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L B Jul 2018
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
"Caps"  are little red rolls of gunpowder dots, originally made to give a snap to toy guns of the 1950s.  We figured out that by layering them and using a hammer, you could get a bigger crack.
Onoma Jun 2019
taking form

is the manifestation

of broken promise.

whose curse

ultimately lifts.

from these hands.

unable to mind the

eyes of fingers.

keepers of worlds--

become exceedingly

generous.

leaving what swears by--

to behold what it swears by.
Alyssa Underwood Dec 2015
When all of worldly beauty's lost
When form and face have borne the cost
Of life's sojourn upon this earth
A greater glory then springs forth

When vanity is cast aside
With long-dashed dreams and fallen pride
At last a better hope I see
One anchored in eternity

When no one gives a second glance
Or offers promise of romance
I know the One whose love is true
Who looks beyond what most men do

When wit and charm have fled from thought
And company's no longer sought
There's still One friend who longs to hear
My every word, desire and fear

When awkwardness is more the rule
Than competence and being cool
His words I hear so gently spoken,
"Come, poor in spirit and all who are broken."

When those around me criticize
With disapproval in their eyes
He spreads His arms with full embrace
And wears acceptance on His face

When kindred spirit can't be found
And understanding's wayward bound
The One who knows me best will be
Thinking precious thoughts toward me

When foot is slipping, mind astray
From trying to fix things my own way
He rescues me with hourly grace
And sets me in a spacious place

When all my naught attempts at fame
Lie crushed beneath a weight of shame
I seek the fame of Him instead
Who calls my name and lifts my head

When youth and vigor fade away
And triumph seems an ancient day
My strength can rest in One who brings
Fresh power to soar on eagle's wings

When my last breath some day I take
Death's shadowed crossing, hence, to make
Upon Christ's nail-scarred feet I'll fall
To kiss that One who is my ALL
"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary,
but what is unseen is eternal."
2 Corinthians 4:16-18

~~~

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtzAciGlgKE&spfreload=5
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Knit Personality Aug 2018
An evensong was sung last night
     In parting by July;—
Was sung through fading sound and light
     A charming lullaby.

As August, crowning, lifts his fire
     Unto the eyes that wake,
I think of her, and die with desire
     From heartburn and heartache.  

#
L B Oct 2016
Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones

...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden
One of my early memories.  I was three.  Between my first and second year,  memory begins for me-- mostly impressions and strong symbols that seem to float without time.  
My grandparents were gone, but my Uncle Ray still worked their small farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts, and we would drive up from the city on Sunday afternoons.  The house itself, was one of the oldest in New England, with the barn attached by a distinctive enclosure, to allow easy access to the animals in heavy snow, like the house described in Ethan Frome.
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
There's a prophet on the railway
He's coming with a book
Written by a woman
And blessed by a crook
The station's been preparing
For his arrival, coming soon
He doesn't know a single person
In the town under the moon

His robes are made of velvet
And his chains out of gold
His eyes look about a hundred
Yet he's only twenty-two years old
His hands are un-calloused
With pages stapled to his chest
In his mind he believes
That he alone knows best

His name came from Berkley
But he hails from the south
His mother gave him nothing
So he found his own way out
In the dead of the night by his candlelight
He heard a voice calling him
It told to me ride north
And let the people rejoice him

On their Sunday feast he sets down his feet
In a town of simple heads
He gets on a podium
And he lifts them from their beds
He promises them redemption
He promises them the end
And with just a touch of his hand
He promises they'll be heaven sent

It's been six long years
And his statue's turning green
Just like his money
Which lights his swisher sweets
He knows his just a man
Made of flesh and rotten skin
He knows this and yet
He's the one who wins
The Will-of-Strength, firm and subtle at Peak
Sought to follow his Elder and charge his Day
With Weight-Lifts and Fork-Bells conquer Relief
Took a Sling from his Semi; Shot the Green Elf
Who flew around the House and tampered his Rage
To learn such Programmes like Responses and Growth
But Confident as he was to draft his Age
Shot the Green Elf again; His Candles grew Old
The Candles! Left there on a Muddy-Cream-Cake
Waiting to be puffed by a Cold, Moral Bite
Till the Drogbas arrived and brought their own Bake
Then the Party resumed; Screams sparked in Delight.
And the Green Elf, sleeping, spoke in the End:
"Manhood be your Goal; First make me your Friend."
#will_daley
What is a Father?
Is he a Person?
A Thing?
Or a Feather?
What is his Life?
Is it Carefree and Spontaneous
Or Tormenting and Strife?

Who is he in which a Person could know?
What are his Abilities which only he could show?
Does he Work, for the sake of a Family?
Or sleeps and pigs around, being a Menace and Lazy?

Who could this man be, to the Eyes of Children,
A Hard Rock or a Soft Leaven?

Does he Pile over Everyone
And takes Control?

Is he the Eagle, the Head of the Nest,
Playing a very important Role?

Does he impersonate Father Christmas
With all his Treats and Gifts?

Is he a Lover, with a Strong Heart for *******
Hugging greatly and giving Love-Lifts?

Does he Pray,
Or Face-Religious?

Or a Braver,
Or Spontaneous?

Is he a Disciplinarian
Wherewithin all Members under him
Are tuned to his Command?

Or a Freester,
Who gives his Kids their darling Freedom
Without any Demand?

Does he care,
For the People and Loved Ones around him?

Is he Provocative,
Uncaring for Anyone behind his Dim?

Mostly, he is the Grass,
Herding the Future for his Offspring?

Or the Lamb,
Stubborn and very Unwilling?

And so, whatever he is,
Or does,
A Father is a Father,
Anonymous or Specific
I wouldn't mind.

Just as long as he has
HEART, STRENGTH, FREEDOM and PROSPERITY,
KINDNESS, BRAVE, PROTECTIVE
And RELIABILITY.

I'll be Glad and Content. As any Son should be.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
When all of worldly beauty's lost
When form and face have borne the cost
Of life's sojourn upon this earth
A greater glory then springs forth

When vanity is cast aside
With long-dashed dreams and fallen pride
At last a better hope I see
One anchored in eternity

When no one gives a second glance
Or offers promise of romance
I know the One whose love is true
Who looks beyond what most men do

When wit and charm have fled from thought
And company's no longer sought
There's still One friend who longs to hear
My every word, desire and fear

When awkwardness is more the rule
Than competence and being cool
His words I hear so gently spoken,
"Come, poor in spirit and all who are broken."

When those around me criticize
With disapproval in their eyes
He spreads His arms with full embrace
And wears acceptance on His face

When kindred spirit can't be found
And understanding's wayward bound
The One who knows me best will be
Thinking precious thoughts toward me

When foot is slipping, mind astray
From trying to fix things my own way
He rescues me with hourly grace
And sets me in a spacious place

When all my naught attempts at fame
Lie crushed beneath a weight of shame
I seek the fame of Him instead
Who calls my name and lifts my head

When youth and vigor fade away
And triumph seems an ancient day
My strength can rest in One who brings
Fresh power to soar on eagle's wings

When my last breath some day I take
Death's shadowed crossing, hence, to make
Upon Christ's nail-scarred feet I'll fall
To kiss that One who is my ALL
~~~

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary,
but what is unseen is eternal."
~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

***

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtzAciGlgKE&spfreload=5

***

Repost
More Love Jul 2018
This blank slate
Of soul, of flesh
Becoming what it is
Long overdue
Listening, waiting
Wanting more

Truth and Faith.

Courage at our core.
It burns away
The capes and costumes

Curtain open & collapses down

Cast steps forward and bows
Nervously waiting for the raw applause
of its long lost Love

To be seen in flesh, in form.
To feel
To be alive

And what hope there is
in this pause.

And by God's great glory,
simplicity,
and the logic that supports it
that reveals what we are,
all of us together.

Curtain down, we bow.
And receive fully the divine applause of our creator

to be-
to be seen,
heads hanging together
is enough for him to rejoice.

And his rejoicing song lifts our faces
to be truly, fully revealed

All we are, our mistakes + our triumphs,
standing strong together

The purpose of our being.

To be revealed, humbled and uplifted in truth.
And to let the light of his applause wash over us
As we all bow down together.
Your soft voice
Lifts my heavy heart
Your sweet face
Hinders my sour days
Three words I say
Are not just a phrase

-JCM-
ryn Oct 2014
3
I hug the first,
Enamoured by her beauty.
Such kind eyes...
Peering carelessly back at me.

She reaches out,
To meet my embrace.
"You'll always be the first,
Who had my heart set in place."


I say to the second,
"You are my life.
One day you'd build,
The right castle for a wife."


"Remember me always,
For you this path I have paved.
I'd shower upon you,
All the love that I have saved."


Then finally to the third,
The last of all gifts.
Most adorable of sprites,
Source of my infinite lifts.

*"For you I haven't done much,
Only all that I could afford.
But insert me in your forever...
As the only you ever would've adored..."
For my troopers...
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014
Love is Evil
A scarfe can be usefull
Eyelashes begin at the mouth
A ******* is the breath of God
A bed is the only counselor
An advise is a curse
Legs first
A suicide lifts all hope
zumee Oct 2018
She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil knowledge
trickling down her chin

Lungs heaving against the pane
Lungs heaving against the pain
She longs for a killer breeze
from the die-hard fan.

The yellow-eyed seconds slither out the clock
hi S S ing in rhythm as they crawl.

On the table lies the used core of a once
juicy red delicious
hourglass figure, cyanide hearts and all

She is aware of her own nakedness.

The moon watches on
bleeding silver
from stab wounds by dagger-branches
waiting for a crack in the window
through which to enter

The Tree of Life towers menacingly overhead.

He walks in
AdamAnt
intelligent-designer suit: businessgod attire
briefcase in hand
brief case in point

He knows.
She knows.
Time knows.

An Electrified goliath stirs in the depths

The Ego awakens
lifts its rod
beckoning to the waves of children behind it,
parts the folds of red sea
charges head on.

It rides long and hard
hooves pounding the riverbed
Ready
to pull out on the other side

But the branches find their crack.

The Enraged goliath stumbles
suffocating
Ego trips
relentless walls closing in,
It goes under in a seizure
frothing at the mouth
drowning
as its children swim.

Time holds the twosome breath in its constricting grip
Tree binds Life inside a cell
at the center of the evolving prison

The pane, reflecting
The pain, reflected
Window souls mirror soul's Window

Branches regain their higher dwellings.

An exhumed goliath stirs
on a distant shore.

She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil knowledge
trickling down her shin.
L B Oct 2017
Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones

...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden
One of my early memories.  I was three.  Between my first and second year,  memory begins for me-- mostly impressions and strong symbols that seem to float without time.  
My grandparents were gone, but my Uncle Ray still worked their small farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts, and we would drive up from the city on Sunday afternoons.  The house itself, was one of the oldest in New England, with the barn attached by a distinctive enclosure, to allow easy access to the animals in heavy snow, like the house described in Ethan Frome.

What's left of the farm is abandoned now. :(
The buildings cannot be torn down-- National Historic Site
There is a marker on the property: "Balise Family Homestead."
Greg Berlin Jun 2016
The world spins in its own shadow.
Dusk settles across a landscape
that lifts its head forever
upward in prayer.

Existence echoes
along an ageless frame:
a bomb explodes; a child is born
to smiling strangers while an
old man gasps
back toward blackness,

a street light blinks red to green–
back again.

In small rooms, lovers
hurry to make what little
love there is left to make.
Meteo May 2016
What is it the wind whispers on your cheek my finger tips long to hear
What echo of sunrise renders each tear
What facsimile of midnight your finger tips whisper back
What secrets parade each eyelash.

How my fate lifts by the curve of your hips
How condemned I am hell-bent by the swerve of your lips

Such language infinite dancing loosely upon your palms
Such remedies recited by your resting tongue
Your mandible sacred where my universe began
Oceans devoured between us by our patience
For Mei
Ivan Brooks Sr Feb 2018
What's this phenomenon called love,
That remains a puzzle no one can solve?
Love is the caveat for many broken hearts,
And the byword for many gracious acts.
Love has the characteristics of a witch
And the coldness of a vindictive *****!

Love, the greatest of human emotions
Has many different variations.
The good book talks about agape love,
And Beyonce sings about drunken love.
Its nature nobody really understands
Yet men have worked with their hands and paid bride prices with cows.
Some have proposed to women at the super bowls.
And on talk shows, jumped on couches
leaving a few to walk on crutches.

Nobody knows love's true colors.
Yet many men have spent top dollars
To buy their women cars as gifts.
And later on, end up begging for lifts.
For love, Romeo committed suicide
And Juliet died right by his side.

Love is very irresistible
And unpredictable.
Love has many dimensions
and many complications.
For love, many people have died
And much more has lied.
For love, knots have been tied
many bank accounts emptied,
For love, wars have been fought
And many Diamond rings bought.

Love is a wrecking ball
I call it an emotional hall.
For love, tears have been shed
by many in their lonely beds.
Love is a mystery
But the reality in my poetry.
It's a kinda game in most men lives,
A game played behind their wives.

So what do we know about love?
Is it peaceful as caged doves
Or dangerous as wild wolves?
Is it contagious as a disease,
Or rumpled as a crease?
Is it blind like brother Steve,
Or silent as a grave?
Is it deep like the ocean,
and beautiful like Heaven?
Love can at times be as cold as ice
And at times, twice as nice!

IvanBrooksPoetry©️
21/8/2018
Love has many definitions....what's yours?
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