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Shofi Ahmed May 2017
It streams down eye to eye
from the unseen but the all seeing.

Far from the Mars far from the Neptune
skipping all the planets hanging in space
only on the cheek of earth, a drop of tear fell.

Every angel in the heavens' shore
has heard of this lore.
It’s timeless long mesmerising beautiful.
Far from the blue yonder sky
hunky dory is delighting to the eyes
the stunner is made to measure.

A tear in the corner of the eye
as if it's diagonally weighed down
with the 360-degree open looking sky.
As close as within a fingertip comes the Moon
still, a sea is ahead forever untouchable!
Yaser Nov 2017
A song awakens sightless eye
That gaze into a lightless sky
The break of day and set of dawn
but memories of an age now gone
An epoch sits stalwart between
What they once saw and will never see

Oh ancient eyes that do not see
The light you seek is not for thee
Oh ancient eyes that do not see
Seek not what is never to be
The universe grows, but the light may never return to the eyes of those that first cast it.
CK Baker May 2017
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!

duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar ***** wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
sweet dreams to the dismal things
on the shores of an apocalypse
perhaps we are day-dreaming
breathing in these noxious fumes
consuming our own impermanance
is it ignorance of law
or the lure of the commons
that has doomed you
to inhaling all this perfume
threads of light scintillate the moon
an uncommon fuse
forged between your heart and the sun
so come dance and drift
in between rifts of space and time
that melancholy face
oh how i’d love to hold it in my hands
and stand up against you
i never stopped to over-stand you
don't think about it just let it out
before it consumes you
as fast as a spray from a humpback whale
the powers are receding
and we are needing to refill our cups
brunt and blunt like coconuts
what a stunt you pulled
how did you know
that they'd let you get away with it
its phenomenal the mood you instigated
a repatriation of the delegated fields
free of spite and allocated yields
until we became two foolish flowers
that now must die
in order to perpetually bloom
Kat Aug 2018
What if there's a door that's always sitting there.
The surface is bare.
And it carries a mysterious air.
No matter what people do to the door that just sits there.
The next morning the door is always repaired.

Something so curious like the door.
Everyone finds it a bore.
After all it's just a boring old door.
After seeing the damage disappear you would think people would write lore.
But the door isn't interesting, the door is a bore.

The door's been places.
The door has guarded libraries full of bookcases.
The door has seen everything from schools to fireplaces.

Whenever the place, the door has been goes away,
the door is always there insistent to stay.
But eventually the door gets found and gets transported away.

The door doesn't change.
The door is always a door but no one thinks it's strange.
But the door moves from place to place.
No one knows where or which door frame the door will choose as a base.
I showed my English teacher and he liked it
Ghazal Nov 2018
I am the cushion that life first rests in,
The crib meticulously created layer by layer,
The soft bed of flowers, glistening like blood,
The protector of all beings, the seat of care

My love is fuelled by the silver calmness
I gently extract from the first lunar night,
When the moon emerges from its dark sabbatical,
Armed with tales it gathered from the other side

Each day, its luminosity deepens, its stories
Turn more vivid, more wrenching, more morose,
I soak it all in- the pain, the suffering, the injustice,
And colour myself, in the darkest shade of rose

My red is no ordinary red, it is the
Culmination of every sister's deep cry,
It is the crimson of anger that can only be felt,
By the cradle entrusted with preservation of life

I am full and brimming, with pangs too strong
And hues of vermilion too dark to contain,
I rock back and forth, my cot full of stories,
Twisting, flailing and writhing in pain

And then I burst out and let freely flow,
The dam I created with laments of loss and love
Painted with conversations lasting until twilight,
With my cratered friend in the skies above

Petal by petal, as I lose my form and disintegrate,
She is connected to each woman's cry that I assimilate,
Flexed at the pelvis, helpless yet so strong, she listens,
And understands the lore I sing about, every twenty-eighth.
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
Every star across the seven skies
Wishes to kiss it is a gold dust.

Not to mention the Moon in the centre
waning and waxing in the open and in secret
keeps unleashing longing to rub
this non-sublunary piece on its forehead.

She knows only then the rough seas beneath
her will calm down in the soft raining moonlight
shedding off such a lucky blossomed forehead.

Oh, if only scarcely they could ever see it
the galaxies since their inceptions longing for it.
Bliss of the eye tucked away from the scene
Paradise lies beneath the mother’s feet!

The mother is fast is for all and is down to earth
She, the mother Fathima descended down
from up above the heaven that pivotal frontier
only all the prophets’ Prophet has seen.
Then was no Adam nor Eve or Jibreel!

Paradise finds its core with its resonant lore
in the shadow of the original feminine Fathima
the immortal hotspot the original physics explored.
Paradise lived and breathe beneath her feet
but she touched down at the heart of the earth
without stepping or touching on paradise
only to give away her stake to others!
No land she would take on her way back indeed
Not in her name, know where Fathima’s grave is?
When people visit Islamic holy city Medina they look for the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been the tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown It's been said that she preferred her grave to remain unidentified.
Traveler Jul 2013
To and fro I travel
Yet I find no place to rest
My heart is but a shadow
Darkness with a breath

Home is but a memory
As I lay upon hard ground
And dream of ancient glories
When I was once renowned

Now I am forgotten
Demonized by lore
Cast into a **** dimension
Just beyond life's door...
Traveler Tim
The world is much older
And worst off then ever.
Logan Robertson Apr 2017
He stopped at her rose garden to explore
Beckoning rose petals awed of colorful lore
With pillow eyes so soft
He's invited into her loft
She raced fast as he kept banging at her door

JayceeJellies Nov 2014
Nothing is the same anymore.
I feel like I'm in a whole nother lore
My world has been stained,
and I have no one but myself to blame.
ryn Feb 2015
His bicycle let out a little yelp as he slowed to a stop,
The lady was dressed the same as the night before.
He could have cycled on but he had intentions he would not drop,
For he had heard stories of such beings from old wives' lore.

It was important for him to address this spectre.
Motivated by the advice he had received from his dad.
To never succumb to fear if a spirit he should ever encounter,
For the fear would consume and eventually drive him mad.

He was brimming with confidence as he spoke,
"Hello there again, I see that you are still in a fix".
He was determined not to be made again the joke
He had sworn to not be taken in by the imp's mischief and tricks.

A sweet fragrance lingered in the air,
Teasingly inviting him to greedily inhale it all in.
A gentle gust blew, caught and played with the strands of her hair...
Enamoured by her visage, he secretly gasped as if the air grew thin.

Her face was still partially obscured by her black flowing hair.
She turned to him before she gave her reply,
"Would you please give me a lift, dear sir...kind and rare...
I do not wish to be stranded alone, unsheltered under the moonlit sky"
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
I’m not a poet
I don’t write poetry
I’m a silhouette
I don’t like poverty

I’m a Black Freedom Writer
A poor man’s dream
I take back the kingdom
like a fighter from
the sewer mainstream

I’ve been tryin’
to tell them since dawn,
I’m a seed residing
from Heaven,
Prince Lore.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~took a walk in the city today,
and this happened in the O'Henry tradition~

the blind man crossing E. 15th,
does not look, nor does he care,
all foes on-coming,
come hither, he dares

his light is red,
yet his cane extended,
he click clacks steadily ahead,
unaware and unbeknownst,
his new step by step sidekick,
Sheriff Natty,
is writing an air poem to a
taxi driver with his
shotgun *******,
a NY gesture of
welcoming *******...

a green light means passage
is a taxi's right,
but my left shoe firm
attached to his bumper,
plus multiple looks mine,
any of which could ****,
his argumentation poses
do somewhat chill...

the sheriff of the city, his motto,
sic transit finger gloria


among the sadder sights
of city life
is contrast...

the dark-only coolness
of an Irish bar,
on a bright spring day
when life and love
is bud sprouting
while old white men,
on single soiled solitary stools,
their colored cheeks green
from the reflection of
TV emerald diamond fields,
sipping many pre-game $3
Guinness draughts

around the second inning,
they switch, onto
boilermakers to make
the languid afternoon stretch on,
this I know for sure,
for in the large gilded mirror
behind the bar,
see the barkeep's back asking me,
"what will it be for you
this fine spring day?"


next to the bar, in the corner market,
an old man's hands tremble in an old man's way,
in a way I only know thru his testimony,
as he does his daily self-feeding,
his wallet removed, fumbling for two
single soiled solitary one dollar bills.

the shopkeeper's fingers
beat the counter impatiently,
the old man's beer brown bagged,
transport ready, though the old one
rather be next door,
the extra Dollar saved causes
a last minute delay, shaky fingers,
asking for an extra purchase,
a small can of dog food please,
so he can watch the game at home
and share the same meal
with the man's real and best,
and only true spring weather friend


the mayor proclaimed as a matter of
public safety, public decorum,
a pack of three or more woman
wearing all black Lululemon athletic wear,
were now banned from being outside after nightfall

later this night, in Carl Schurz Park,
many vamp(ire) voices were heard
singing the lyrics to
"i want to do bad things to you,"
but they staked him only
to a free color reeducation


these takes I witnessed,
all or some,
these tales I took
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit
injected beneath my skin
came with the title,
City Boy,
and honored me
with its O'Henry life and lore,
and the vision to believe what is
in my bloodstream
just another true tale of life in
published her 4/14/14
Vexren4000 Nov 2018
A golden era of humanity,
Times of kingdoms,
Great wars of glory and victory,
Times of beast and man,
Of gods and angels,
Lore and fable.
Places placed in historic memory,
Some with secrets never to come back.

Data Sep 2018
There is a trace in my blood
A chancy ache at my core
It comes alive in the sound of pipe & drum, 
It pulses in my veins and swells
As the kilted marchers draw near,
Across the flat land they drill
Towards John o’ Groats and the sea,
Here in Caithness I hear them play
Across the flat feld from The Castle at Mey
Here where my people still stand ’til this day:
Donald son of John 
                     son of Donald
                            son of George…
From so long ago they come
On the beat of heart & drum,
From so long ago they reach
While I listen, remembering them:
Here first were the Picts at Cat
As the low branch dipped to earth,
Here come the men of the Norse
Now the bud on the branch is fat!
This is the tree that bears me
The river of life that takes me home,
Here is my kinship, fastened
In those Celt faces I’d never known,
And where my wellspring falls
As if from empty sky
From out that cloudy coalesce
Is the birth of I.
For all of them who come before
From that time done before the lore
Those men and maids who honoured oath
Have laid their lives at John o’ Groats,
So, pass the quaich, my kin
My blood salutes you all
I raise the water of life aloft
Thereon my fill begin.

By Data © Sept. 2018
My mother's maiden name was Calder.
So far, I have traced our family back to George Calder who was born in Dunnet, Caithness in 1729 - The short genealogy mentioned in this poem is a correct lineage.
Hanging flirtatiously from each branch,
the sparkling sheen of tinseled treasure;
Rising high cloaked in forest green,
alive with winter's joy and pleasure.

Icicles shine in their silvery light,
within Nature's captivating scene;
Bewitched are we who stand and watch,
mirrored reflections in flashing beams.

In all its glory the bounty glows,
magnetic in its magical gleam;
A Christmas gift for all to share,
within a blessed heavenly scheme.

And with a star placed high above,
soon a mystical sight unfolds;
As golden streaks of ancient lore,
share timeless tales for young and old !
nish Jul 2018
through thick and thin
that’s what we said
but now i look across the bed
the empty space, so big and clear
it’s all that i could ever fear

close friends at best
never more
but now it’s gone
forgotten lore

why did we
entwine our limbs
embrace in passion
on such a whim

i regret that night
our thoughts astray
clouded by the playful day

now you barely look at me
and when you do I see the guilt
it’s ok
i feel it too
but if you’d just talk to me
i’d help you realize, you’re still free

please don’t regret my body’s touch
or how you sought the sheets to clutch
but most important
don’t forget
what we had before the end
a loving friendship, down to the core
never thought I’d see the door
i’m locked outside
you have the key
through thick and thin?
guess that was just me.
© M.H

ya girl was in her feels today :/
Grace E Mar 24
She breathed her lore through history
Her name, dripping in myth & legend
She never said a word to prove her worth
She let the fire in her belly
Do the convincing
ryn Sep 2014
I hear your shuffling footsteps right outside my door
I know what you seek with troubled heart and weary feet
Your trip has been long, draining your body sore
Come in, I've been expecting you... Finally we meet

You settle yourself, right there, opposite of me
Let me look at you... Let me observe just a little
I can see through you, read you like a book, almost instantly
You've come with resolve so frail, fragile and brittle

I know why you're here and the questions that plague
I know why you've travelled long, over land so far
I am aware of your dark secrets and truths so vague
You don't have to say... I feel the invisible scars

I shut my eyes as I summon the
powers of my ball
Let me recite my mantra to invite those who would come
I whisper things you may hear or not at all
Ahh... One has arrived, soon... Soon will arrive some

Looking into my orb with concentrated gaze
Breathe easy, Cracked One... Be not afraid of its sinister glow
You can see the energy surging in a torrential blaze
Rest easy, Lost One... Very soon it will all show

In one hand, I have my tarot cards on display
Don't be frightened when I begin to convulse uncontrollably
Of all the cards that fall, one would stubbornly stay
That one will have much to tell, together we'll see

I'm trembling now, remember... Be not wary
The card is now chosen, face down I lay it still
Take it but you may not understand the markings you see
I'll take it in my hand to make sense of it by feel

I have your card, now I must resume my chanting
You hear me speak in a language only known to a few
It may sound raucous, the words I'm mouthing
Be not startled, Broken One... We are almost through

It's time to close the ritual by touching skin with skin
Against your cheeks, you feel my warm touch
Look into my eyes and embrace the connection within
Now I know all, your eyes have revealed much

I have something for you... Now you must go
You look at me with confused eyes but still you must
Take this bundle... It contains all you need to know
Keep it safe, this parting gift to you I entrust

Leave now, don't take my next few words lightly
You must take heed these sacred words from lore
I say, "Do not open till the end of journey"
"Open only when in house, behind closed door"

I see you leave, disheartened by questions unanswered
Clutching the bundle, you slowly disappear in despair
I wish you well, dear Seeker... For all you've endured
Be safe and get home, you will find your answers there...
See 'Dear Mystic'
See 'The Parting Gift'
PiLomus Feb 26
With ignorance as a pride,
I dawn on the regular stride,
My mind was weaving its thread,
Surmising ways to spread,
Drowned under the outpouring of lore,
Suddenly a rock hit my core.

There was she, who was to be decoded,
A hapless **** make her slash,
Under the encumbrance of pain,
She did not let a single tear to rain,
Under disgust for her angelic reasons,
She did not stop showing love for the new seasons,
Two paths coalesce under the shrine,
Another cardinal lesson from the divine,
I again started to run,
For the new day under Sun.
Pain fade with time,but never goes in vain.
Armand-DeamoJC Jun 2018
This is not a poem, 'tis a story
The story of how I went so far backwards
'tis the story of me falling in love
and falling... out of life

I fell for a girl, and I ****** her up, because I was scared
This is not a poem

I lost this amazing girl, and drank away my sorrows
Under age and a drunken mess
This is not a poem

I had a friend, she helped me through that mess
and I hurt her more than I ever knew or realised
I was too stuck in my own ****
drunk and high
escaping reality
again and
she left

This is not a poem
I realized that she had not left and she only escaped me dragging her down
I cannot connect or attach with anyone
For I have lost too much of myself
to take that thing away from
another person, because
is a ravaged thing and
I'm and untold lore
and this is not a
True Poem
'tis a story of
a brokenhearted
and pathetic little boy
who had not told his lore
to anyone, but one and thus
He realized 'tis not a story
to be told for anyone
written words here
**This is not a poem
My apologies if it is not what was expected or true
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