fountains that rests upon the
mosaics, bridges and the canals.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The air is full of many smells, perfumes
and fresh flowers, fresh cakes, cookies and
breads, fresh produce and fish, fresh cut
grass and the sea. Smiths hammers away
at their swords and armour, people laugh,
children run and play around, cats meow,
dogs barks, seagulls cry and people laugh,
sing, talk and eat as they sail on the canals.
Building on the visuals.
Strange what one stumbles on when they're writing for a project.
I was looking at a diagram for the human heart.
Enjoy!
Gotta hit the hay, the second week of my course
resumes on the morrow!
Much love,
Lyn ***
Francie Lynch Nov 2018
Birds don't rain down from heart attacks,
Or aneurysms: we should be waist high
In hundreds of millions of feathered bodies.
Where are they?
Not like us, who fall in the strangest places:
Stop signs, ball games, synagogues, schools.
And we cover them, step around them,
Chalk mark floors and sidewalks,
And eventually pick up the pieces.
But we can't perch on live wires,
Or fly between wind vanes.
Where are the bodies.
Domestic or feral.
Look to the sociocat,
Though innocent,
It prowls by nature.
fragile fingers trace the firmament
while our minds need time to get fermented
there are hundreds of ways to say you're sorry
but nothing is capable of defining you
unless you’ve already given it
the power or permission to
Kaith Karishma Dec 2017
It’s not a surprise.
It’s terrible but
it’s not a surprise.
Shooting, screaming, scattering, shattering,
it’s not a surprise.
I imagine but don’t understand.
White person mental illness,
illness…
Illness,
it’s called.
He was a poor, lonely, old man whose dog just died,
so he decided
to shoot up a crowd,
and **** and hurt hundreds of people.
Because of his illness.
But just listen.
Listen.
Listen:
you’re calling him ill but he’s really just mad.
There is no kindness in him if he can go **** all those people
and not even blink.
He may have offered you a handkerchief
when you were crying,
but then he goes off and kills,
and kills,
and kills,
and the kindness in him is warped, destroyed -
lost
the second he decides to
shoot,
shoot,
shoot.
Terrorists we fear -
walking down the street with a burqa draped over.
Terrorists we fear -
flying as second class citizens because of our terror.
Terrorists we fear -
speaking in a language we don’t understand.
They’re not the terrorists we should fear.
If the white terrorist is ill, then the US is plagued.
One
after another,
after another
**** us, and we still do nothing.
Nothing.
NOTHING.
We go around the world “fixing” and “helping”,
ruining lives and terrorizing,
because that’s what we are: terrorists.
Terrorists.
Terrorists.
We want to fix the world? We can’t even help ourselves.
We the people are broken.
Who’s gonna fix us?
Meet Mar 2018
Women were mentioned as
God's most beautiful creation!
But seeing some of their situations today
Seems all is left is Just the cremation

Today's world is
faster than ever
And without feminine
It cannot last forever

Why is that so hard for a girl
to live on her own?
She's not a toy to play with whenever you want
& make her moan!

Pity those who think
women are to only produce a baby!
Give her your faith and support
She'll become one you hadn't ever imagine her to be

And **** those who calls a girl *****
& fix her rate
After realizing the fact that
She's not in their fate

Everyday some monster **** a woman ruthlessly
What do we do; Just look the other way
Hundreds of women are harrased and killed everyday
I wish there too could be some sundays!

Just when she finds a staircase
to reach to her crown
Why she also finds thousands?
Eagerly waiting to pull her down

They have potential to rule the world
They are not destined to be nun
They can show the world
Why should boys have all the fun!
Wish there too could be some sundays!
patty m Mar 10
In the land of ghosts there lies a shimmer of light ethereal and sacred.  This hour I feel it and care not if it is sand or water, this destiny that liberates faith and soul.  Too long have I, Hassam prayed for someone to help me in my quest to find the place called Rainzapour.  Here, I was a prisoner shackled in a dungeon,  besieged and tortured by hideous devils especially the man with the evil eye,   But now my hands are unshackled and I breathe the air of freedom.  Sometimes I stare into a void and gather my senses, yet in white shade there is still darkness.  I am strong as I whisper to fate, " take me to Rainzapour and the palace of the black hearted Caliph Rashidun enemy of the common people."  In the beginning I was wearied by travel having been besieged upon by demons and suicidal assaults and yet my love carried me forward to my destiny.
As a very young man I had collected haunted items, a moon chalice used in sacrificial ceremony, a sword taken from the hand of the dead on a battlefield, a mushroom turned to stone still purple with it's poison one bite away from whole.  Once I found a copper bottle with a heavy seal, this too I added to my collection. I was serious and scholarly but studied the art of combat and became skillful in mock battle and combative games. It was at such an event I caught the eye of Bahija, beautiful creature, my dream of womanly curves, my heart throbbed in my chest when she gave to me a flower and soon I gave her my heart.  She was air and nature and her soft voice danced like smoke in my mind.  All went well and one day as we met in a field of poppies a dark shadow descended upon us.  There on every side were stealthy warriors, soldiers of the dead, hooded devils who took me prisoner and stole Bahija away.  Many years later I learned she had been forced into the harem of the Caliph.. Hatred rose in me, hatred and love and it made me powerful.  I was free and still they incessantly dogged my heels like hounds from hell.  I returned to the field behind my home, unwilling to subject my family to the same fate as mine, I didn't enter the house but dug deep into the soft loam to retrieve the box which held a few belongings along with my collection.  The sword gleamed lethally in the light of the moon and a surge of power sang deep in its metal.  The moon chalice as well vibrated, as though it had a task to perform and couldn't wait, but it was the bottle that was most powerful of all throwing itself out of my hands until the seal broke and there before my eyes was a giant genie or jinn.  Broad chested and strong he appeared human but narrowed to fit inside the bottle.  Now I had heard of such as he, but never in my wildest dreams did I expect to see one.  He was of the line of Marid, considered the most powerful tribe of Jinn. When he spoke it was deep and booming and made me shiver inside my skin.  There were no wishes to be granted, he would help me obtain the most important thing in the world that I wanted and once it was mine he would be free of the bottle.  True to his word he taught me to bathe myself in mud fortified with basilisk oil and to bake in the crust of lava until my body hardened  to the strength of armor, and it was he who as my spirit guide drew up my magick sigil a Silver Sword and Chalice above a Star on a background of Ebony. When I was attacked while traveling he trapped himself in my body and we slew hundreds on hundreds of warriors.  Now as I stood outside the wall of Rainzapour, I knew that soon I would be losing this valiant protector for once I claimed my beloved he would be allowed his freedom.  One last battle condemning the Caliph and all his evildoers to die in their polluted blood, as I freed those innocents he forced himself upon.   So close and yet so far I could detect the flickering of a mind heavy hearted and needful of solace. " Bahilja," I whispered, "Can you sense that I'm here for you?"

Tonight the moon will eclipse and the Jinn once more will become part of me as we scaled the high imposing wall cloaked in darkness.  There were soldiers everywhere, we moved  ghost-like, landing lightly in the courtyard. with only seconds to spare, as the Jinn performed his task.  Twenty men downed and now we swap out our clothes for the theirs, donning hooded face covering and weapons to spare.  Soon we're climbing to the halls of the palace lighted by tall torches and golden candlesticks.  I longed to search for the harem and Bahilja, but silent warriors were everywhere guarding halls and doors.  Some raised their hands in welcome as we passed and I nodded in pretense of recognition.  Before us lay a court room and there the Caliph beckoned us to join him in a meal.  No hummus or taboule, but complex stews with spices and herbs their foreign  scents causing a sickness to rise in my throat.  He invited us to pull forth a cushion as though waiting to crush a dove in his hand.  Things were out of control. I could feel that he recognized me for what I really was, a man inhabited by a jinn and yet his eyes were hypnotizing and I felt unable to resist his hospitality, though I knew this was a sorcerer and a man of blackest evil.  Women entered carrying platters of bread and as the light moved I saw her sitting comfortably on a cushion.  A harder version of the young Bahilja, assured and in control as though she had attained great status.  My heart crashed as I saw the child beside her, five or six years old and the image of the Caliph.   She must be his first wife and mother of the heir, no abused innocent, but a woman of status.  There would be no saving her now. She'd hate me for the child clearly was her love and life.   The caliph played me like a snake, his evil eye delving into my soul and the jinn too was confused and perplexed and prey for evil promptings.  Summoning intense concentration I rose up, making ready to leave.  Then the battle began, there would be no easy exit for the air became putrid and all ran away. It was just the jinn and I and the Caliph whose appearance had changed into a huge black jinn with a bejeweled turban.  Suddenly it all became clear, and I saw this is where I belonged. My mind alert now, I pulled myself up to my full stature returning stare for stare and then the battle began.  Abdul my Jinn surfaced from his previous oblivion.  We bowed and the heaven fell down and darkness turned everything bleak.  I felt jabs and pain erupting  though my soul, this was good and evil battling with all their might.  Abdul fought courageously downing the evil one again and again.  But my body was his prison and each bolt rent yet another hole and each hole seeped blood sapping Abdul as I floundered on the ground. .  I was the bottle that enslaved him and he couldn't cut me loose.  And yet as I became a shadow, Abdul reached for my sword, the mushroom and the chalice and the earth stood still, as rumbling vibrations spawned my rebirth..  One slice of the sword sent the black Jinn's head flying and evil shrank to bitter root leaving the Caliph in the shape of a man.  In the chalice Abdul combined wine and root and mushroom, the final swallow and the Caliph was turned to smokeless fire scorching earth .  We drew a circle and ringed it with salt and his spirit was banished to the cave of horrors.  

What of Abdul and me and the widow and child?  My body couldn't contain Abdul so I set him free.  Free to do as he chose and he chose to be the new Caliph. for only he could contain the evil passed down to child who would someday rule.   Bahilja chose to stay with her child becoming the wife of Abdul and I was welcome to stay as well but chose not too.  Somewhere a new life waits for me.  Strong again and free at last with no demons breathing down my neck I ventured out taking with me some riches bestowed upon me by my benevolent hosts. .Perhaps I would find another trove of ancient  relics, or create magic, or maybe I'll find love.  For now I'll return to my family and relate the tale of Rainzapour.  .
Dark n Beautiful Aug 2018
You must never **** the spiders,
While, they are woven their poems into the likeness of thunder?
Kidnapped the poets, instead of the poems
Therefore, I asked of you to stop all useless riots
On poetry, read them, embrace them, and
Learn from them: poetry is disciplined
And disciplined is the most misunderstanding word
In the dictionary: but somehow it is said that

riots is the language of the unheard:
we must never embrace racial riots,
or racial profiling: reach out to racial equity
stop allowing the messages of hate to go viral
plants row of trees, in the name of love,
I recently came across, ants yes, I said ants

When army ants need to cross a large gap, they simply build a bridge - with their own bodies. Linking together, the ants can move their living bridge from its original point, allowing them to cross gaps and create shortcuts across rainforests in Central and South America.

I recently saw human fighting each other, I recently read somewhere
Where children were locked away in cages
,
McALLEN, Texas (AP) — inside an old warehouse in South Texas, hundreds of immigrant children wait in a series of cages created by metal fencing. One cage had 20 children inside. Scattered about are bottles of water, bags of chips and large foil sheets intended to serve as blankets.

We must never **** the spiders,
While, there are woven their poems into the likeness of thunder..
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