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Kymie Nov 3
The mirror holds my memories. I scan my body and relive the beauty.

I see the evidence of your mouth on my skin;
I remember the sharp sting of your teeth on my *******;
The ache as your large hands squeezed my ******* until I arched up into your palms.

The bite mark on my inner thigh reminds me of how my screams sound over the hungry noises you make when your mouth devours my center.

The bruises on my hips are a record of the moment when my ride became too much and  the spasms of my ****** pulled you over the edge.

The soreness of my muscles are a testament to the fact that once will never be enough.

You leave your mark - a branding of ownership for all to see. I bask in the glow of being yours and wonder how long you will keep me this time; wonder how long before you throw me away again for something better.

03NOV2019
aneeshans Nov 2018
Then it was raining
frequent and changing
shapes and layered into tranquil.  
We are closed inside
Like two butterflies
In a jar of cocoons
Above 1110 feet of arching silence,
along the long roads,
Look for the distant meadows

a warm kiss in the neck shortened
a long paragraph of a longer book
into a word
The air is filled with
an old book’s smell
a long-dead memory
a toys broken head
a piece of cloth that you left
an old calendar with a marked date

We will arise from this cocoon
Trespass into those woods
flew away from here.
Somewhere beyond June
Like a pilgrimage unknown
There’s daylight and ardor
she is a winged angel perched on a tulip
A Season of Woe,
A Season of Merriment
CK Baker Feb 2017
There were dividing lines
between springfield
and mariners gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the pleasant street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Rob Rutledge Sep 2016
The wise are always troubled
And the troubled seldom sleep.
For the path is dark with
Shadows deep.
The past imparts pressure,
Weary woe marked feet.

The pillow lays drenched.
Sweat beads billow flames of fear.
The sound of all our choices
Rung clear for all to hear.
The cries of countless voices
Found close to passing ears
But ghosts talk most in whispers,
Lest the living hear their tears.
Marz Ataio Aug 2018
I splattered red on a blank canvas
Randomly, without a second thought
Aggressively, impatiently
And some had the audacity to call it art

I took a pen to that marked canvas
I thought it neither right nor wrong
Defiling or glamorizing?
What I had created was lifelong

And then I cut my canvas to pieces
It felt so good to shred it all up
That blank, white canvas had turned into
A catharsis for a build up!

Who are you to tell me what to do

With MY canvas?
How dare you try and judge my art!
If all art is subjective,
Who are you to intervene in my canvas falling apart?

I love my canvas!
In all its marked up glory
My canvas is much prettier now,
Now it tells my story!
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Fall has left its mark cold on my heart,
touching life with deadly fingers, reducing all to brown and gray.

Love has faded into gray along with the coming of snow,
wiping out all warmth and memory of it’s short stays.

For love comes and goes without so much as a word,
hibernating far from my warm bed and hiding despite my prayers.

Loneliness has marked it’s territory
And love leaves me alone.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Matt Jursin Nov 2010
They say that there's a mathematical equation that explains everything in life.

But I say that not even physics bears an explanation for...the guidelines of attraction.
Our primal reactions are multiplied by...the highlights of passion.

These laws of love that linger like a lanterns lost illumination...
Like the campfire light on a clear night, leaves coals of culmination.

Sweat beads lead to bare threads and bare bodies.
And oh my, how bare bodies lead to imaginations running wild.

Cold winds inspire warm kisses and close skin.
Sincere actions aren't sins.

Bodies wound in union, formed by light and tightly bound.
Together, these twisted vines penetrate the hardest ground...
Together, harmonic souls produce passionate sounds.
Yet, still somehow, love gets lost more than love gets found.

This equation is unending...like numbers off lips that kiss the air.
Body language spoken...Our physical bonds equal eternity and pi squared.
And you know that every moment that we share is nothing short of...molecular love for the masses...
Now held captive by gravity and magnetism...

See, the last full moon marked retrograde...and if the moon affects the tide of the ocean...and our bodies are roughly 75% water...can we assume that this is the only body powerful enough to keep ours apart?

This gravity...
This pull...
It's pulling me apart...so let me pull you closer, stop pushing me away!
Hold on tight, dont let these planets drift away into a dark rift of decay.

Let your love lap upon this solid stone like a river riffles smooth sandbars into hills of higher ground.

Because baby, without your water on my beach...
I'm nothing but a desert, dry and deserted.
Love, the drug.
Lazhar Bouazzi Apr 2017
Of this verse
The core, the middle,
Is marked on its palm.
No riddle
To be guessed in a lyric
So brittle,
Whose task
Is  to hold in place
The fissured parts
Of a gypsy's fiddle.

LazharBouazzi, April 4, 2017
Mark Upright Aug 2018
The World Requires Edmund Black’s Random Acts of Doughnut Kindness (1/36)

Edmund!


a friend mutual on HP
sent me your poem below
asking me to respond appropriately,
close the tale, he said,
and that I would understand,
thinking by being marked,
I had some expertise in the matter

perhaps you are unaware that the world
exists only because there are at least thirty six^
righteous men on the earth and
personally believe,
there are more

who they are, a well kept secret,
but secrets tend to leak so...

only one,
Mr. Edmund,
employs a dozen doughnuts
(chocolate frosted)
to follow through
on the most important
commandment human
love thy neighbor
with a dozen holies

I’m told that like certain loaves of bread,
a dozen doughnuts
now have along with
wine and water
a place in the repertoire of the selector of the
thirty six

which needs noting,
a dozen
is 1/3 of thirty six

sometimes the answers are in the wholes of the holiest!


<•>
Edmund black
Jul 15

My Perfect Morning

The climate in the
World may change
But it will never
Change me
not for a moment
I truly have the most
amazing  life ,
Couldn’t be any better
I get up every morning
Next to  this gorgeous
amazing woman
Get my morning kiss
Maybe a few morning kisses
in my open mouth
If you get my drift
Cause you know I’m in love
Sit back in the back patio porch
Listening to Mother Nature’s  
Performance
while reading hellopoetry
Few minutes later
I told my lady  I had to
Go run  some errands
Not realizing yet
What’s up ahead,
Arrived and
While in line at Chrispy kreme’s
A little boy about 5 years of age
Loosing his mind over some
Chocolate frosted
Mother and father told him
They couldn’t afford it
They were only there for coffee
Little boy started
crying hysterically
My Heart Cries out for him
And chivalrously I’ve waited
in line right behind them
Just couldn’t allow
That to take place
I told dad if it was okay
I would love to buy the boy
a dozen chocolate frosted
He accepted and gave
me a hand shake
Mom teared up and dad
wouldn’t Stop thinking me
I hate seeing good
People like this
But anyway,
What an awesome moment
A moment of love sharing
And here’s the most
Amazing part of
my early morning outside
Of my morning kisses
I got the longest hug
From the little man
A handshake
From dad
And a kiss on the cheek
From mom
What can be any better
Than the life I live
I do what I want
And it’s mostly
Helping other people
That’s all that matters.
Having meanings in
Other people’s lives
Fulfills me ,
And what more
Can I say ,
My perfect
          Morning

I live life
For the inexplicable
Moment
Life is love and love
     Always gives
                    ALWAYS
^Mystical Hasidic Judaism as well as other segments of Judaism believe that there exist 36 righteous people whose role in life is to justify the purpose of humankind in the eyes of God. Jewish tradition holds that their identities are unknown to each other and that, if one of them comes to a realization of their true purpose, they would never admit it:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tzadikim_Nistarim
Cynthia May 2014
For so long I've waited for you to notice me.
Your hair has turned gray from the stress,
lost hope is marked on your face.  
I wonder if deception or courage is to blame.

The missed train
the last stop—the getaway—

Every run reflecting your cowardliness
How dare you abandon me in this hollow place,
holding the key of faith and opportunities.


Copyright© Cynthia Ulloa
All rights reserved.
Wk kortas Nov 2017
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.

Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.

You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Jeff Stier Jul 2016
My avid gaze
spoke to the rosary
of your flesh

My heartsick tremors
marked me as a wanted man
and burned the villages
of my ancestors

I was a refugee
from time
a friend to no man

My tears washed the blood
from my hands
my eyes withered
the tender bud

So when did I read poetry
on your lips?

Did your mountains fracture
and disintegrate into
sparkling shards
as mine did?

Was the moon an egg
in your basket
as it was in mine?

Little do we know
of the other
when first we clasp hands
and agree

In time
and with luck
we learn.
I tried to write a poem in the style of Pablo Neruda.
Tammy M Darby Oct 2014
Damnation haunts yesterdays footsteps
Poison tipped arrow's bearing memories
Seek their mark
The day offers no mercy or  respite
From the long night screams in the dark

Salty sweat drops upon burning dreams
Awaken oh soul to the blackness and fear
Its but a fleeting moment of millenniums to come
Marked so carefully on a calendar of tears

Turning helpless eyes away from the light
Placing trembling hand upon forever's door
Incomprehensible words muttered under your breath
Slipping into oblivion
Off sanity's sharpened edge.


@ Tammy M. Darby Oct. 5, 2014
All Material Stored in Author Base.
AprilDawn Sep 2015
holiday
mid afternoon
late
summer sun
played
hide and peek
through sky high
leaf umbrellas
we all scrambled
past the picnic table
for the perfect light
to frame
that young face
just right
her smile
is never really
in the shade
we finally found  
some spots
that made the shots
and marked
another day
of family life
minus
you
in any frame
A labor day picnic , trying to move forward with loss, yet  the undertone of sadness  still  peeks around  everyday corners.
JV Beaupre May 2016
I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, "Who wants my sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." I won't tell you what he really said. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettio's and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month.1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…” 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Deferred, 1964.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness, 1968.

US science jobs  dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. 1972.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border, why?
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

I said, "May be there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

II. In the present century....

And what have I learned? Here's advice for the next ones: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Final retirement. 2015.

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. But I moved on, and came back. There is still problem 12-19 in Becker's mechanics and it still needs solving. 2016 and continuing.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.
Michael May 2015
I made note of my run
Marked it in the leftmost lane
Speedy Gonzales Saturday mornings
with the radio on
drown out my panic
and the caricature of my self-loathing
with a schedule
song, speech, song
forgetting the nostalgic
High pitched sounds of
Getting anywhere
Too quickly to measure accurately
I'm already halfway there
My destination highlighted
On the map in my dad's old truck
Tucked in the pocket behind the seat
Curled gently and careworn
I know this route
It has your name on it
and I'll be there soon
you just got there in a hurry
fast as lightning
Anthony Perry Mar 2016
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain

Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives

Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade

Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Lady Ravenhill Feb 2017
There is a place, deeply buried,
         that you magically healed
So lightly, your mindful touch
         caressed the pained places

Gingerly and one by one, my scars,
         sweetly you cleansed them
Broke the seals of time and
         slid open the panes
To let your purifying light pour in

That magic of yours, was love
         and being in your presence
Is the Sun on my pale marked skin
         after years hiding in darkness
©LadyofRavenhill 02/24/17
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Drunk, we staggered home.

Aware of having been
some
other where
a while

That woman, she could answer

any question rebbi axt,
Ohhhhmyyy

she laugh and say, Dude, I got the Intent-net,
in my hand

That's more than a list of numbers, this
accounting idle words going on, on going, as fast as

lightning, at the scale, of, say

cat-ions ifiying an-ions
at random,
seen systematical, from a distance
zoom out
at the scale, of, say
Great Deep Field.

Center you, I'm no matter.

synchro
now

zoom out
Use that steam program
Universe Sandbox,
you gotta see that to imagine this, right,

and next is what you keep saying is unbelievable,
but its not.

Good things come to them
to whom
good makes more sense.

Earth from the moon POV

Confusion flux, spurtual,  caused by the solar flare of all solar flares,
one side

Whooshing the Ice left from Patton's flood
into steam, the stuff, not the app,

which swooshhhesssssssssss smack
into the freezing repurcussions
from the daark side…

The Noah event, that was bad,
This one, the last one, this just previous one,

was spiritual. Magnitudes incomparable
(save in parable and example, exemplar gratis,
says the bodiless being, with a roll of  my wrist and a bow)

At that very time on the side away from the flare,
the daark side of the planet, this one…

a Donald Patton nitrogen snow ball
that nearly breached Roche's limit,

too not nearly enough,
dis -integration
The atmosphere freezes
to the quark level, snap,

the cold
explosive
forward momentum
booms a nitrogen bubble now
minusminusminus
solid nitrogen
melting

any heat locked in flare fired steam,
what was once the water
that washed away the gods and locked their cities
of ivory under the ice

on the sunny side,
where now, then,

a solar flare like legends build empires upon
has passed, fires rage

there were survivors who lived to tell

and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,

Only miners survived, gold digger mostly,
few alchemists who knew the mystery in mercury,
Lost was all knowing but to a very few,
who truth be told had been the owner's
well kept servants, ministers of this and that
they perished with all the fires touched

we diggers, we only marvel

How bits of time, exact as ours, can be seen happening
all in bubble of Mercury. Cooked out red rock like these.

"Blood o' the gods of old, swat I'astold."

Messages from the gods, grandma, said, "Mercury calls for gold, gold listens, when fire's hottern fire can be,
unless
the breath of men blow on the coals", we all said that last part and blew out the light. G'night


but a story told a wee bit here a qubit there
here a little, there a little
line upon line,
precept upon precept,

'cept no body knows what I know about cept,

capere, a story starts, a provisioning tale. Wait.

it means grip. like a tool. rock breaks nut.

Paper covers rock, but scissors are so far in the future
that now, my time, my mind wanders after whys

this authoritative telling of the story, in it,
none know the terminal tale.

As in times past, there were survivors who lived to tell

and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,

Tho' here's a clue.
Meek's not bad,
stupid, for no reason, is.

Living long for the sake of a song heard once,
in dream luring me on, promising right now, I'll

know what it's like to see, oh

POV I made this clear some time ago,
time is less predictable than any imagined, before 2018
when, you know…

Even those tales old drunk Hesiod sold
in the Hittite tavern at Delphi,

Chronos thought wrong in those,
he ruled but for the merest gleam o'

Time, then a bubble gen erated by the thought of
opposition to transition,
nothing to something,
pushing /pushing back
stretch/snap/spark
that takes power, pulsing power, throbbing power

push/stretch
glow/snap
you know, imagine, glowing - cheat, think 2018 CG
glow/snap
Planc time,
each time the bubble pushes back
a ripple
imagine a clock, later, if you believe then, you must.

Now, see the bubble of all men have imagined,
since the time when such a bubble was only evil,
continually.

It went viral.
Noah we know for sure, almost, survived, ? Cushites kept records. In Africa.
Akkad kept record, too.
Some Hopi survived somehow and they have a tale.

They say they know the story is ten thousand years old,
I've been to a crossroads
on their journey,
stories
tell of it, still, today.

Holy means marked for good reason.
Marked with clues, not riddles, maps

Sacred means secret means hidden away for use,
not common, every day, quotidian use, right use.

Time, the opposing force, is precious to us all.
In time, we do all we can and die,

in ever, we expand, in no time at all. I imagine.

You fill it. Now, Your expandable mind's time,

time pushes from the outside,
wisdom pushes from the inside,

And so it goes, life goes on and music grows on ya,

Amusing how they do that, teeny muses dancing
shiva on the tip of my tongue,

singings songs in tongues I've never known
if they
are words on tongues
or sounds on tongues,

notes,

Baysian Binary Cross Validation
still ends with some people thinkin'
"it is finished" left them with a ton o'weight,
that's wrong, insist resistance.

Some, heavy duty, leaders of lambs, they claim
power in their mouths, spoken from fixed hearts,

but fixed upon, is truly the song,
said, words are only
little bits of whole sym ulacrum of re-ify-ing

where broken things re-pair, and life goes on…

"fixed, my heart is fixed",
no, your heart is machine of the most magnificent design, perfected,
a time at a time.
Flexing, pacing time itself, faster slower,

try some time
alone
be still, pond still

I know the story broke,
I could not hold it.

In the night, bitter cold
Frozen fragile...

There are pieces scattered every

where, everywhere
there is time, there is at least, a point

a story may stand upon and ask an angel
to dance.
Dance, give it some flare, what do we care?

Nobody's watching, but that fly.
This is read, by me at http://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton
Life is good at my house, thankyou. A reader is needed more than words can tell. My posts are a book now, few stand solidly on their own. Thank you if you spend your time perusing them please tell me where I muddy the flow, or break the story.
Desmond the poet Aug 2018
In the beginning there was a reader, poet, pen and paper.
Like an artist towards a stage, a
Poet approached the paper for freedom of expression.
The poet had secrets he couldn’t trust anyone to keep.
The feelings and secrets were so ocean deep.

The poet saw bias and hypocritical verdicts through reader’s eyes.
The poet trusted the paper and pen instead of readers.
Readers know not the poet’s pain, misery, and happiness.
Only God knows the poet's expression via a pen on paper.

Readers see the pen’s ink on paper.
They don’t see tear’s marked on the poet’s face.
Neither do they see the smile on the poet’s face.
The pen and paper is just the poet’s podium for freedom of expression.
Neither pen nor paper however knows the depth of a poet’s feelings.
This is just to say there's a lot more to poet than what the readers see.
Seek
Solution
Need
Restitution
When will
These people
Marked by
Color
And known
By grace
Have a voice
That isn’t only
A chorus
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