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ryn Nov 2014
I've stared...
Longingly forever into you
You'd stare back but you never really knew
Hands of hours, minutes and seconds I've shook
All the time I've carelessly took

I've witnessed...
That etched on each one, that amazing smile
A crutch forged of sunrays that had carried me many a mile
It's all that I have to know of you
In this endless chase I've sought to pursue

I've envisioned...
Different ways you'd wear your crown
Various trimmings on lavish gowns
Smitten by the way you sport your paint
The nectarous song sung in your gait ever so faint

I've imagined...
The addictive rise and fall of your every breath
Bringing me back to life after every death
Pulses of sweet nothings that never did ebb
Ensnaring my heart with your silk spun web

I've believed...
You are the queen of my future tale untold
I've felt it so real like verses written in bold
But I've awakened from slumber into terrifying reality
Pains me to realise that you're nothing but
imaginary*...
Bus Poet Stop Jul 2017
months since last eye writ, your eyes most likely have never crossed mine.  still inhabit the buststops, now called bus shelters though they are not a "shelter in place" place, but a crossroads where the poor and rich, the youthful and the nearer-to-god-than-thee sit bearer nearer to each other when they reside in the equality of the moments that are globally know as
    "waiting for the bus"
or as
     "waiting for Godot".

eyes have seen buses in Rio and Delhi that carried livestock and more humans on the exterior than the interior.  

but mine eyes are in a slow fade away mode, dimming in a final
sun setting  so u are needed.  
give me your bus stories yearning to he free and I will give you
my imagined ones
for are not all bustop poems are imaginary?
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x




My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
It is there still on the Alan Bay Road. Love Mary xxxx
I once ruled a small kingdom…
I was lord; and I was free.

But as I looked out over the land
From atop my royal throne  
I saw no nobles, no knights,
No clergy, no servants…

I had, finally, risen to power,
But now everyone was gone –
Mysteriously vanished,
As the children of Hamelin.

So, there I was, alone;
And the silence haunted me…

.
Inspired by David Foster Wallace's 2005 commencement address at Kenyon College.
Tommy Randell Nov 2016
Forging such an image fascinates me,
See the page where the war of notes is finally won,
She becomes The Silver Spear rising through a blue sky.

Letting her heart soar, fingers released of all gravity
She reels in azure, drowning us in wordless phrases from a language
Catholic ancestors sing through shining faces,

Experimental and modern despite tradition's roar.
I am left to Imitate the stance of a boxer drinking at the bar
Struggling to hold on, to be the victory this moment is for.

Late on the road, later Saturday night,
A drunk going home like he's carrying a horse,
Like some Celtic Saint under a Celtic curse.

Played out, I know she lives where I can only ever dream
And am left to lay back on the bed
With a half smile playing out the battles being fought in me,

That of all lovers the flute is the one
Makes off with my soul, the flute is the one
Knows best a future I may yet become.
Sjr1000 Jan 22
My imaginary friend
Thought I was his imaginary friend,
I wasn't sure how real I am
So for a while I got lost
a ghost.

We shared stories of kicking life's rocks
And life's rocks being thrown at us.

If I am his imaginary friend
My life must be imaginary
Imagined by him.
Jenna Mar 5
Sometimes I pretend
to be what I am not

that I have an imaginary friend
who's trust doesn't need to be bought

this pointless bond has a bitter end
And everything I did will be for naught
asia Aug 2018
can i tell her tht
she was her.
i wanted
...her...
all of she!
i juss knew
she is
guaranteed.
to be w me..
her... she is
juss so beautifully.
...scrutiny...
eyes, nose, lips
& body... mainly
personality!
she is her
her is she
wow she’s so
carin..lovin
mainly
extraordinary.
i juss want her
to be with me
can i make you my
queen on saturday?
nvm.. i think
she’s has somebody..
sadly i thought
maybe it
was jus an imaginary
but now were friends..
and in the end
can i tell you tht?
she is her.
her is she

... i wanted her to be w me
a.l
Tanzim Ahmed Sep 2018
I want to live in an Imaginary city
In a place, where there would be no pity.

I want to live in such a city
Where the scene of the morning
Will make all my worries drowning.
And the scene of the noon
Will be as glorious, as the crescent moon.

I want to live in such a city
Where it would rain all day and night.
I want to live in such a city
Where the life of the people,
Will glow like a light.

I want to live in such a city
Where no one would ever have to play with a knife.
I want to live in such a city
Where nobody would ever have to give up on their life.

I want to live in such a city
Where people will never have to suffer any pain.
I want to live in such a city
Where people will live for peace, and not for gain.

I want to live in such a city
Where people will have a lot to hope.
I want to live in such a city
Where the joys of the people, will never mope.

I want to live in such a city
Where people would have enough time,
To remove all the stress
They are having on their mind.

I want to live in an Imaginary city
An Imaginary city of mine.
"An Imaginary City Of Mine"
Traveler Mar 23
Imagine if this was a poem
A real poem
Perhaps a poem about
"The uncertainties of love"
I have so much love to share
And yet, I can never get enough
But my love so often
Turns to doom and despair
Imagine that
More than any soul should bear...
Fortunately
This has been an imaginary poem
I'm hoping my feelings haven't shown
..................
Traveler Tim
She is so spectacular,
This girl I haven't met yet,
Not in dreams,
nor my head,
Is she something I comprehend.

I've heard,
She's out of this world,
but believes in the things that happily end,

Oh to be in love,
with an imaginary friend.
Another older poem I Just remembered from my long lost phone. May it rest in peace, and return as much content as I can muster, in time.
The road of the White garden
Stretching down the side of the old brick wall
Where all the shrubs and plants were white
And cherries hung in clusters from the trees.

In my imagination I had returned
Bringing all my memories
The flowers, trees, birds, tea houses
The pretty playing children, lollies
Best dresses and shoes, skipping rope
My collection of dolls, ‘blueyes’, ‘Rosebud’
The ducks and swans, families, friends.
This was my childhood and here I will
Stay in the grounds of safety and beauty.

Life is short but the memories linger
Floating in the air, carrying scents of
Fragrances Of a time now gone.


Love Mary ***
J Sep 2018
Museums have a reputation for being boring,
but there is something freeing about the quiet and the space,
the artwork stretched out on the walls,
voices colliding in the silence,
“You belong here, don’t you”

I remember the way your eyes looked when you saw something that inspired you.
It's weird isn't it,
how the light moved around you so I couldn't look away.

Stranger still, how one day you were there, and the next day you were still there but different,
and then you weren't there at all.
Abigail Jul 2018
I fooled myself
Thinking I could control my dreams
You are the essence of my daydreams
Just a tiny bit of your presence, makes me complete as a human
I don't think I could ever tell you
Maybe a small part of me wants you to notice it yourself
I guess that's what makes me the fool
That's why I'll keep daydreaming
Just for you're company


{ TO JULIEN}
Mark Upright Aug 2017
~~~

write the scriptures,
the Book of Me,
with authorship
exposed on the books cover,
of every word have ever writ

flawed, ignored, rejected,
necessary to self-publish
upon the unpapered internet,
where words are ionized

I take an oath,
self-administered,
oath sworn upon mine own scripture,
testify before a jury of my peers,
me, myself and I

what you read,
is not imaginary,
I am real,
you are realizing

each of us has a truthful name,
in spite of acronymic disguises employed,
and wearing it,
here, upon this.....line dotted,
place my neck,
ready for
the executioner


you
~~~

October 24, 2015
7:20 am
jacob charles Jun 30
is finger-licking two senses
me, myself and i sit down, consensus
everyone has a different rendition of relentless
what version is this of this, which you, depends it
imaginary penitentiary, locked in myself, one tenant
like i could send a message with only a letter, pen it
see greater with less 3d one eye red it
eye to brain, i blew it
i 9 lives brain dead
brain faculty, mind, not same head
while nothing visual, split cranium and drain head
Knit Personality Dec 2014
Blues with a feeling—the raw, authentic blues—
The gut- and bowel-twisting, sick and sad,
Loneliest day you’ve ever ever had
Blues—all sunless and soaked with two-bit *****—
I’d never known: unknown to me were shoes
Silent but deadly, hazardously bad
And shake-y ***-pourri, and meals a tad—
Or more—imaginary,—the honest blues.
And had you never put me out the door
To wander with the wind like a rolling stone,
Those deep and loaded bends where live the moan,
The mud, and the howl—the uncut, moody ore
Of bluesy sound—I never could've blown,
Since, foolishly, I valued comfort more.

* .
Äŧül Apr 2015
If one day in the imaginary ideal future,
We get stuck by the rocky Konkan beach,
And not even a decent sand bed is there,
To you for resting my body I shall offer.

Waiting for the tourist bus back we talk,
Tired we are from taking the sunny walk,
The evening the sun we wish will balk,
Our neo-natal plans together we chalk.

We shall sit on the bench by the beach,
You'll then rest your head on my side,
In comforting you I will bear much pride,
About being one forever we did decide.

Then you will soon sleep in the evening,
I will watch our hands and even the ring,
Angel on my shoulder you'll be sleeping,
And me??? Oh, I'll just be calmly smiling.

The baby bump is now visible so happily,
I'll think of unique names for the baby,
Basis of our relationship is really lovely,
The healthy baby will be so very chubby.
The most cherished dream of mine in which I visualize myself and my ultimate lover.

My HP Poem #829
©Atul Kaushal
Lieke Jan 26
my life is a puzzle
and the missing piece is


i want to run
as far as my legs will take me
away from people
away from places
I'll keep spinning circles
into infinity
i'll spread my wings and fly
as i draw cloud with the wind
to a world far away
to a place so peaceful
to a paradise so cherry
that it becomes unreal


a state of mine
a perfect philosophy
to which i'll never arrive.
6 September, 2018
Anne Webb Sep 2018
His name was Jamie Lee
and in all my humble life
he and only he
always stuck by my side

Whenever I felt alone
I looked up at the sky
a shiver ran through me, skin and bone
when his ghostly hand held mine

Only because of him
I know the word love
whenever my day was a little grim
I could count on his tender smile

to make me feel
to make me feel more
to make me feel more alive
In order to keep my ghostly friend anonymous I used a different name.
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