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ConnectHook Oct 2015
Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself?
Thy once-bright spires decline to dust.
The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom
a bygone memory. I’ll not trust
these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle;
endless babble of self-absorption
centered in pleasure-maximizing:
narcissistic thought-abortion.
Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language
used by dad ten years ago.
I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage
They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show.
It’s just, like, TALKING—without words
in language ghettos; texting proud . . .
Their lack of precision offends my brain—
They ought to be ashamed (out loud).

Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D,
and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic crack
along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot
Are SO like totally talking smack.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/03/15/hung-on-a-psychosociolinguistic-scaffold/

ZPD ZPD ZPD ZPD ZPD
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Promise me, my flesh you'll place
'neath a fledgling willow tree.
And as it grows toward blue sky,
It's in its grace you'll hear me cry.
Laden with the heaviest fears,
resembling, reflecting
my darkest years.

A fragile bone was once my arm,
so likened to the willows charm.
It's branches delicate,
could ne'er do harm.
It's soft and fluffy hand like bud,
encased in skin, the willow's wood.

Hold its hand at branches end.
My message, a vibration,
to you I'll send.
Until the death of said willow tree,
reminding you . . . . .
. . . . . . always of me.

Poetry by Kaydee.
The tired and deathly willow tree with stories to tell of debutantes, swinging
before entering hell.
Sun, moon and golden candles hung in midair
are but ornaments used by heavens muse
to paint true love and all things rare.
My love does stir my vice to compare
painted words to love and  
these candles hung in midair.
Robin Lemmen Jul 2018
When you smile I come undone the threads of these carefully picked out lies start falling apart and it scares me to give in when for so long these wounds have kept me busy and occupied so I did not need to worry about living life too constrained with keeping them clean hung up on survival my rearview mirror guiding broken bones set on mending energy spent tired eyes shut life, passing by.
English Jam Oct 2018
Silver skies, tranquil nights
Gently gazing down from afar
Silver rooftops, twinkling lights
Buried deep among the stars
Silver memories paint silver portraits
Hung from my interior walls
Silver melodies, not unfortunate
I hear, my name, it calls
Silver teardrops stain my cheeks
Making melancholy of innocence
Silver snowstorms, heartache's peak
An evocative and celibate synthesis
Silver dreams, silver eyes
Meet silver nights, tranquil skies
Altar of false reassurance, symbolizing return, of the hat bearer
“Home is where you hang your hat.”
How many of you have the hat bearer hung on temporary walls?
During intermittent crawls from house to home
laura Sep 2018
to be honest -
lots of penises
lots of them
worked out sort of

stepped on a jellyfish
stabbed myself on a broken mirror
by accident
ate a lot of donuts

pet a dog
hung out with cats
hung out with good people
a few of them
hung out with bad people
lots of them

ran away from a boyfriend
complained about nothing
got a lappytoppy finally
complained about trump

cut my hair and its still annoying
me with its definition
fell in love with a girl
then immediately regretted it

that sort of stuff
A W Bullen Mar 2017
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where

The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.

Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.

She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
Grace Ann Sep 2018
Do you know how hard it was to turn
away from your kiss
How hard it was to not throw
my face into your shoulder like
I have so many times before
Instead my saltwater threatened
my lips trembling with choked back words
I smiled and told you that I didn't want to push--
but this space between us right now
this increasing distance
You are the shore my sea-lost body craves
I long to sandwich my bare toes in your sands
and sink into your dry land
Instead I am floating aimlessly, helplessly
in a raft makeshift, broken bottles, vine
drifting further and further away
and my hands are scooping up the water with prayer hands
begging,
pleading with aching muscles
to let me paddle my way back to you
but every time I seem to be pushed
further and further from my goal
I need answers
You said that it wouldn't take
you long to formulate your response
and now a week has lapsed
and I'm still here
in this purgatory
wondering what it is that I could have done
what it is that I can do
to bring you to your senses again
Daisy Marrow Apr 2014
We were once kids.
We were once wild.
We were once soldiers.
In the dead of winter, you greeted death.
You fell from my grip and into the darkness,
and now a hundred years have rotted away and I have never felt so alone.
I ran from the winter because war was to attached to it.
I close my eyes and I see you there on the front line.
Young and drained, you were just a body rotting away.
Full of life so you hung on with everything you had.
bang
bang
It was such an awful sound.
Only if I had taken your place.
If only you would have run the other way.
Just how unfair is our luck.

Someday I'll teach myself to learn and live alone.
I'll teach myself that death was not the enemy.
But the winter storm rages on and I'm still having trouble breathing.
Don't be alarmed.
I march on.
Like the soldier I once was.
Don't be alarmed.
I've seen many winter storms
and I have miraculously survived them all.

Can't you see that I don't want to move on?
Don't bring tomorrow because I can't take another.
My eyes are too fogged to see the light.
My minds too cluttered to think right.
I've tasted my own tears
and faced all my fears.
So here I am.
Laying on the floor.
So here we are.
Together once more.
Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes
Captain America: The Winter Soldier
I.
And my hair became too much

It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks

By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair  
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair

II.
everything and everyone became consumed.


III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa

IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.


V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa

VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.  

everything becomes consumed.
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2017
main street underworld
belts hung with halos of souls
they say they've stolen
t-shirts taunting— PROPERTY OF HIM
.
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 by common means.)
#17
Elena Jan 18
Her branches hung low
to the ground
They brushed the dirt
that they sat upon
How beautiful is pain
when it grows
It has a way to hang
those gentle woes.

See that tree all alone
yet so full?

Her shadows weep
in the bristles of doom
Then the sun comes to play
in the cold bushy monsoon.
As gusty sighs sway her eyes
to greet the galloping moon.
ConnectHook Nov 2015
♪♫♪♪

Your  beaded snakeskin loincloth

strung beneath humid palms

cool rippling breeze that calms

our hammock hung under thatch

what a catch . . .

your Amazons running into my Congo

lost track of my bongo

back about one mile

from the sources of the Nile:

your jungle smile.

restoring all celestial things

deep within your tropical clearings . . .

flowing slowly, going loco

at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;

shake your nut-brown biospheres

and banish all my worldly fears.

Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill

insects trilling a sinuous thrill;

the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***

the witch doctor hungover in his hut

while our little fire smolders

near the mountains of the moon

—or are they only boulders?

Come soon

Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
NOTES: ♪♪♫♪♪♫♫
♪♫♪♪
Yaser Nov 2017
On an odd and restless night
when the stars were all but gone
I lay my head in search of sleep
and sought to see the dawn
I closed my eyes
awaiting dreams
but far from me they fled
and faces born of fleeting thoughts
stirred strange within my head

Then I heard it sure enough
my name out of the dark
It found its way into my soul
and there it left its mark

My eyes flickered hastily
and I rushed out of the door
Oh! How I wished to hear that voice -
to hear that voice once more!

A breath of wind did bid my leave
from my chamber nigh
A breath of wind that called my name
with a silent sigh

I walked beneath an empty sea
hidden to my eyes
For not a light hung in that sky
Not a light hung in that sky

I stood there then with open ear
'pon firm and lifeless ground
I stood there, still to hear it clear
That endless swirl of sound

Oh how it howled
and stirred about
that strange and eerie hour!
I knew it then that I'd stood before
an eve of rouse'd power

She sung to me
She sung to me
her silent lullaby
and with each verse
she birthed anew
the stars within the sky...
sophia Jun 2017
his smile glowed like the universal stars that hung up the dim lit night sky; which could be admired from afar by a certain whose dream was to trace the distant constellations of dream and night. but that smile was up there to uphold the said so unreachable dream where all galaxies far away were found in a stretch of a boy's lips.
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes pasted along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Some days and nights, that young maiden of
Moorea does still visit me, in dreams as real
as can be. She never grows old, nor does the
beauty we shared for that one brief moment in
time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her sixties, most likely
a Mother, even a Grandmother yet living.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
T'was like a never-ending siren.
Wirh trauma engraved minds
blood on their hands
came bravery
in each man's heart and soul.
The battlefields were their cage;
they got themselves in
but couldn't get out.
Snowflakes sprinkled down from the sky like fallen men,
while the soldiers waited like sitting ducks,
before coming face to face with death again.

Still. Still. Still.
Without the squealing bombs
and earth shattering shells
all seemed to be oddly still.
For the first time in forever
almost as if they were frozen in time.
You could feel the silence
that hung over that wasteland
on the very night
of December 24th, 1914.

Tension, curiosity and confusion
wafted through the British trenches like incense.
and those three feelings
were the only things that loomed in the sky
until an all too familiar tune filled the night...
Sweet, muffled melodys filled the air
as a German silent night
was being sung everywhere.

Tranquillity took over each soldiers heart as they realised in that moment
it was Christmas days start.
Though they longed for their families
something felt true
as German symphonys whispered
through the cold nights gloom.

And soon,
the Englishmen had all joined in-
sounding somewhat like a broken choir- but to them
it was amazing.
An astonishing moment when
something felt right
and something felt fair
and that was the hope
they needed to share.

Voices. Voices. Voices.
Bouncing off the walls of each trench
of both German and Englishmen
from both sides of the fence.
The song 'silent night'
hung in the breeze
just like twinkling lights
laced around a Christmas tree.

Loud melodic Voices,
Flooded through the battlefield.
Soldiers grinning from ear to ear
while their hearts sung wonders.
But little were they sure
that singing wouldn't be the only alien sound they heard
that Christmas day or more.

Footsteps. Footsteps. Footsteps.
Feet crunching on the crisp leaves!
Englishmen were cautiously fumbling to see out of their trench
only to find Germans
wearily emerging from their wire...

In that moment
every weapon was lowered
and suddenly
possible peace approached. 
Soldiers then
from both sides of war
came out from their place of stay
and were civil
for what Christmas they saw.

As dawn broke
Christmas day approached
hands were shook
smiles were shared
and a glimmer of hope
flew around in the air.
Football, cards, carols and more:
christmas bought them all together
as snow fell heavy on the floor.

Loyalties didn't count for that day,
however all those hours after
once that first bomb went off in the distance,
It was like an alarm.

The alarm going off and saying
"Wake up! Wake up from this dream,
and go back to harsh reality".
And it was safe to say,
that not one of those men wanted to wake up.
But it was not an alarm-
as much as it sent the same message-
It was a warning instead.
A warning that they had to go back to their duties right away.

Smiles, frowns,
and sad looks all around.
Frohe Weihnatchen!
Merry Christmas! 
And all went back to their grounds.

A Christmas spirit was spread that night,
which might have been enough, 
to save a mans life.

Back to work,
it was war again,
but they never forgot,
they made a friend.
Whatever the rules,
they knew it felt right.

Silent night.
Silent night.
Silent night.
A peice on the Christmas truce in ww1. May we remember those who lost their lives as we read this, and may they all remain in peice, with pride.
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window
Three judges appear (one carries a folder),
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed,
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-legged dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire,
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait. Around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”

.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. 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 by common means.)
Lazhar Bouazzi Sep 2017
I am the quill that marks
The water-walled history
Of the sea as it may -
A swan, be it, or a black-backed
Gull.

I am the pariah who
Failed to posit his load on
A hill that hung low, like a
Sunless moon, but who can still
hark the dark
Rumbling of repetition.

I am the Quixote who took
On the wind who made the mill
Sob like a bronze leaf in grief,
Seared by the passage of
A sluggish summer.

I am the pariah, the
Quixote, and the historian
Of the rainbow runner.

©LazharBouazzi, August 5, 2017
This Heart of Life will always be Content
Avoid Dependents; And it would Respond
And who would a Poet's Charge to Comment
When all it could do is a sever a Bond?
This Lousy but Coveted Chain; Worn out by Claws
Whose Beast left unknown save only a scratch
My Heart's own Mystery untested by Flaws
Yet none but your Face can equally match.
Am I yet a Wing? That I need the Other to fly
For Icarus did in his Ignorance fail
So if Feathers can fall, how much more a Lie
When the Sun's Tongue hung my Deeds with a Nail?
How can I fill my Flight if this I Live
Unsettled by Claws, unwilling to Forgive?
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Go.
You're just above the water, just.
You know you're going, don't you.
You've hung on for ages, years.
You seem ok about going, are you.

Just go, now.
Just go.
Go.

Poetry by Kaydee.
A short poem about the right to die.
Calmly exiting life.
Serenity.
Quiet.
Peace.
Calm.
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