Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
DieingEmbers Aug 2012
You have the only key
to my heart...

safely hidden in your eyes.

It rests there
amongst
the hopes and dreams
we share with no one
but ourselves.

With a whisper and a prayer
a promise and a wanting
you guard it...

safe behind your smile

and soft upon your hand
a space
reserved for me
to fashion from my heart
a ring of gold.
betterdays Sep 2014
we all have the keys
to our,
dreams of happiness
the trick,
is in
finding
the right door
to
unlock.
Bailey B May 2010
You say I don’t need a poem
to capture the day in a frame and tuck it
beneath my pillow
But I’d like to have it there in case I forget
the way the armadillo on the side of the road
lay belly up, beer bottle in paw
a redneck's respects for the deceased

or the feeling of three in the morning
pounding in my skull, soaking in memories
trivia pursued and articles of obfuscation: the elucidation of the world
seen through bottle-green binoculars and heard
through the neighbor's windchimes ringing out diminished sevenths
and questions I don't want to answer
or even ask out loud

I want to tuck it in my wallet
for times that I can't remember your faces
or the scent of your shampoo, or the order of keychains
on your keyring, or the times we drove to East Jesus Nowhere
and you ripped the leaves from my calendar, ticking
and turning my seasons by the mile markers in the cement

I do this to engrave it in my cerebrum
the nights we ran outside in our pajamas in the rain
and danced for a while, then danced some more,
turning and leaping and spinning and reaching
and falling down to weep for no reason
mourning the morning
among the sharpened blades of grass

You laughed at me once
remember that? how you scoffed and snatched
my paper from my spiral and stuffed it in the trash can
telling me not to write fiction in history class
but it's just as much history as every other Jefferson
another amendment you'll never read

But I forgive you. you're not the first
to tell me to get my feet out of the clouds
because my head's already gone too far for saving
or to attempt to stifle my addiction to
the scratch of pen on paper
the scent of ink on tree
the pulse of blood in my brain

I cling to syntax like religion
keeping the words pinched in my fists like pixie dust
hoping if I say the right abracadabra
the pen will turn to a wand
and I can paint you the details
one day at a time
b e mccomb Jul 2016
you're painting
the kitchen walls
baby duck
yellow.

you have houseplants
despite the lack of
sunlight
but i don't
think you know how
dark it really is.

you painted
my bedroom walls
dark green
i guess you covered
up the words i once
carved in the wall.

florals and snowflakes
now you get the
keyring and
i promise we won't
accidentally break in
like we did to him.

i might be an
incurable cynic
(which i know you
never know how to take)
but i sincerely hope
you're happy here.

i sincerely hope
my pessimism is not
cooling down your
prewarmed house.

i sincerely hope
you never become
jaded by who you
learn people truly are.

and i sincerely hope that
whatever darkness you may
or may not find never dims
your new living room light
or the radiance you've
always carried with you.
Copyright 12/9/15 by B. E. McComb
JL Feb 2016
February 12, 2016

I lie **** on top of my blankets; praying. Praying. Praying. I am fighting waves of nausea and sleepiness. Medicines I feel sprinting through my veins dragging me downward. No.
The rain slow at first but gathering wrath in the warm night.
Lightning and thunder will come I smell it afar off. Ions heavily scented spill through the atmosphere holes in my plexiglassed window.  
Thunder rolls through my chest shaking deeply my whitewashed plaster cocoon. The cries begin to swell, and echo strangely through the sterile corridors. I am not the only light sleeper, I muse.
I doze momentarily even among the screams of the mentally hilarious; I am called into sleep. They must have doubled the sleeping medication; the storm will be worse than I thought.
I start at a sound. Steady. A theta wave vibrating through my room. I pitch to my side in time to see a lightning bolt slash through the sky. I saw something. The bolt plays hell with my night-vision as I sit upright on my bed.
There. Struggling up the plastic surface of the viewport. It cannot fly in the rain; it struggles for purchase on the portal. I study her. Elegant and slender she reaches the airhole and pulls herself through. Far off the screams wax and wane as the storm intensifies.
Her slender thorax and polished, obsidian, exoskeleton strike excitement through me to a cell. A perfect engine of pain and terror. A great black wasp. She reminds me of a thorn as she rests on the windowsill; unmoving in the air conditioning. Giddily, I shake with excitement nearly overwhelmed. Delicately she cleans water droplets from her abdomen and shakes the moisture from the thin membrane of her wings. I slowly move to my shelf and remove the specimen cup from its placement; silently unscrewing the threaded lid from the clear plastic container. Down the hallway a tired groan and a throaty grunt from one of the other patients. The wind now screams through the breezeport that runs to north toward the cafeteria. A shingle is peeled from the roof of a gazebo and cyclones into a bulkhead. I lick my lips, and consciously check my excitement.
I slide a sheet of crisp white paper from my desk. Quickly, I trap the great insect with the jar and slide the paper over the aperture trapping her between jar and paper. She does not struggle, but looks intelligently at the walls of her new prison. Beautiful, and intricate machinery at work; she readjusts her  wings, observing me with with bulbous eyes. Lightning strikes, and there is a deafening pop as a transformer explodes. For a moment it creates an azure sun outside, and casts curious shadows through my room. In the corridor the lamp light is squelched, and then ignites emergency lamps in scarlet hues as the diesel generator sputters to life and idles. A deafening clackson alarm begins to wail.
I am not aware of this at first; obsessing over my catch. Her form is ******, deadly. Something deep within me stirs at the very site of her. Revulsion? Ecstasy? From my reverie I am stirred by the clanging of doors and staccato laughter in the crimson glow of the storm lights. In a moment I am resolved and I slide the paper from the opening and cover it with my hand. Now footsteps. She senses me and reels in instinct. Without hesitation she draws herself tight as a bow string, poised to ****** the hypodermic stinger into the warm pink flesh of my palm. Quicker than thought she strikes piercing, seemingly to the bone she injects poison. Down the ward doors are slid open and the sound of radio chatter plays toward me. I am engrossed, in bliss as my arm begins to numb. Five times then Nine times she spears me with the barb. My heart beating so hard in my chest that I am sure the orderlies must hear it. Then I hear a burst of static and a sing-song reply of phonetic alphabet followed by my room number. I grasp her delicately from the specimen cup with my thumb and forefinger as she stings me with prejudice beneath the nail bed and cuticles. I cast her through the air hole in my window and quickly lie upon my bed before the door is unlocked. A man in white scrubs and a five o'clock shadow opens my door and pierces me with two steel blue eyes. "You should be asleep." "Get some rest, we will have the lights back on in no time." I smile my head swimming with post adrenal bliss. When suddenly I hear the droning of wings. A sea of raging hornets sounding ominously in the small cell. A black cloud pours through the airhole, countless chittering wings encompass the orderly in a poisonous storm cloud. With vengeance they sting, his eyeballs his hands, his throat. All swelling with purple nebulas of poison. In his mouth they crawl and down his throat. Efficiently suffocating him in mere moments. Then they quiet. All at once they flock to me, walking on my pale naked flesh caressing me with millions of antennae. They do not sting, instead they are still. Their crescent shaped bodies vibrating,  like a cat purr against my cold skin. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing hilariously, and I shudder hardly containing the joy. Then I pick up the radio clipped to the orderlies pants, and pull the 18 inch telescoping  steel baton from the holster belted at his waist. I click the PTT and speak into the radio. Epsilon Wing Cell 005 Accounted for, Over Quintar beep followed by a burst of static and a reply. I cover my mouth to suppress another fit of hysterical laugh. I step barefoot over his body and onto the cold tile of the ward; spinning the heavy keyring on my finger
Kyle Kulseth Mar 2015
Keyring's clinking on my cut time stride
under lights, buzzing islands in the ink sea night.
Slink away from my murky years,
                  they're piling up
and I'm hunched, walking dumb
          across the hazard yellow lines.

Behind me
          the night just rolls up
almost outruns me to my front doorstep.
                                                The hungry
hills enclose
                    our mid-size
                    opaque town.

Old partners,
          forgotten crimes we
did and left trails of clues, all gutshot
                                       creep hunching
through this skull
                      beneath a
                      fraying cap.

Keyrings jangle like anxieties
in my chest, humming static in the core of me.
Sinking in to familiar tones;
                  shades purple grey.
And it's cold, striding slow
          through the west side warehouse lots.

Behind me
          the teeming sidewalks
shout half-slurred spears at my back retreating.
                                                The half-light
spills itself
                    on wrinkled,
                    trenching brows.

And out there
          the night just rolls up
to darken the mat by your front doorstep.
                                                You're just a
single thought
                    and several
                    miles away.
Prabhu Iyer Jul 2015
What's in the first? What's in the second? Ancient heirloom, toothless smile. What's in the fourth? What's in the fifth?  What's in the sixth? Seventh?
A ring. What's in the second? What's in the third? Papers worth millions.
What's in the fifth? What's in the sixth? Seventh?
What's in the first? A key to fortunes. What's in the third? What's in the fourth? What's in the fifth? What's in the sixth? Seventh?
What's in the first? What's in the second? Keyring. What's in the fourth? What's in the fifth? The holies. Seventh?
What's in the first? What's in the second? What's in the third? What's in the fourth? Old Bangle.What's in the sixth? Seventh?
Gold, gold, it's gold. What's in the second? What's in the third? What's in the fourth? What's in the fifth?What's in the sixth? *Faith.
Art poem exploring the theme of precious items kept in lockers. Here the lockers are the questions and those open are those for which answers are known.
Snizzlefish Mar 2017
Years ago I met a boy.
Who became the man I followed across the globe.
Who became a boy yet again, years later.
Like a child painstakingly building a sandcastle all afternoon,
Investing time, love, affection,
He trampled me before the tide ever could.

I put New York on my keyring.
I carried the loss of that little heart with me everywhere.
I carried it with me into every chance encounter.
Into every lonely late night drive.
I carried that heavy weight with me in my pocket everywhere.
Always.

I'd reach my hand into the pocket of my coat.
The familiarity of its worn edges somehow reassured me with its loss.

But then came a glimmer of something new.
And I thought, maybe this little broken heart is only a memento after all--A token.
Maybe it's not completely broken.

Today New York fell off inside my pocket.
As if to say, "It's time."

It is the loss of a loss.
It's a relief--
The chance to gain everything.
And it's terrifying.

Am I safe in your hands?
Please, make sure this castle stands.
Make it a mighty fortress.
One with a moat.
Keep my wounded heart afloat.
Patricia Waldron Sep 2014
Do you revel in the smell of the Earth as the seasons change?
And ice patterns that form on windows in winter?
Do you like holidays and Sundays and Fridays?
Do you like to have your face touched?
And your eyelids kissed?
And the tip of your nose?
Do you like to lie on your back in a field of wildflowers?
And watch clouds move across the sky?
Do you love storms?
Can you feel their power?
Do you like soft, gray days?
And bright sunlit ones?
And walking in a summer rain?
And fireflies?
And butterflies?
Do you like to receive brown paper packages ******* with string?
And having your ear lobes nibbled?
Do you like to cook over a campfire?
Then sit nearby and watch the flames?
And sleep under the stars?
Do you like stones and herbs?
Do you drink coffee?
Do you put too much salt on your food?
Would you allow me to watch you shave?
Do you sometimes like wine with dinner?
And eating by candlelight?
Do you keep a glass of water on your bedside table at night?
Are your keys on your keyring in order by size?
And do the teeth all face the same way?
Do you put the cap back on the toothpaste?
Do you like rainbows?
And waterfalls?
Do you have to touch moss?
And dandelions gone to seed?
Would you like to chase me?
Do you like to hold hands?
And the touch of a hand reaching for you in the night?
Do you like to fly kites in spring winds?
Against a bright blue sky?
In a field of dandelions?
Do you feel a special joy in things that grow without your intervention?
Like wild strawberries and thistles?
Do you like the spongy give of pine needles on the forest floor?
Do you like the salt taste on your lips from the ocean?
Would you like it on mine?
Do you like the sound of a boat gently rubbing against a dock in the dark?
And the sound of tree branches rubbing against each other in the wind?
Do you like stone steps?
And covered bridges?
And walking through soft, thick fog?
Do you get 'high' on sunshine?
And making love?
Do you like to have someone tag along behind as you putter about?
To provide you with an extra hand?
And make you laugh?
Do you feel awe when you look at a mountain?
And a valley? And trees? And water? And every living thing?
Do you believe in God's Magic?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
pronouns as non-identifiers of nouns equate to excess psychiatric diagnoses.
yet using this direct symptomatic identification of matters is unsatisfying
due to the fact that one would rather expand one's vocabulary in other interesting
areas other than: bilingual bipolar, unipolar depression etc.,
usually starting with family genus in latin, of carnivores.*

it was the most amazing dream, i was walking through dreamy venice
to a beach enclave with many boats,
bella, my alsatian shepherd was walking with me,
but i didn't have her free roaming without a leash
or on a leash: my right hand was behind my back
and her snout was cupped in my hand, and she was sniffing something
and walking obediently;
i was trying to get onto a seaplane.
someone else with a dog was there, i let bella have a wee dip in
swimming with elephants and horses, head bopping above the
sea, three men and a sycophant woman were there too
looking mighty interested in something that would otherwise
dictate a chance-opportunity of autography - then the lament
started. 'i'm stranded on the shoreline! i can't get to the seaplane
without a boat! i don't have a boat!'
then... out of nowhere... alec ******* baldwin appears...
out of the blue... twinkle in his eye and a diamond solution
in his pocket - says to me he has a boat, flicks out a keyring with
a beeper to start up the engine for a boat - i thank him
for "out of the blue" solution and he says: 'what are friends for, eh?'
the story goes that baby me used to put his hand into
the alsatian's gob to try and pull the dog's tongue out
and speak with it; well, the hand that did that is still harsh on typos.
Sean Devlin Jan 2016
two thousand sixteen, who would've thought Id make it this far.. with the mistakes I've made, countless jokes that fell flat, knees bruised, smiles drooped, hearts broken, doors slammed, rocks thrown, bottles dropped, the peachy faces that become apparitions, penny wishes not received, dried up lakes of aspiration.. yet here I am, to meander through another calendar year! Thirty-two years on this ball of wonder, countless toothy grins, held hands and Real deals, too many friends to keep track of, steamy nights and late-night flights, the keyring of heartstrings pulled happily weighs heavy. Treasures plundered, bets wagered and won, risks that panned out, loves that were not lost.. I have achy joints, body pains, interrupted thoughts, grown man stresses, wrinkles in my eyes and in my heart, I get winded biking up hills and notice a separation between myself and the ‘youngsters’, sometimes cynical and sometimes jaded and still.. the wisdom grows, my heart swells bigger than ever, my eyes are clear, the disappointments of the past only add happiness to the successes of my present, the rainy days enjoyed for I know sunlight will once again shine, my heart and brain are no more aligned than before though now they respect each others view instead of battling, the music sounds sweeter, the kiss deeper, the thoughts more profound. I’ve risked it a thousand times and made it through the blizzard, so I’ll risk it a thousand more. The experiences of the years have brought me an inner peace, like a love birds soliloquy. When my frazzled mind needs peace the heart beats, when the heart aches, the mind reminds, “you’ll make it through”. So thanks, for the ones who came and went, held hands and threw fists, laughed and cried, were honest and lied, lived and died. I’ve come to love the inside as much as the outside, the wet as much as the dry, the us as much as the I. It’s a good time be alive, amidst the chaos of an ever evolving world. it’s a celebration of life when you’re around the ones who make you feel and these days, all I seem to do is feel. My family is closer than ever, my friends stand out like flame amongst the rabble of contacts made, my lover is a buzzing bee filling me with honey and sometimes a sting, it’s nothing I can’t handle. It’s nothing I don’t want to handle. If we can keep reminding ourselves of what used to be, we can make it through anything. Appreciate what you have, before it leaves you, death takes everything we love at some point. Don’t let anything else take it before then.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
one word - silence...

         but there's also something infectious
about being polite -

     i once owned this keyring with the maxim:

   - tact -
    telling someone to go to hell, with them
anticipating the trip
.

     but what's stranger is talking to a receptionist
at your local surgery, booking a telephone
appointment with your general practitioner
to get a sick note for half a year...

    i'm hardly the one to extort the english
taxpayers... i get "paid" just over five grand a year
to be sick...
                 what the **** is that in comparison
to the Somalian family of 7, living in plush
accommodation somewhere in east london?

        you going to ask me whether my head is
properly ******* on? i find it strange that someone
could ask the insanity question -
                      i already told it to someone:
they thought i was mad... then this polish
(home-boy) neurologist tell me looking at my
m.r.i. scan: whoever says that you're mad...
         they're mad themselves.

now i'm ******* about in england going: *******,
and you... and you.
                          i can't be converted to be your
***** doll, or poodle for that matter...
          of all the celtic tribes: i can stomach
the scots like i might eat ben & jerry's ice-cream
infused with cookie dough... the irish?
                just bring me the guinness and *******;
i haven't got the time for your "wit".
    
     socts? oh i hear them perfectly, it's like listening
to ukranians in poland... they sing their language:
they don't speak it, they sing it.

       so i was on hold for about half an hour...
autocue:
- you're 11th in line...
    - you're 9th in line      (what an annoying muzak
though! was it a mandolin? was it something quasi
rodrigo? they could really do with some decent
music when you're in the telephone queue...
some marvin gaye?)
   - you're 6th in line
      - you're 4th in line
- you're 2nd in line
- you're 1st in line...             HALLELUJAH!

so we start talking, and obviously i greet her:
good morning...
               and we make proper arrangements
for my (what i like to call) debility cheque
      (i stopped trusting certain minorities in this country,
first they tell you: oh yeah man,
you're going to have this l.s.d. trip smoking
this funky amazonian ****) -
   next thing you know you take to having
a ******* stephen hawking expression and sliding
into a sofa...

                        so we arranged it for friday,
the pick up... she'll get in touch with my sikh doctor
(the whole turban shabang... nice guy: very... what's the word?
ah... genteel) -
          and i'm like: thank **** for that,
i was brewing this idea that i wouldn't get paid for
being sick...

                   so i ask her: but i need a reference...
- what's your name?
- Nicola.

         great... that will do...
then i bid her a pleasant day hopeful that it would be so...
and then she does this "thing" that couples
do when using telephones ending conversations:

- bye bye, bye bye...
                                        about 4 or 5 bye byes...
        maybe i should work in a call centre, or something?
nah... i rather bullshitting people in the form
of poetry, it gives me the giggles, staging what it's really
like and having no real motive to lie -

but that's how being polite works,
you butter people up - you smooch up and they do
what you want them to do...
                  a bit like my grandfather's memory
of these two ᛋᛋ men in black uniforms stationed
in my home city who gave him sweets, who he came
to call: herrbittebonbon - and he recounts that memory
in the german form: it's not punctured by punctuation
proper: herr, bitte bonbon!

so that's why i've been waking up early for
the past few days? god... spring... all the insects are
waking up from their larvae hibernation and there's
this excess of colour, and the buzzing, and the sun -
and it's sunny... and it's warm...
                                               what of the glorious
frost on pavement that, when walked on, feels like
a throng of paparazzi camera flashes on the red carpet
(frost does indeed contort when walking) -

i may indeed consider my face to be akin to shrek's -
but my telephone etiquette is spot on -
     who'd think that the receptionist would end our
exchange like i might be telling her:
   honey, i'll be back by 5 - 30 and i'll bring some
take away, ok? bye
   - bye bye
   - bye
      - bye bye...
                             it's almost like a western with
two "opponents" taunting each other to draw their
6-shooter, and no one knows who's going to end
the bluff first, before putting down the telephone.
Sheila Craig Feb 2014
what if your keyring
was all you left behind
swinging in the lock
van Young Jan 2018
Met, We have in dimensions beyond these three
In all Our exchanges, I can tell Your heart is free
Your feeling, Your wisdom, Your tender touches of thought
Will always be treasured whether We meet or nought
When least expected, nothing left to laugh at or say
YOU, My Friend For Life remembered My birthday
Once was enough.  I was truly stunned
That You so far away, with no investment, time or otherwise
Took the time to be gracious to Me and Your thoughtful act brought a smile to My eyes

Some day, somewhere, somehow, We may get skin to skin
If that happens, then for both of Us, new horizons begin
In My bereavement, I am in such a lost state
My finances, My nerves, My sleep,
My ***** clothes and You have to wait
If the meme was physical beauty,
I would crawl over cut glass to get to You
BUT A day without tears is the next item on My List To Do

I do have one sharp pin to push in to a deeper depth
Why would You add that last, leery, lunging line about wealth, Eh ?
Over X number of years,
We have talked in a comfortable, smooth, flow and ebb
Have I ever given the impression
I was drilling for $$$ on the interweb, Eh ?
Do You see Me as so shallow that I would court You or anyone else because they had means, Eh ?

The answer is ' no ' regarding means or I would not be sitting here po’, broke and overly distraught with a few pennies in My jeans



If You speak truth and that statement was just an aside
Keep Your money, remain alone and certainly nurture Your pride
While money can't buy Love and very often resents it
There is no reason for You to be alone because
Love can always be rented

The best true Love starts as We did - Friends - I will admit that
I will not promise You a golden roaring Lion and deliver a bane of a regular grey alley cat

Here is something You don't know about Me
that will remain true to the end
When I make a commitment, I am there thru thick and thin
all day, every day and never a slip

You could be the One, the Lover Of My Life.  Never refusing Me, never abusing Me, Never leaving Me alone
I am loaded with stories, some failures, some glories, and nothing else I own
As I look around the bend, in the near distance - the end, I am currently a heart broken Love due to loss
I could never hurt You with the wild, wretching, wicked emotional ride of You watching Me when I am ready to cross

IF Life sends Me another Love, Yes, You are right –
there is no judgment on My keyring
Greater than that - Number 1 in My book –
is Unconditional Love. That's what I bring

Built on the Angel wings of propriety,
the fantasy is always better than the reality
S R Mats Jan 9
For the sake of good fun
She came along, and
You decided she would be
A sort of a plaything
Slipped onto a keyring
And fondled when bored
Justin S Wampler Nov 2020
Work ran late.

He's been waiting all day
To take me out for steaks.
I fumble my keyring
And pick it up again,
I always get his house key
Mixed up with mine.

Asleep on the couch,
A Hallmark movie
Playing unwatched on the TV.
He must've seen this one already.

"Hey."
I touch his shoulder
And smile at him when he looks up at me.
He smiles back.

I wonder if he still believes
In anything.

"You ready to rock & roll down to the Banquet?"
"Yeah man, I'm starving."
Arlene Corwin Sep 2020
Mid- Night Nonsense

It’s good to start from nowhere
In  particular,
Let it grow,
Intuition’s urging knowing.
The trick is to keep going -
That’s the hard part.

4 a.m. husband asleep,
And like a twelve year old, I creep
Under the quilt.
With minor guilt, pad, pen in hand,
Keyring flashlight, writing,
Fighting hard to stay awake
For art’s sake.

There’s no other explanation,
So amusing is the situation.
There will be continuation -
Or, as Arnold coined,
“I’ll be back”… joined to you
Post breakfast, and as promised.
Not just brain but body too,
Then we’ll see if this needs closure
On exposure to the light.
As for now, goodnight, goodnight!

Mid- Night Nonsense 9.16.2020 Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

— The End —