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Ashley Chapman Nov 2018
In a playful vision sent
Your ****** homologue
Of amber shins and pale phalanges
Weaves four-leaved clovers.

In response,
***** spurs
And protean winged descent
To float into your kaleidoscopic star:
Gliding,
Freely falling,
To rest in lace extremities.

There in our bed of sensual feet,
Sunflowers breath,
Whose burnished rotating petals
Gather me in wisps,
Each spiral frond,
Gyring
Before death's voids
Is drawn in purls.

And in pleasures held,
Cossetted in latticed limbs,
A ***** lustrous rich embrace;
Denuded and alive!
And with abandon kissed:

    Bony toes
    Tendons
    Deep arches
    Shins
    Ankles,
    Sweetmeats,
    Light and delicate.

As here between pretty shins
And fleshy silken feet
Our ascent begins
Rising,
From low regions,
To scale new heights
And crown our night.

This lovers' leap into prismatic
reproduction
In the empty Cosmic wastes
     In a web is caught!
Where feet and toes inspire
Continuity for pointed stars.

As material possibilities collide
The lust for life
Is born in non-existence:
So in our nest of feet,
Mating in the game
With heads thrown back,
Of lust drink deeply we.
A friend sent a mesmerising image taken from a kaleidoscope. In that image so many ideas came together that I was able to put this down. It tells of what I know, the line between life and death, or more succinctly put, between our conscious and the great unconscious. In mind, to love is indeed sublime as it removes us from ourselves and plunges us to meet our heart's desire. Out in the wastes of time and space we also see ourselves writ large where whole galaxies collide and in so doing, the resultant chaos, new stars are born. So I take solas in such thoughts, even if my soul does at times yearn to shuffle off this mortal coil and be at peace and know Truth at last.
Knit Personality Sep 2016
The music drives me rather mad.
No better time was ever had.
I listen with pleasure, awe, and dread;
I tremble, shudder, shake, and shatter.
Patterns assemble; patterns scatter;
Colorful forms parade and pass;
Harder than steel, lighter than gas,
Harmonies yield to chords that clatter.
I rock and reel and lose my head.
A little Death declares me dead.
The color fades, and a black mass
Swallows the world and its mad gadder.
I wake into life as heavy as lead.
I come back to life a little madder.

O.O
I put back

our broken pieces

differently...

So everytime you look,

you'll find a new 'Us'...

I paint myself

each time with

an untouched

part of your soul

So the beauty of our love,

is captured within us...

And everytime you feel,

you'll find my heart

fostering the love

for you differently!
Nis Jul 2018
Look up
among the clouds that wrap the sun
there's someone there
her eyes are there
and then it's me.
I am in the sky with diamonds.
I look at me and I'm gone.

Look past the flowers that hang from the sky,
noone is there, noone ever was,
yet you are there, you never were.
You and I eating marshmallow pie
with the head in the clouds
and we are gone.
Shofi Ahmed Jun 2017
Picture yours, put it out
to your kaleidoscope.
Like the day at the full-blown noon
or the night on the cheek of the moon
a flame burning on the underlying dark
a dawn switches on the first light
a sun comes out of the night.
Visualise your latent one
put it on before your mirror!

Princely give the eyeballs a designer treat.
Paint your masterpiece at the day’s peep.
Hook the browsers at their first click.
Joanna Jul 23
A squirrel found passage on a telephone wire
a bird lost a feather and did not grow tired. 

While the sky found a kaleidoscope of color,
another, lost the blues this summer night, 

and then found joy in hidden delight. 

For just beyond the horizon where mysteries 
unfold, and there are adventures to behold. 

The eagle as he soars, the butterfly on his way,
it's all in the process that forms a new day.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
AmeriMav Dec 2018
Brilliant patterns in a blaze
Snapping together as you turn
Seeing you without a haze
In the wondrous light, which you burn

Oh the color! What a glorious sight!
To watch you sparkle and shine
Each facets glint is ever bright
It is elegant, delightful, and fine

To watch you dance the days of life
As your jewels sequentially fall
Whether handling moments of joy or of strife
Its amazing to see through it all

See your beauty shine from the depths of your soul
Watch the rapturous mosaic of hope
Taking position in the spectators role
Peering through you...my kaleidoscope
Like a kaleidoscope
I see every color , shape ,& size
of what you want your dreams to be
But the technique of your mind
Won't allow your soul to think
Or to really shine
Its funniest how the most relevant things
Get left behind
In the dark
Not left to shine
Or to grow
But the earth still lives
The water still flows
Winds still blows
As the tree still grows
But will your love know
How you tip toe
And stay down low
Hiding from love
Keeping your feelings underground
Like a railroad
Instead hoppin on a sailboat
To the ocean of emotion
So you can float
But it's cutthroat
When your love played
Like a **** joke
Then my words choke
And I can't spit the vowels out
My **** throat
Now in everyone else eyes
Ima **** joke
Now to you, I see different views
Through this kaleidoscope - ET
CK Baker Jan 2017
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago

You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen

There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the *****” Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif

But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey

There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death

But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:

he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Hannah Hernandez Dec 2013
Never once have a smoked a cigarette,
But I have this longing desire to feel one across my lips.
To breathe in the warm air that will fill the emptiness in my lungs.
To see the puff of smoke kaleidoscope around my face.

Now, I am aware that performing this activity shortens your life.
But, I'm willing to give time in order to feel warmth inside of me that I have not had the ability to feel in quite some time.
CK Baker Mar 31
~ Ode to Spring ~

Cherry blossoms filled with bloom
rhododendron’s sweet perfume
warming winds feign summer’s breeze
songbirds singing from the trees

Open windows, déjà vu
sunsets filled with graceful hues
families gather on their strolls
Mother Nature for the soul

Baseball season at the park
evenings lifted from the dark
daylight savings' finally here
patios for wine and beer

Cleaning house and planting seeds
rebirth fills the days and deeds
picnic baskets, hummingbirds
poets find their way in words

Kaleidoscope of bedding plants
shorts in favour over pants
farmers markets, garage sales
power-wash the decks and rails

Hiking, tennis, gardening
inhale the freshness of the spring!
painters, sculptors shape their art
gather here with grateful hearts
jane taylor May 2016
dissipating into the morning mist
through a kaleidoscope-like view
i become every part of you

©2016janetaylor
Fragmented souls
embark upon precarious journeys.
Mosey, so cozy, tip toes-ey amidst  
the nuts, the berries, her frag grenades,
all whom are lost.

I get the sense
she stimulates the local economy.
Her sixth sense
is my first sin;
subsequent Saturday night mass.
However,
in her unique meek way.

She moves divergent
from the wandering.
Please,  I implore,
just as you sat
on the park bench
pondering;
a failed attempt
at being inconspicuous.
tres de septiembre
covered in wet leaves
juggling espresso, laced
with my final exalted request-
roll up your sleeves.
cocoa skin glyphic
mushroom fields and bees knees.
Don't stop smiling.
On the eve of our
improbable introduction
after impossible instructions.
Ignore the jilt,
it was a jolt,
prompted by your voltage.
Despite all your glory
I was over caffeinated,
under compensated,
out of cahoots,
deemed arbitrarily scholarly,  
presumed clinically copasetic;
according to the nurse tying a knot  
in Dr. Martens Boots.
Kaleidoscope eyes collide
I never trusted a stethoscope,
nor the script; it
read so cryptic.
"Dowse my flaws in his amphetamines"?
Societies newest drudge,
Earth's newest quagmire.

Theres nothing flat about her earth;
What's a man do with his hands?
there's nothing meek about me
unless my heart has different plans.
LK Aug 2
But though they saw in color, she saw through dismal eyes,
like describing to a color-blind person the extent of a vibrant sky.
Penelopejayde Apr 2015
The upbringing of a person could lead to a frivolous publican.
A brother and sister are both witnessing the featherbrained fool.
This world we live in is a bit bamboozle

Escaping to a state of ecstasy with your purple kaleidoscope why don't we shape the future and use cinnamon soap.

With your undercoats it's an antidote for a hurtful situation
It's like we are burning in ice.
Your a magician but you can't stop stupid.

Adolescents knowing the need to finish yet they are taking over to much to cope.
So now they are discovering, considering, cinnamon soap.
My first poem
Butch Decatoria Jul 2018
1.

“Chest up, shoulders back!

You are a regal beast—“

Light on your feet

A roar of fire

In the belly

Of my heart / the universe

For the perfect dance

Partner

A Goddess in gold

Sundress kaleidoscope

Lotus and her Lion

Where there’s love

There’s hope…

“Chest up, shoulders back!”
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
A gentle balm capable of subduing
The cruellest of monsters.

According to the stars and tattooed,
You fancied yourself king of the jungle––
Lazy in hot African afternoons.

Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
Shaggy mane, muzzle red with
The blood of a gazelle.

Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
Only a sweet intoxicant.

Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
For those of a guardian angel’s.

I overlooked your rough skin, your
Crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
And assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.

So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
Teeth a row of mossy tombstones.

Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
But I was the eye of the storm.

Until the night the eye was eradicated,
And the storm blew in,
Striking me dumb with your sound and fury.

But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
To be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.

Today I am lost in a picture show,
A beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.

Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****––
Retaliation – ******* in my dream.

Give me an eye for my eye,
For all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
The first poem of my first book, "Blood for Honey". Get it at Lulu.com or Amazon.
Skyla Feb 19
Shatter the glass, and see my reflection separated by shards.  Like I’m viewing myself through a kaleidoscope.

Writing “no” on the mirror with lipstick
Or rather screaming it
Can you scream in writing?
No vile words or forms of violence could express the uttermost disgust I have for myself
Fires don’t burn nearly as much as my rage
Knives aren’t nearly as sharp as my fingers
Poison isn’t a match for the words I spit
Not even pure hatred can measure up to what I feel
“Hate” is merely a soft, child-like term compared to what I feel
Not even the devil himself can compare

I would burn in this skin in flames for eternity if it meant that I could feel my body melt away until I’m bone.
Having a bad body day.  This poem is anger.
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