"mapping" poems - Hello Poetry

Marsh and Cope lovers locked in embrace took it upon themselves to make each other great by destroying what they had all the while mapping new life with old bones.

0

Mar 16, 2012

Mar 16, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC

OoWah

Marsh and Cope

Marsh and Cope lovers locked in embrace took it upon themselves to make each other great by destroying what they had all the while mapping new life with old bones.

7

The pitter patter of rain echos through the soil, sending a message in morse code. Biological clocks begin to turn as fungi wake from their slumber. Hyphae radiate outward, mapping the skin of the earth, a living neural network woven into the soil of the forest.

0

May 10, 2016

May 10, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC

eliza-fairchild

Fungi

The pitter patter of rain echos through the soil, sending a message in morse code. Biological clocks begin to turn as fungi wake from their slumber. Hyphae radiate outward, mapping the skin of the earth, a living neural network woven into the soil of the forest.

5

My father worked with a horse-plough, His shoulders globed like a full sail strung Between the shafts and the furrow. The horse strained at his clicking tongue. An expert. He would set the wing And fit the bright steel-pointed sock. The sod rolled over without breaking. At the headrig, with a single pluck Of reins, the sweating team turned round And back into the land. His eye Narrowed and angled at the ground, Mapping the furrow exactly. I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake, Fell sometimes on the polished sod; Sometimes he rode me on his back Dipping and rising to his plod. I wanted to grow up and plough, To close one eye, stiffen my arm. All I ever did was follow In his broad shadow round the farm. I was a nuisance, tripping, falling, Yapping always. But today It is my father who keeps stumbling Behind me, and will not go away.

0

5k

Seamus Heaney

Follower

My father worked with a horse-plough, His shoulders globed like a full sail strung Between the shafts and the furrow. The horse strained at his clicking tongue. An expert. He would set the wing And fit the bright steel-pointed sock. The sod rolled over without breaking. At the headrig, with a single pluck Of reins, the sweating team turned round And back into the land. His eye Narrowed and angled at the ground, Mapping the furrow exactly. I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake, Fell sometimes on the polished sod; Sometimes he rode me on his back Dipping and rising to his plod. I wanted to grow up and plough, To close one eye, stiffen my arm. All I ever did was follow In his broad shadow round the farm. I was a nuisance, tripping, falling, Yapping always. But today It is my father who keeps stumbling Behind me, and will not go away.

24

Oh, sad Poet, cartographer of the heart, mapping the geography where sadness is the topography of your soul. Oh, Cousteau of the changing tides, like an oceanographer, an admiral spying the enemy on the horizon. Your sorrow comes and goes. Oh, builder of sad dreams in your house of many rooms, but one door. Like a grave, a casket shellacked with black paint, a mural of a shadow on the wall. Architectural sorrow. Oh, you sad Poet, open your eyes, paint us a poem of a rose.

0

Oct 20, 2015

Oct 20, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC

r-2

A rose

Oh, sad Poet, cartographer of the heart, mapping the geography where sadness is the topography of your soul. Oh, Cousteau of the changing tides, like an oceanographer, an admiral spying the enemy on the horizon. Your sorrow comes and goes. Oh, builder of sad dreams in your house of many rooms, but one door. Like a grave, a casket shellacked with black paint, a mural of a shadow on the wall. Architectural sorrow. Oh, you sad Poet, open your eyes, paint us a poem of a rose.

23

*Simple things in Life seems complicated Brains busy mapping the branching logic Trying out every possible options Getting lost in the labyrinth of paths Losing out on the options given by Life*

0

Jul 27, 2014

Jul 27, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC

amitav

Simple yet Complicated

*Simple things in Life seems complicated Brains busy mapping the branching logic Trying out every possible options Getting lost in the labyrinth of paths Losing out on the options given by Life*

5

My wrists bleed out cosmos Supernovas and galaxies Rest in my bones I’m weighed down by black holes My scars connect Like constellations Mapping out myths on my skin I have comets For eyes And space debris For a heart Gravity has long let me go Now I float In an empty outer space

0

Jan 6, 2014

Jan 6, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC

samantha-leroy

Empty Outer Space

My wrists bleed out cosmos Supernovas and galaxies Rest in my bones I’m weighed down by black holes My scars connect Like constellations Mapping out myths on my skin I have comets For eyes And space debris For a heart Gravity has long let me go Now I float In an empty outer space

14

My lips curl about your name, like a newborn wraps its tiny fingers around yours, clinging to your body as if you are the air I need to breathe. I want to tangle myself within your limbs while you hold me as tight as it takes to mend me back together. Your breath is warm against the surface of my skin, kisses to my wounds, both the visible and the invisible, as you whisper your love deep within my ears. The words resonate through my insides, swimming my veins, pumping like blood through my heart. Your fingers explore the geography of my body, mapping the curves and valleys that you’ve settled in. I am a log cabin in the woods of our bed, tucked away within the cover of our sheets, and you’re looking for home.

0

Jan 14, 2015

Jan 14, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC

courtney-snodgrass

Hideaway

My lips curl about your name, like a newborn wraps its tiny fingers around yours, clinging to your body as if you are the air I need to breathe. I want to tangle myself within your limbs while you hold me as tight as it takes to mend me back together. Your breath is warm against the surface of my skin, kisses to my wounds, both the visible and the invisible, as you whisper your love deep within my ears. The words resonate through my insides, swimming my veins, pumping like blood through my heart. Your fingers explore the geography of my body, mapping the curves and valleys that you’ve settled in. I am a log cabin in the woods of our bed, tucked away within the cover of our sheets, and you’re looking for home.

25

Draped in fresh-knitted pearls we traipsed into saccharine peach orchard The summer heat loped about our dew-kissed ****** ****** - appropriated from dawn spent on neatly shorn plantation grass Ambling into the knotted palatial arbor we sat each in our own tree crux behinds nestled upon ashen bark Juice dripping in our grip down our cast nets of flesh sprawled about the branches inset with gravity-defying liquescent orbs dusted in translucent mink painted with smears of citrine, coral, amber, and ichorous clinging to brass stem The rondures secede to mandible taut between palms pull and polished ivories - torn- Fluent in dulcet discourse We cloak ourselves in provocative juice tatting Until such time that our congealing garments were found mapping the bark's topography A saccharine map to the breath of soil Bloodstone ants found our map and had begun traversing - portent to seize our treasure We surrendered our jewelled cages and took flight to the sun-drunken lake to bathe and swim until heavy lids kissed moistly heavily supped on the draught sleep - beckoned transience

0

Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC

meagan-moore

Peach Juice Lingerie

Draped in fresh-knitted pearls we traipsed into saccharine peach orchard The summer heat loped about our dew-kissed ****** ****** - appropriated from dawn spent on neatly shorn plantation grass Ambling into the knotted palatial arbor we sat each in our own tree crux behinds nestled upon ashen bark Juice dripping in our grip down our cast nets of flesh sprawled about the branches inset with gravity-defying liquescent orbs dusted in translucent mink painted with smears of citrine, coral, amber, and ichorous clinging to brass stem The rondures secede to mandible taut between palms pull and polished ivories - torn- Fluent in dulcet discourse We cloak ourselves in provocative juice tatting Until such time that our congealing garments were found mapping the bark's topography A saccharine map to the breath of soil Bloodstone ants found our map and had begun traversing - portent to seize our treasure We surrendered our jewelled cages and took flight to the sun-drunken lake to bathe and swim until heavy lids kissed moistly heavily supped on the draught sleep - beckoned transience

34

Tattoo The universe Captured At the ends of fingertips Like gentle tattooing needles Synnapses firing Chemical arrows In sequences Drawing patterns tattoos On receptive skin Mapping new sensory territory memory Tattooing eternity In a dream

0

Mar 4, 2013

Mar 4, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC

patricia-drake

Tattoo

Tattoo The universe Captured At the ends of fingertips Like gentle tattooing needles Synnapses firing Chemical arrows In sequences Drawing patterns tattoos On receptive skin Mapping new sensory territory memory Tattooing eternity In a dream

16

My mind is a maze Don't try mapping me out You'll just get lost

0

Mar 28, 2015

Mar 28, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC

samanthah7

Maze

My mind is a maze Don't try mapping me out You'll just get lost

3

They warned us not to worry, Just do our best in school; Those worldly professionals, Taught us work-to-rule. They did a few case studies On twins from day of birth; There's a fifty-fifty chance, A will be born first They are urban fighters, Of fire, crime and blame; They live in high rise condos, They return from foreign lands. They wait over subway vents, Their hearts and heads are bent; They show-up in walk-ons, They go without for Lent. They fly in and out of space, They don't identify with race; They're picked up for vagrancy, They dance cautiously in the street. They volley warning shots Across our private dreams; They sign and seal a peace accord They're sincere to a degree. They contribute to the run-off, And spiked our holy water; They enlisted Moms and Dads, Then slaughtered sons and daughters. They made rings from ivory, And pale lamp shades from skin; They list dissipation As a personal sin. Then they did unholy things With wood and nails, then atoms; They tore at our goodly earth, Wreaked havoc with their mapping. They distilled our alcohol, Made smoking so appealing; Then they rang the tower bells, And preached we had no feelings. They dug deep for wishing wells, Grew stuff to **** our germs; They bestowed us rods and reels, And spades to dig our worms. They connected us Through wireless touch; They counseled us on loneliness, And the traps of busyness. They pronounce death is art When they hang it on a wall; Then blame it on our women, In a scene based on our fall. They're newsy opaque, In love or hate; They are the ambiguous, The they, them and all of us.

0

Dec 15, 2018

Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC

francie-lynch

The Ambiguous

They warned us not to worry, Just do our best in school; Those worldly professionals, Taught us work-to-rule. They did a few case studies On twins from day of birth; There's a fifty-fifty chance, A will be born first They are urban fighters, Of fire, crime and blame; They live in high rise condos, They return from foreign lands. They wait over subway vents, Their hearts and heads are bent; They show-up in walk-ons, They go without for Lent. They fly in and out of space, They don't identify with race; They're picked up for vagrancy, They dance cautiously in the street. They volley warning shots Across our private dreams; They sign and seal a peace accord They're sincere to a degree. They contribute to the run-off, And spiked our holy water; They enlisted Moms and Dads, Then slaughtered sons and daughters. They made rings from ivory, And pale lamp shades from skin; They list dissipation As a personal sin. Then they did unholy things With wood and nails, then atoms; They tore at our goodly earth, Wreaked havoc with their mapping. They distilled our alcohol, Made smoking so appealing; Then they rang the tower bells, And preached we had no feelings. They dug deep for wishing wells, Grew stuff to **** our germs; They bestowed us rods and reels, And spades to dig our worms. They connected us Through wireless touch; They counseled us on loneliness, And the traps of busyness. They pronounce death is art When they hang it on a wall; Then blame it on our women, In a scene based on our fall. They're newsy opaque, In love or hate; They are the ambiguous, The they, them and all of us.

56

My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut, afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity, about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’ left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas, hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield in your blog like you never didn’t know him. I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth, fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye, bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter and overheard profanity down El Camino Real. I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox, in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues. You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer, mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires. Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression, the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end, alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic. Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo, I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song, my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown. But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells- his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me. Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato. I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug, a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.

0

Aug 1, 2012

Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC

lauren-yates

Fixation

My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut, afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity, about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’ left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas, hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield in your blog like you never didn’t know him. I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth, fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye, bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter and overheard profanity down El Camino Real. I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox, in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues. You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer, mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires. Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression, the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end, alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic. Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo, I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song, my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown. But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells- his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me. Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato. I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug, a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.

36

One, two, three, two, five, seven Rhythmless feet clad in branded shoes Adventurous, brazen fingers strolling on wide, voluptuous stalks Towering sunflowers with wide, voluptuous stalks Pristine dandelions enticing pairs of hands Pristine dandelions enticing my pair of hands And I give in, and I willingly give in Summer petals weaken the gullible heart The summer petals abandon the gullible heart One, two, three, two, five, seven Rhythmless feet now bare Adventurous, brazen fingers now dormant One, two, four, six, eight, ten Rhythmless feet clad in cheap shoes Curious fingers strolling on wide, voluptuous stalks Towering white daisies with wide, voluptuous stalks Pristine dandelions spring once more Pristine dandelions enticing my pair of hands And I give in, yet again I give in Winter petals capture the derelict heart The winter petals emulate mirrors after caressing the ramshackle heart One, two, four, six, eight, ten Rhythmless feet once again bare, now calloused Curious fingers now cautious One, two, two, two, two, two Rhythmless feet hesitating to be covered Vacillating fingers mapping the wide, voluptuous stalks Pristine dandelions surface once more Pristine dandelions displaying subtle coquetry And I stall, for heaven's sake, I stall Fall petals demonstrate its desire to the heart The fall petals fall but the bitter heart hangs on a silk thread One, two, two, two, two, two Rhythmless feet discovers a rhythm A rhythm so unpleasant, so abhorrent Vacillating fingers now curl Curl into the palm in resistance

0

May 24, 2016

May 24, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC

versutiloquent

Repetitions

One, two, three, two, five, seven Rhythmless feet clad in branded shoes Adventurous, brazen fingers strolling on wide, voluptuous stalks Towering sunflowers with wide, voluptuous stalks Pristine dandelions enticing pairs of hands Pristine dandelions enticing my pair of hands And I give in, and I willingly give in Summer petals weaken the gullible heart The summer petals abandon the gullible heart One, two, three, two, five, seven Rhythmless feet now bare Adventurous, brazen fingers now dormant One, two, four, six, eight, ten Rhythmless feet clad in cheap shoes Curious fingers strolling on wide, voluptuous stalks Towering white daisies with wide, voluptuous stalks Pristine dandelions spring once more Pristine dandelions enticing my pair of hands And I give in, yet again I give in Winter petals capture the derelict heart The winter petals emulate mirrors after caressing the ramshackle heart One, two, four, six, eight, ten Rhythmless feet once again bare, now calloused Curious fingers now cautious One, two, two, two, two, two Rhythmless feet hesitating to be covered Vacillating fingers mapping the wide, voluptuous stalks Pristine dandelions surface once more Pristine dandelions displaying subtle coquetry And I stall, for heaven's sake, I stall Fall petals demonstrate its desire to the heart The fall petals fall but the bitter heart hangs on a silk thread One, two, two, two, two, two Rhythmless feet discovers a rhythm A rhythm so unpleasant, so abhorrent Vacillating fingers now curl Curl into the palm in resistance

37

The arrow does not quiver, pulled from tongue to articulate language from the heart; Glowing red ash of comet dust, fills pointed Orion's arch. Scorched cigarette eyes that burned only for astronomic Recognition, mapping a planets line in black. Pick pocketed mind-- Struck out a balanced path Of magnetic luck drawn, Invisible moment poised for action; A bow and target thought.

0

Nov 17, 2013

Nov 17, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC

the-phantom

Stars of Sagittarius

The arrow does not quiver, pulled from tongue to articulate language from the heart; Glowing red ash of comet dust, fills pointed Orion's arch. Scorched cigarette eyes that burned only for astronomic Recognition, mapping a planets line in black. Pick pocketed mind-- Struck out a balanced path Of magnetic luck drawn, Invisible moment poised for action; A bow and target thought.

14

Polished off the filler rods now lifes got me dreaming soley about the silver lining the spooning of the woman on the moon Keep mapping the schematic, the big move heading straight to the oil soaked cash Ready again to make the great dash This time I'll save my dimes for those unavoidable hard times I'll pile it under my matress a secrete stash thats all mine Work my *** to the bone by welding up a storm Sitting all leathered up on my light weaver throne To meditate and consentrate on 13 times the suns bright Keep the eyes focused and fixate count to ten when the mechanics frustrate Troubleshoot the lines of life fix the issue then collect the lute.

0

Dec 18, 2011

Dec 18, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC

jeffrey-p-mothersill

Welders rhyme

Polished off the filler rods now lifes got me dreaming soley about the silver lining the spooning of the woman on the moon Keep mapping the schematic, the big move heading straight to the oil soaked cash Ready again to make the great dash This time I'll save my dimes for those unavoidable hard times I'll pile it under my matress a secrete stash thats all mine Work my *** to the bone by welding up a storm Sitting all leathered up on my light weaver throne To meditate and consentrate on 13 times the suns bright Keep the eyes focused and fixate count to ten when the mechanics frustrate Troubleshoot the lines of life fix the issue then collect the lute.

22

In the corner next to the underpaid electricity where no one wants to sit and reheat leftovers admitting each bite taste better than the original, hardly ready to walk down an isle of silver ware but if I were I 'd pick the Waterford to match during the reception I'll wear my glass as glasses the shallow smiles will ask my dress to snake as I crave the framed grace, the crisscrossed napkins and two bites of the others peanut butter truffle cheesecake, I'll hardly have to worry about a thing, easy on the musty air my lungs won't stop flexing this microphone everyone saw got unplugged an hour ago and as the last couple to enter will be the first to leave I'll eat a strawberry to taste the sweetness of the moment later I'll put my guard down long enough to side slip a glance to the guest who walked around laces flapping, shoulder tapping, fingers mapping with eyes stating the impossibility of believing any of it

0

May 16, 2012

May 16, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC

megan-hundley

RSVP

In the corner next to the underpaid electricity where no one wants to sit and reheat leftovers admitting each bite taste better than the original, hardly ready to walk down an isle of silver ware but if I were I 'd pick the Waterford to match during the reception I'll wear my glass as glasses the shallow smiles will ask my dress to snake as I crave the framed grace, the crisscrossed napkins and two bites of the others peanut butter truffle cheesecake, I'll hardly have to worry about a thing, easy on the musty air my lungs won't stop flexing this microphone everyone saw got unplugged an hour ago and as the last couple to enter will be the first to leave I'll eat a strawberry to taste the sweetness of the moment later I'll put my guard down long enough to side slip a glance to the guest who walked around laces flapping, shoulder tapping, fingers mapping with eyes stating the impossibility of believing any of it

19

Which face will I wear today The face I wear at work Cheerful member of the staff Underpaid - unappreciated Tiny office with no window Paperwork nobody looks at Rules just for the sake of rules Which face will I wear today The face I wear at home Always tired, depressed, besieged by a thousand minor ailments All the things I'd like to do crowded out by other things I have to do that are no fun. Which face will I wear today The face that sports a poet's cap Gel filled quill pen clutched in hand Trying every format I can learn Gleaning from the published experts Writing happy after years of sad Finding sunshine in the shadows that I live in Which face will I wear today The face above the helping hands that reach for places to be used That garner joy from mucking in to smooth the path for others Seldom thanked - often refused Bucket goal - to save a life. Which face will I wear today The face that looks back from the mirror Mapping all the tracks of age Searching for the sparkle in the eyes that joined hands with my youthful looks and did a conga-line away Which face will I wear today Picasso portrait of them all Ill and hale - strong and weak - sad and glad When seen together in the mirror it's a face I do not know and someone I don't care to meet So check the clock and choose a face Paste it on and smooth it out Comb hair over all the edges **** the light and close the door And take this face out for a walk See if anybody says hello ljm

0

Apr 17, 2017

Apr 17, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC

LoriJonesMcCaffery

WHO AM I

Which face will I wear today The face I wear at work Cheerful member of the staff Underpaid - unappreciated Tiny office with no window Paperwork nobody looks at Rules just for the sake of rules Which face will I wear today The face I wear at home Always tired, depressed, besieged by a thousand minor ailments All the things I'd like to do crowded out by other things I have to do that are no fun. Which face will I wear today The face that sports a poet's cap Gel filled quill pen clutched in hand Trying every format I can learn Gleaning from the published experts Writing happy after years of sad Finding sunshine in the shadows that I live in Which face will I wear today The face above the helping hands that reach for places to be used That garner joy from mucking in to smooth the path for others Seldom thanked - often refused Bucket goal - to save a life. Which face will I wear today The face that looks back from the mirror Mapping all the tracks of age Searching for the sparkle in the eyes that joined hands with my youthful looks and did a conga-line away Which face will I wear today Picasso portrait of them all Ill and hale - strong and weak - sad and glad When seen together in the mirror it's a face I do not know and someone I don't care to meet So check the clock and choose a face Paste it on and smooth it out Comb hair over all the edges **** the light and close the door And take this face out for a walk See if anybody says hello ljm

47

Master builder of hanging audio of the hearts, Tapping and mapping a kind of music through the vocabulary of arts, in conducting the harmonious sound of unique violin orchestra a crowd of fiddlesticks rima … up… and only ups… never downs. Audio Audio… I will go…true or false. That’s what you ask for it. If you ask me to stay, I would never say no. Have you ever seen me on the occasion of disobeying you? Neither yes, nor no… Thirsty and aridity, Words dance glamorously in the silence of the mud of bricks You will construct the magic towers of the world gust (crust). On the apex Trapper of heights you Shaking hand for all ant size human shape creatures In down. I’am member among. Time flies and melts in icy doom of the word “why”… burning agitatedly on the white eyes. Don’t look at me. Whatever had been shaped, like thunder of emotional burst digs …digs in insomnia of rapid nightmares of mine. O' liberty… Don’t be dubious of what you are going to do, Master architecture of heavenly domes of long treatise of eloquence and good sounds. Hissing….sooozzzing….biippping ….buzzzing….moooppping….murmers…. Claps and shouts. Ant shaped creatures gather under the grand dome and waiting for miraculous mesmerize. No more I am among. Master builder of raw materials in vivid shape of “new oregano (m).” Time runs and I am not “going to catch a falling star.” Time of demise. Heavy lock on mouths. Death of both of us in constructing the luxurious roads never ended in dead end of not being honest and neither being wise. Master designer of unique arches…domes…abstruse stairs… Audio…audio. I will go…for you and ours.

0

Jul 28, 2017

Jul 28, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC

ghazal-ebrahimzade

Master Builder

Master builder of hanging audio of the hearts, Tapping and mapping a kind of music through the vocabulary of arts, in conducting the harmonious sound of unique violin orchestra a crowd of fiddlesticks rima … up… and only ups… never downs. Audio Audio… I will go…true or false. That’s what you ask for it. If you ask me to stay, I would never say no. Have you ever seen me on the occasion of disobeying you? Neither yes, nor no… Thirsty and aridity, Words dance glamorously in the silence of the mud of bricks You will construct the magic towers of the world gust (crust). On the apex Trapper of heights you Shaking hand for all ant size human shape creatures In down. I’am member among. Time flies and melts in icy doom of the word “why”… burning agitatedly on the white eyes. Don’t look at me. Whatever had been shaped, like thunder of emotional burst digs …digs in insomnia of rapid nightmares of mine. O' liberty… Don’t be dubious of what you are going to do, Master architecture of heavenly domes of long treatise of eloquence and good sounds. Hissing….sooozzzing….biippping ….buzzzing….moooppping….murmers…. Claps and shouts. Ant shaped creatures gather under the grand dome and waiting for miraculous mesmerize. No more I am among. Master builder of raw materials in vivid shape of “new oregano (m).” Time runs and I am not “going to catch a falling star.” Time of demise. Heavy lock on mouths. Death of both of us in constructing the luxurious roads never ended in dead end of not being honest and neither being wise. Master designer of unique arches…domes…abstruse stairs… Audio…audio. I will go…for you and ours.

41

Your name burns at the base of my stomach, it tastes like flames when I say it but I continue to swallow, big gulps that drown out the ringing in my ears I wonder what it would have felt like to kiss your lips, taste the fire in your heart blood red lust like innocence dressed in her mother’s lipstick to trace the outline of your freckles on soft uncharted skin, I wonder what it would have felt like to be your cartographer to sail the high seas in your iris and find sand in between my toes after every visit I keep imagining the things I would say if we had met at a different time I could have started by throwing matches into your puddles, and noticing how you smile like sunlight glinting of the ocean you are across the world exploring, mapping your own skin and sailing with a crew called options, they beckon your name and make you forget that our hands ever brushed, that we ever exchanged smiles like two preschoolers making engagement rings out of fruit loops, you’re standing tall and brave shrouded in the peace of letting go while, I, wait at the port for you to return knowing at the base of my stomach that you will pass me by on your way home. “land, ** means refusing to acknowledge my tedious “hello” you will step on my apologies like the creaky old boards of a ship, and I will become the tide lapping at your bare feet

0

Jun 21, 2014

Jun 21, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC

lexixx

I am the fire, you are the water

Your name burns at the base of my stomach, it tastes like flames when I say it but I continue to swallow, big gulps that drown out the ringing in my ears I wonder what it would have felt like to kiss your lips, taste the fire in your heart blood red lust like innocence dressed in her mother’s lipstick to trace the outline of your freckles on soft uncharted skin, I wonder what it would have felt like to be your cartographer to sail the high seas in your iris and find sand in between my toes after every visit I keep imagining the things I would say if we had met at a different time I could have started by throwing matches into your puddles, and noticing how you smile like sunlight glinting of the ocean you are across the world exploring, mapping your own skin and sailing with a crew called options, they beckon your name and make you forget that our hands ever brushed, that we ever exchanged smiles like two preschoolers making engagement rings out of fruit loops, you’re standing tall and brave shrouded in the peace of letting go while, I, wait at the port for you to return knowing at the base of my stomach that you will pass me by on your way home. “land, ** means refusing to acknowledge my tedious “hello” you will step on my apologies like the creaky old boards of a ship, and I will become the tide lapping at your bare feet

47

The Prism Through Which We See Clearly ~ light saws our untrue selves with acute angles, piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features, our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here it is a dissection of our true nature why belabor, why elaborate? through the prism you color-coded self, tracted, a mapping of your intersections, what each color speaks, needs not an explication, your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation at last I see you clearly the lost and black withered limbs, the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity did you know your eyes are constant singers? through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted, your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations, your song, the production number of thy own composition, through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released, here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens, from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated through the prism, before the full length mirror, my own, unowned, never could be owned, 'mirror mirror on the wall,' warped weave of tissues, mine, the song sounds, mine, from lungs disgorged myself, diagnosed and displayed of what I see, spitting speech ceases and desists, the only thought permitted, repeated, where is my shelter now? 5/13/17 6:49am

0

May 13, 2017

May 13, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC

whereshelter

The Prism Through Which We See Clearly

The Prism Through Which We See Clearly ~ light saws our untrue selves with acute angles, piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features, our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here it is a dissection of our true nature why belabor, why elaborate? through the prism you color-coded self, tracted, a mapping of your intersections, what each color speaks, needs not an explication, your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation at last I see you clearly the lost and black withered limbs, the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity did you know your eyes are constant singers? through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted, your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations, your song, the production number of thy own composition, through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released, here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens, from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated through the prism, before the full length mirror, my own, unowned, never could be owned, 'mirror mirror on the wall,' warped weave of tissues, mine, the song sounds, mine, from lungs disgorged myself, diagnosed and displayed of what I see, spitting speech ceases and desists, the only thought permitted, repeated, where is my shelter now? 5/13/17 6:49am

37

Bodies colliding Sweat dripping Lips vigorously kissing Biting what it can Mapping every inch Touching every nook Cherishing every cranny In a messy dance It's coming That burst of emotions Desired and untamed Taking mind and body Into absolute bliss Into unholy pleasure Into carnal ecstasy I can't control it Your wet thighs Latched on to mine Locked in place Never wanting to separate Pulling me closer Locking me deeper Squeezing me tighter My mind turns blank Moving faster Thrusting deeper Fcking wilder Loving harder Every push and pull Every sweat and breath Every touch of tongue Melting my brain away Struggling together Fcking like hell Until we reach ****** Until heaven -J

0

Jan 26, 2023

Jan 26, 2023 at 4:56 AM UTC

LonelyBard

******

Bodies colliding Sweat dripping Lips vigorously kissing Biting what it can Mapping every inch Touching every nook Cherishing every cranny In a messy dance It's coming That burst of emotions Desired and untamed Taking mind and body Into absolute bliss Into unholy pleasure Into carnal ecstasy I can't control it Your wet thighs Latched on to mine Locked in place Never wanting to separate Pulling me closer Locking me deeper Squeezing me tighter My mind turns blank Moving faster Thrusting deeper Fcking wilder Loving harder Every push and pull Every sweat and breath Every touch of tongue Melting my brain away Struggling together Fcking like hell Until we reach ****** Until heaven -J

37

Starting from the Euphrates wayfinding a trail toward Babylonia to divert her waters mapping her ancient towers her eyes her desires her pudendum egressing out of the bitter river surrounding her temple until enlightenment glisters betwixt the frangible pages of her Dialogue of Pessimism: ~ *"Who is so tall as to ascend to heaven? Who is so broad as to encompass the entire world?"* ~

0

Apr 2, 2021

Apr 2, 2021 at 10:17 PM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

Ecumene

Starting from the Euphrates wayfinding a trail toward Babylonia to divert her waters mapping her ancient towers her eyes her desires her pudendum egressing out of the bitter river surrounding her temple until enlightenment glisters betwixt the frangible pages of her Dialogue of Pessimism: ~ *"Who is so tall as to ascend to heaven? Who is so broad as to encompass the entire world?"* ~

16

I tried to write a poem for the moon. I searched the earth for words worth wooing you. I made some pretty phrases for your face and your phases, and thought I’d said it all. But I’ve said nothing, because Earth words won’t work. I’ve just made a pile of noise from stupid earthling dirt. I sent the pile into space, fueled by foolish grins, and waited (with pride!) for tides to bring you in. My words were just quiet, colored dust against your atmosphere. My grins and smiles can’t carry those dusty piles of Noise into the wind hard or far enough to make you near. So I must DO. To make a journey to the moon, I’ve got to makes some moves instead of barking at your light. I’ll start with exercise, building thighs and biceps to climb the skies between you and I. Keeping shoulders wide so if You light my planet up I’ll keep you up at night. Then I’ll scan by hand your every surface, where rough meets smooth, where your smooth keeps on going, and where your toughs meet your trues. I won’t leave it to my luck to have my love reach the moon. I’ll learn how soft and where to land. I’ll learn how strong you are and when I need to have plan. When to take my helmet off when you need me to be a man. So, as moons do, if you get blue I’ll have found and know and own the fastest way to get myself to you. Next I’ll find out every stone that broke your heart, every rock that smashed your sides (starting with my pride) and make them pay for not watching their orbits. I’ll clear the way and make the oceans do three quarters worth of work. they keep the rhythm while you dance around the Earth. If the sun falls behind your time, I’ll fire that ball of fire, float around and put up flyers, and find another star to make you shine. Now, If I ever prove to be a man who got the moon I’ll still fill my pockets with dusty piles Of favorite words From Earth every time I visit you. And when I know I’m close -it’s when my smile beams in your beams- I’ll ignite those words I’ve gathered and shower you with comets upon comets of compliments. Over time, in walking your valleys, Napping in and mapping your grooves, throwing comets at your craters, and Staring at you Through the roof; One day those marks start shifting into the words I made sure to do. At midnights and sometimes noons They’ll see me from the Earth Sifting out your smile, glowing in your dunes. Written on your face in shiny piles, “This Man Is Over The Moon.”

0

Jul 16, 2021

Jul 16, 2021 at 5:46 AM UTC

iveseenit

M is for Woman

I tried to write a poem for the moon. I searched the earth for words worth wooing you. I made some pretty phrases for your face and your phases, and thought I’d said it all. But I’ve said nothing, because Earth words won’t work. I’ve just made a pile of noise from stupid earthling dirt. I sent the pile into space, fueled by foolish grins, and waited (with pride!) for tides to bring you in. My words were just quiet, colored dust against your atmosphere. My grins and smiles can’t carry those dusty piles of Noise into the wind hard or far enough to make you near. So I must DO. To make a journey to the moon, I’ve got to makes some moves instead of barking at your light. I’ll start with exercise, building thighs and biceps to climb the skies between you and I. Keeping shoulders wide so if You light my planet up I’ll keep you up at night. Then I’ll scan by hand your every surface, where rough meets smooth, where your smooth keeps on going, and where your toughs meet your trues. I won’t leave it to my luck to have my love reach the moon. I’ll learn how soft and where to land. I’ll learn how strong you are and when I need to have plan. When to take my helmet off when you need me to be a man. So, as moons do, if you get blue I’ll have found and know and own the fastest way to get myself to you. Next I’ll find out every stone that broke your heart, every rock that smashed your sides (starting with my pride) and make them pay for not watching their orbits. I’ll clear the way and make the oceans do three quarters worth of work. they keep the rhythm while you dance around the Earth. If the sun falls behind your time, I’ll fire that ball of fire, float around and put up flyers, and find another star to make you shine. Now, If I ever prove to be a man who got the moon I’ll still fill my pockets with dusty piles Of favorite words From Earth every time I visit you. And when I know I’m close -it’s when my smile beams in your beams- I’ll ignite those words I’ve gathered and shower you with comets upon comets of compliments. Over time, in walking your valleys, Napping in and mapping your grooves, throwing comets at your craters, and Staring at you Through the roof; One day those marks start shifting into the words I made sure to do. At midnights and sometimes noons They’ll see me from the Earth Sifting out your smile, glowing in your dunes. Written on your face in shiny piles, “This Man Is Over The Moon.”

71

i saw a glimpse of you in that landscape. it was painted with the colors of your time management but sometimes you were too impatient. i swore on biblical verses and too many shots that you had skyscrapers for fingers and you knew how to take the best out of me. we shaped play doh into giants that would walk, just to renovate and play god for a day since sometimes we felt too little to even be alive. we heard the top of buildings laugh, golden cities never found a place in my heart, but what do i know? maybe we just tried to direct, reflect, dissect. i can't pinpoint my points on your cork board because there are too many ads telling me about the things we lost, the moments we left on the grounds, like low light second levels and fish bowl blemishes on saturday afternoons. your catholic boy demeanor, or lack thereof, was nothing short of a misunderstanding and those who had the time wanted the resources but those who mattered didn't have the watch to tell them when to listen. heart listeners don't show up and god only talks to skyscrapers, building off of what is closer when we all need something to reach out to touch. heart listeners negotiate by linguistics and wooden tables, mapping out the streets and yet some of us just recycle the paper so we can start all over again. some of us just want to be a city, beating hearts leading giants to maybe someday talk to time.

0

Sep 18, 2011

Sep 18, 2011 at 5:52 PM UTC

danielle-jones

god spoke to skyscrapers

i saw a glimpse of you in that landscape. it was painted with the colors of your time management but sometimes you were too impatient. i swore on biblical verses and too many shots that you had skyscrapers for fingers and you knew how to take the best out of me. we shaped play doh into giants that would walk, just to renovate and play god for a day since sometimes we felt too little to even be alive. we heard the top of buildings laugh, golden cities never found a place in my heart, but what do i know? maybe we just tried to direct, reflect, dissect. i can't pinpoint my points on your cork board because there are too many ads telling me about the things we lost, the moments we left on the grounds, like low light second levels and fish bowl blemishes on saturday afternoons. your catholic boy demeanor, or lack thereof, was nothing short of a misunderstanding and those who had the time wanted the resources but those who mattered didn't have the watch to tell them when to listen. heart listeners don't show up and god only talks to skyscrapers, building off of what is closer when we all need something to reach out to touch. heart listeners negotiate by linguistics and wooden tables, mapping out the streets and yet some of us just recycle the paper so we can start all over again. some of us just want to be a city, beating hearts leading giants to maybe someday talk to time.

34