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Cliff Perkins Jan 17
An alien world is coming
So imperceptibly slow
We see it change only in memory
Frogs boiling in water

We creatures of the day
Mesmerized by the onslaught
Slow stalked by dark
Like by a lion or snake

Bats gyrate in flight
Aerial roller coasters
Flying blind with sounds we cannot hear
So much unknown to fear

Soon water will lose its soul
Its own reflection
The gossamer green
Become an ugly black

An empty void
Yet pregnant with every evil
That we diurnal creatures
Can imagine hiding there
syncopation Oct 2018
As the days roll into nights
And the nights back into days
It’s just too easy to have time slip away.

But just as the rivers into the seas flow
For this we have but little control

And as we get older for some reason
Time seems to move faster

But that is a misperception you see
For it is when we have little left it becomes as clear as can be

Just as an hourglass drains
At first imperceptibly slow
Until the final sands of time begin to show
By then like a whirlpool
It seems to succumb to gravity’s pull

Where did the time go
Will we ever know.
Kevin J Taylor Aug 2017
Raymond shifted his weight forward on the coffee
shop chair and leaned his cheekbone into the heel of
his palm. A childhood verse chided him in his
mother’s voice of over fifty years ago.

“Raymond, Raymond, if you’re able,
get your elbows off the table.
This is not a horse’s stable,
but your mother’s dining table.”

It didn’t immediately connect to any
pictures in his mind but he had heard it enough
to know it was real. An hour ago he had been
at his mother’s side in the palliative care ward.

She had appeared smaller than he liked to think of
her—had looked almost like he was seeing her at
a distance. She hadn’t greeted him, only closed
her eyes and said, “Feed the cats, will you.” It wasn’t

really a question. “Yes,” he answered, but the cats,
whoever they were, must have left or died years ago.
The only living thing she owned, he suspected,
was the small Christmas cactus someone had brought to

cheer her up. He looked at her again, waiting for
her eyes to open. They never did. Her jaw dropped
and that was that. Raymond hadn’t wanted to be
in the room when the nurses and orderly would

come to take her away. He stopped at the reception
desk to say that he’d be in the coffee shop
waiting for his brother and sister-in-law to
arrive. They were late and he was thankful to have

a few minutes to himself. From where he sat he
faced the open entrance of the café. There was
a couple sitting tiredly off to one side.
A man in a shapeless blue hospital gown and

slippers shuffled in pushing an IV pole ahead
of him. Raymond heard steps echo sharply down
the hallway. Here they are, he thought, hurrying
needlessly. Bill and Marijke had been fast asleep

at 2:30 am when Raymond’s first text message
came in. They never saw it until 5:00 when Bill
reached for his cell phone as he did every morning
right after Marijke turned off the alarm. “****,”

he said, “No time.” Bill, “William” on his realtor
business card, and Marijke, were used to demands
on their time from potential home buyers. But they
usually had early mornings to themselves—

breakfast, coffee, catch up on current events. Not
today. The text had said, “ASAP.” They hit the drive-
through at Starbucks on their way to the hospital.
“Hey Bill. Marijke,” Raymond said. Bill nodded. “Hey,”

he replied and paused to look at Raymond, to see
if he’d say something else, “Is she gone?” “Couple of
hours ago,” Raymond said. “Should we see her?” Bill asked.
“Can if you want, I suppose. Maybe later,"

Raymond said, "Did she have a cat? She mentioned cats.
I haven’t seen any for years. Did you take them?”
Mother might have mixed him up with Bill again.
Raymond looked at his brother who didn’t seem to

be listening and then at Marijke. "She used to
feed the neighborhood cats before she broke her hip,”
Marijke said. “That might be it.” It seemed odd that
Marijke knew more about his mother’s life than

her sons did. “Maybe you’re right,” Raymond said. “What’s next?”
“I’ll call her lawyer and get him on it,” Bill answered.
Raymond suddenly realized that his brother
had been listening. Marijke started to cry. 
Raymond pulled some napkins from their holder and pressed
them hard against his eyes. Bill looked down and away.
Over the next few days life seemed to stop. Nothing
more than daily routines and only as long as

they didn’t require much effort or attention.
Coffee, whatever was in the fridge—dishes sat in
the sink. Gradually he began to feel alive
again. It was as though he had been wrapped in blankets,

hearing distant, mostly muffled voices, glimpsing
unfamiliar rooms and spaces when he closed his
eyes to sleep. Marijke had startled him this morning
when she called and said to the answering machine that

Bill and she were coming over with something from
the lawyer and hoped he would be in. She didn’t
wait for him to pick up. She’d have known he was at
the kitchen table. They arrived mid-afternoon.

No knock at the door. Bill was the older of the
two and was the most like their dad. And Dad had not
been the knocking sort. Not with Raymond anyway.
Bill and Marijke each carried a bag of groceries

which they placed on the kitchen counter. “Thought you might
need some things,” Marijke said. “Nice to see you, Ray.”
She took a bag of groceries and made room in the
fridge for its contents: milk, BBQ chicken and

eggs. She placed the bananas in a wooden bowl.
“Saw the lawyer yesterday,” Bill started. “He has
the will but it doesn’t amount to much except
for the house,” he paused, “The equity has mostly

been ****** out of it. God knows what for. And there’s this…”
Bill dropped a large manila envelope in front
of Raymond. “I’ve already opened it. There’s an
envelope for each of us in there. Marijke

says we should open them together because we’re
all the family we have now.” He tipped the envelope
on its end and let the two smaller envelopes
slip out. One each for William and Raymond. Bill picked

his up and tore the corner of the flap destroying
most of the envelope in the process and
extracted what appeared to be several sheets of
neat handwriting. “It’s just a letter,” Bill said. He

put it into the inside breast pocket of his
suit jacket. Raymond waited a moment then picked
up the other envelope, turned it over and nodded
almost imperceptibly. He stood, walked to the

shelf between the window and the back door where he
had made room for the Christmas cactus instead of
leaving it behind. Not sure about the light, he
thought, and leaned the unopened letter against the

earthenware ***. “Not you, too?” Marijke shook her
head. “It’ll be like…” Raymond said, he paused, looking
at her, “It’ll be like not hanging up the phone.”
Marijke understood—he’d never open it.

“I get it,” she said in a softer tone. Bill looked
blankly at his brother. And Raymond smiled a little
for the first time in a while. By six the next
morning Raymond was already dressed and brewing

coffee. Usually he would head down to Timmy’s
Donut Shop for his caffeine fix. “Double trouble,”
he’d say, meaning “Double double,” as he always
did at Timmy’s. It amused him and often made

his favorite server smile. “Too much trouble, you mean,”
she’d say. Human contact. Raymond guessed that some of
the guys at the corner table would be wondering
how he was doing. They’d know what had happened, of

course, but they’d ask just the same. He poured his first cup
and walked out onto the back porch. Still a bit cool
out here, he thought as he leaned against the railing,
sipping his coffee as his eyes wandered around

the yard. He’d have another cup in a while but
first he had something he needed to do. Raymond
sat down on the porch steps and slipped his feet into
an old pair of shoes. He tied them and flicked the loops

with his finger to see how the laces fell, to
make sure he had not tied them backwards and would not
work their way loose. Someone had taught him that a long
time ago when they had seen his laces come undone.

He stood up and walked across the yard to the back
lane and the narrow picket fence, missing a picket
here and there and much of its original coat
of white paint. Some boys had probably pulled the missing

pickets off decades ago and with galvanized
garbage can lids for shields spent a Saturday
morning sword fighting. The gate was leaning and half
open, held there by uncut grass, weeds and neglect.

He stepped out and onto the lane that led between
the two rows of houses that backed onto it. Raymond
looked at each fence, each set of stairs and window as
he passed them by. A block later he turned and headed

home satisfied that he had seen at least one cat,
maybe two. Another cup of coffee in hand,
Raymond sat on the top step. On his way out of
the kitchen and onto the porch he had stopped to

turn the cactus in the morning light, stepped outside
placing a saucer of fresh milk by the porch door,
and sat down.

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.)
As she was cutting across the square
one Sunday afternoon,
she wondered, wavering on despair,
why matters in her life
fell far short of satisfaction.
For she was gentle, she meant no harm,
she often gave gifts to her peers
in the mornings, she was smooth,
sun-smiling flowing water
in others' company, a faithful,
diligent mother and daughter.
Yet many days passed by as a blur,
bounty apparently eluding her.

She sat on a bench, a line of trees
fussing as autumn trees tend to do,
the wind's speech curling about the hue
of her sadness, finding her mind:

So long have you been inured
to the mask of service, a practiced art,
overlooking the needs of the heart.
Fear, apprehension, conformity's kin,
cannot know the spirit of cooperation
any more than the wings of elation.
Your selflessness assumed is nothing more
than a pale or muted selfishness,
a selfishness simply that wouldn't dare.
Resentment has quietly, imperceptibly
been born behind a mask of care.
The ought has usurped the is;
apprehension that wears duty
falls far short of beauty.
Rei Coman Nov 2018
I was afraid.
Terrified, even
with fear.
But that’s all
gone now.
Like a vapor
on the breeze.

traces back
to only one,
for me.
She’s so
and strong,
and her hair
is soft and red
like a fox’s.

Oh how
I love her.
Beyond words.

More than
every contour
of every leaf
on a forest,
fall yellow
like an oil

More than
the sudden
fits of gentle
that make my
entire upper
body vibrate
like one huge

More even
than the
distant stars,
through the
misty clouds.

She makes
my arms twitch
with excitement,
my body aching
to embrace
her and hold on.
With her head
on my shoulder
this world really
does seem so
much brighter.
Kate Copeland Mar 10
All in all it was not
the smartest thing to do
this expensive house
she thought while standing at the bridge
looking at it
but what to do when you're that age
and scarily in love
with a man who covers all ranges between
sweet and stone
adult life moves you
forward imperceptibly
why did she ever ignore her heart
her friends
and her father
saying remember to tell 'em you are not
steadfast but just self-willed.

She lay still
(perfectly still)

eyes wide open
like a doll’s.

Her husband
lay beside her

“eyes wide shut”
(the phrase came to her) .

She smiled secretly
to her self

imagining he (Tom
her husband)

was “the” Tom

“Mmmmm! ”
she relished the thought.

“Mmmmmm! ”
she cried aloud.

“Australia! ”
she said as if answering

a question
in a quiz.

The stain growing
from his head

(for all the world)

“Australia! ”

There was no need
to phone a friend

or go for

“Australia! ”
she said decisively
(so sure of her self) .

“’s ok! ”
the stranger bending over her

told her.

She believed
in the voice

in what the voice
told her.

It was warm
and husky ‘round the edges

like her Daddy
when she was little.

Her knee
pained her.

“God...” how it
pained her.

“What’s your ”
the voice cajoled her.

She had to re-focus
to make the voice visible..

...flashing lights...

like a chat up

in a disco
under a glittering ball.

“Oh you are handsome! ”
she told him.

“I am indeed! ”
the ambulance man agreed.

did you guess? ”

She felt herself
blush to her roots.

She turned her head
looking at her husband’s head

the stain that was

had imperceptibly become
South America

then a badly blurred
early map of the world.

Then she closed her eyes
and the world went away.

I walk through
the 16th century

passing on into

the 17th without
even knowing I had

done so and here
are Dutch people

staring at me
wondering where I've come from.

I look into their eyes
long dead by now

their painted faces
gazing out of golden frames

windows into
all that's passed.

Trying to remember
Rembrandt saying

'"...the light from other's

And here is Saskia
still asleep in a few brushstrokes.

I tiptoe away
an intruder into

their long ago lives
different yet the same

as mine
The Jewish Bride sad

to see me go
back into the bustle

of Spring
in the Amsterdam of now.
It had begun, innocuous-seeming,
like a leaky faucet, drip, drip, drip -
or more, like the taste of a little known
shady woman or man,
like a drunken lapse, the touch of a curve or lip.
It had begun as a stir of pleasure,
pleasure spreading its wings, sweeping upward,
swinging downward, steeped in the dream-gleam of sun.
It had begun harmless - then assumed the face
of a spell deepening, burgeoning well,
till it hardened, habit-turned.
It had simply been seen as another limb,
faultless, common as a turning wheel.
Fears, negative emotions gathered imperceptibly,
they crawled on his sense of mortality,
rearing their heads in his dreams,
flashing before him at times during daily tasks.
Habit-years as seen in his bathroom mirror,
habit-years that had turned up the volume
of his inner cacophony slowly, gradually,
turning up the volume of some growing disease -
they were the distant or not-so distant cousins
of eggs that tarantula hawks
plant within tarantulas' abdomens.
Perhaps death wore those extended habit-years,
wore the initial pleasure of the man,
his flight and delight, foreseeing all,
hiding within his body, feeding on
his rationalizations, wearing his occasional smiles,
furthering his fatigue and fall...
Kitten Yvad Jun 24
How do you feel
about the fact that I fall in love
with girls?

I want to ask him.
I turn away slick with shame
and uncertainty.

How do you feel about this?

I want to ask her. But I don't want her
to know all the apoetic questions
that make a training field
of my mind.

How do you feel.
That I dip into your eyes
like water, and I bask in
your smile when I didn't always

How do you feel that
I purify myself in your laugh.
That I sit politely in church ,
rather than crying praise
that I love so fully in the most
untraditional ways

How do you feel that I want
to wear your love like a tattoo
for eternity and be impervious
to questioning?
That my obsession with your hearts
makes me want interlocking
best-friend mood necklaces
and not wedding rings.

Childhood domesticity listening
to your summer anthem
taking about boys on your pink bed
My love for you calls to
and feeds something I always feared
was slipping away.

I only want to kiss you when I
fear you may disappear
I only want to ingest you
when it grips me that I may
never taste again

But how do you feel
that I fall in love with girls
That you'll occupy my soul
Until I can relax my soul
to let it go, but not let you go??

But what if I've felt this way.
About every girl I've loved
every single one.

Every single love, I've loved imperceptibly my whole life long
I am stunned into place

How they feel? How do I feel?

And that's when the questions
grip my throat for answers.
Turn their little eyes away from any curiousity  and settle rather hungrily on me.

How do I feel that this is no different
from the way I have always felt
Yenson Aug 2018
Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown
where humans keep or lose their guilts
Is there a dumping hole or a snug
or a fierce incinerator blazing
That destroys or obliterates
human guilts

Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone
just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm
Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders
other times it's just small and weightless
An accessory as any others
imperceptibly light

Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone
a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff
What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt
bearing owners name time and number
Attached to owner and carried 24/7
marked as 'Non-Transferable'

Is your guilt or guilts  bearable or carry-able like your phone
have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice
What about the indelible receipt on your person
that which is there and rests on you
Does it flare like an incindaries
or just simmer quietly

Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone
whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent
Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves
perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue
An unmovable edifice of horror
coated in fear and alarm

Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown
did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave
And though the attached receipt still haunts you
least you know it will gradually fade away
Leaving truly tutoring imprints
Never to be repeated

Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown
do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse
And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self
enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice
Just the one that stands before man and Creation
Held aloof by a Conscience unstained

[email protected] Aug2018.all rights reserved.
Undress the equivalency
Inequality imperceptibly
Communicates that
Every hand is a doorway
Every heart is a universe
Perverse or natural
Lack of the artificial
Sans particles or clothing
You articulate your elbows
I dance with fireflies
Illuminated by candles
Are we radicals
Or just extra vulnerable
CarolineSD Nov 9
In higher elevations
Herald a sea-change in the sky.

A warm front slides over the frigid edges of autumn
And pushes the cold away.

In these few hours
The atmosphere rolls
And turns over
Drawing the warmth down to the tree lines of the hills
And to these streets
Where we feel
A gentler hand upon the skin.

Like the permeating of a warm front
Through the cold

I am drawn to you.

I turn over in these sheets
And push the winter away.
With every movement, I
Pull your body to me.

For this small space of time
I rest in broad shoulders protecting mine,
And I am hiding in you.

I will strip off these layers
And leave all of these barriers
Strewn across the floor.

I am not afraid of the cold.

Pressed into you
Skin to skin
There is only warmth.
Turoa Feb 13
You know that feeling, when you can't move your arms?
Your body is reaching it's limit
Jab Cross
The whole world disappears accept for what's right in front of you
Slip Hook
You feel blood coursing through every vein
Outer block Clinch
A sense of numbing euphoria washes through in sharp breaths
Knee Knee
Your limbs throb and ache but obey a strict clear mind
Collar tie Head check
You move in your own rhythm a match won before started
Your hands tremble imperceptibly from fatigue and anticipation
Uppercut Feint jab Cross
Sweat stings your eyes and open cuts on your lips, but you spit and keep your eyes open
Guard Close distance
Listening for the palpable crack of bone against bone
Rising knee
And in that moment
Downward cross
Nothing else exists
To friends and brothers, here and passed, the fight goes on and may we always live in the moment.
A new epoch greets us
Almost imperceptibly, it mocks me
The thought of change is nauseating
I am filled to the brim with an endless daunting feeling

My worries shall rest on the shoulders of mountains
For I am no Atlas,
Frailty runs through me like nectar in the throats of gods

Tell the Oracle this distressed damsel spins the same woeful tale every year
Whatever prophecy awaits me won’t have to hold its breath
For alas, my fear is yet to surrender
Arlene Corwin Jun 10
From Whence The Drive...
CharlesC Jan 12
Amazing! (see below)
from Edgar Allan Poe
early 19th century..

we await this awakening

switching of identities
sometime in our lifetime
is the one and only
purpose we have..

Jehovah replaces Man
as felt identity..
beliefs are cast aside
and our activities
are activities of That
which we are...


Think that the sense of individual identity will be gradually merged in the general consciousness—that Man, for example, ceasing imperceptibly to feel himself Man, will at length attain that awfully triumphant epoch when he shall recognize his existence as that of Jehovah. In the meantime bear in mind that all is Life—Life—Life within Life—the less within the greater, and all within the Spirit Divine."

- Edgar Allan Poe (1809 - 1849)
Eureka: A Prose Poem

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