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Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.

Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.

Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.

Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.  
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
CA Guilfoyle Feb 2018
In this park there are birds atop ice cakes
stiff mittened kids, cold nosed and half froze
they slide on paths of glass, toward home.
A small stream cuts through this place,
black water humming with coots and ducks.
Long toothed icicles waiting to impale the earth.
Beneath our feet, we ***** and shatter tiny frozen ponds,
revealing muddied blades of grass, green as in summer.
A myriad of birds in the sun, come to puff and quiver,
but soon the mountain clouds will come to shroud
the day, the sky so cold, a frost in grey and silver.

You have brought back these feelings
Resurfaced those fears
Of the fire inside
that had so many tears
A weak flame that was dying
Alive once again
Has now muddied the line
between lover and friend

That's how it goes for me
I don't know about you
The words passing might be
in that moment were true
They kept traveling on
Possibly a comet
As my feelings grow strong
Expectations not met

Once again feel a fool
Even though it's not true
And my heart gave to you
Time again I will do
But this time not the same
It's because you weren't here
Could not reach out and touch
So our bodies weren't shared

Just the words that were said
And the sound of your voice
Resurrect from the dead
Could not stop; Had no choice
Seems like that's how it is
In your lasso I'm snared
All it takes is one tug
And again I will care

Pilot light to a stove
A slight twist and it strikes
You've invaded my heart
Bursting flame will ignite
But if carelessly handled
It's me who gets burned
Walked all over and trampled
Same dolt who won't learn

I have built up the walls
But we're both trapped inside
The tight space is so small
There's nowhere I can hide

Face-to-face with you now
It begins and it ends
I'll get through it somehow
Are we lovers or friends?
Written: October 30, 2018

All rights reserved.
[Anapestic Tetrameter format]
K Balachandran Sep 2018
Layers of mud and dirt,
Fill homes water commandeered;
Human lives eclipsed!
Cutezeni Jul 2017
Life is colourful
But not in the way I'd like,
Its shades keep changing
From lemon to blue to burgundy,
Feels like I'm living
In a constant state of melancholy.

Tried hard not to stare
At the melody that kept swirling
In front of my eyes
And through my ears,
Sometimes I forgot breathing.
And it trapped me into the deep
Clawed hard to come up from beneath,
But it was hard to hold on
The walls were too steep.

Never thought I'd wish
For a colourless life of black and white,
Of boring creatures and ordinary sight..
Never thought I'd be the one
To want my seeds to sow,
To want my roots to dig deep and grow.

Maybe flowing with the wind
Is not for me,
Free-falling is not the same as flying,
Peter should leave me alone now,
I don't want to end up dying.

Thought I almost saw
Heaven from where I was,
But it lay barren
With no gates or guards,
Or even angels or gods,
Either the books or my mind are lying,
It is overrated to wish for dying.

But I made it through
Somehow I swam back ashore,
Fought the muddied waters that blinded me,
Somehow I found my door.
And to sanity I return,
With lessons and scars that still burn
It's good to look ahead with clarity,
It's good to be back to reality.
David R Oct 2018
The Infinite beckons,
‘Come find Me
In the darkness
Of body, soul and mind.’

Body bloodied,
Soul sullied,
Mind muddied.

Voices swirling,
Muffled yearning.

The ego subsides,
The veils lift.

No myth or mist,
No separation or drift.

With open eyes,
Behold the Master.
Egeria Litha Feb 11
A man on the spectrum

he barely makes the status

he is the first color in the rainbow

the darkest shade to define the fade

You barely notice his autistic ways
his mother never considered it

as he watched 15 hours of tv a day

his teachers mistook him for passive

girls thought he was dorky and shy

men thought he was obedient

no one noticed his blank eyes or
complete lack of ****** drive

He only enjoys holding and kissing me
any farther and he starts having a panic attack

but he bleeds red for the one he cares about
he bleeds the color of his rainbow

and he can't handle arguments
with sarcasm and lies
they confuse his simple mind

his heart is good and his thoughts
are budda like

And maybe if his mother caught on

to his small vocabulary

and heard his speech impediment,

he would have ended up

brown from the earth

muddied with medications

a patch nothing grows on

with a title that would haunt him all his life

Rohan Press Dec 2018
Expressions lax at the crossroads.

Their worn tracks are like
little smiles (stained, muddied,
darkened) on evening's
soft purchase.

— I'm clutching dry lips
on these bleeding
little mouths.

— I'm remembering
to be as stars:

so closely far away from you.
the crossroads is where i kept my composure.

where you—oh, sweet you—looked up at me.
Once the world was pure in design
Twice the air was sullied
Thrice the demons came forth to dine

Once the world was pure in ideals
Twice the water grew red and muddied
Thrice by the angels who broke the seals

Once the world was pure in responses
Twice the earth was spilt
Thrice the gods of man spat nothing but nonsense

Once the world was pure in expansion
Twice the flora and fauna were made ashes
Thrice the world was thrown into ****’s mansion

Once the world was pure
Twice it fell
Thrice was made no more
Part three
(They’re exerpts from my book)
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the **** were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

*    *      *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical


a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.


I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

Kevin Aug 2018
Accepted clarity
Muddied only
By half-truths
Perceived as real
                       A contrived conscience
                       With volume control
                       Lowered by convenience
                       And narcissistic survival
The retail outlet
Of self-patted shoulders
Selling in real time
One's own significance
                       Safety in numbers
                       A comfort of thought
                       The inclusive community
                       Of light
                       Through fractured prisms
Sought in the scope
Of a petri dish
There be an artisan
Peering through the lens
An expert in restoration
Data Apr 2018
Love does not come to those who wait:

It is the river running through the turning mill,
passed the ears of corn a-sway, through the fisher’s net
on its way to the sea, passed the eye of the silvered fish
caught in cords, strung in warp and weft,
It is the tide that washes ashore against the river’s flow,
It is the brackish estuary, muddied waters in turmoil,
the dark volute, the dangerous eye of the eagle’s flight
soaring aloft, circling convections in preys pursuit,
It is the edge of a cloud against the blue sky.
It is the autumn leaf red against the red horizon.
It is the morning, and to lean against sleeping skin,
to kiss the scent at your nape, to begin each day
with you this way, renewed,
It is dawn, the dewdrop of your eye,
and when dusk returns, your profile turns before
the gathering dark and your smile is light.
Love does not wait for you to recognise the moment

when you realise:

love does not linger when you lie,
when I run from you (when I run to you)
for love does not lie

when I ask you and you reply.

Love is the boat in which we cross from side to side,
in which we traverse the ocean green and wide,
Then, I am the canvas sail and you are the wind.
When gulls cry, I am determined—the arm against the oar,
When you weep, I wonder if we’ll ever reach the safety

of the bay where the gulls fly, where the jetty juts into the calm
of your shore, where I gaze into the pool of your eye, and you whisper,

‘Shall we stay here forever?’


by Data © April 2018
Steve Page Feb 4

[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]

We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the prayers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push.  You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.

Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.

The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit.  The prayers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half.  Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.

The prayers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of prayers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their co-ordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.

The prayers drive on.  The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH. 

The opposition's footing is slipping, the prayers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses.  Oh, that must have hurt!

But there's no time for complacency, the prayers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.

This is a joy to see.  The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise.  But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of prayers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The prayers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Back to you in the studio.
Inspired by the Six Nations tournament
Rj Aug 2018
It is true that
The hyacinth flowers on the hill
Will be trampled and muddied
By the calloused, bare feet of all who tread there
Until they are dead and rotted
But I ask you to find a place
Where the streams flow rapidly,
Harsh and unforgiving,
Dangerous enough so that no man will dare cross,
No hand may pluck you from the ground
And grow there.
Next to the water of the stream,
In the midst of all else good and holy,
Safe from the reaches of men,
You will grow,
Bright purple and untarnished,
Stunning in your own right
And I will walk the dead hill,
I will try and brave the harsh waters,
If only to see you with my own eyes.
I wrote a poem inspired by an old poem. Guess which one? It's rlly obvious loll anyways sorry for the weird language and stuff I'm not used to writing in other styles
Wk kortas Sep 2018
The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.  
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.  
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.  
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.
Madison Sep 2018
I'm feeling quite neurotic, to put it plain.

My conscience is muddied, mind soaked through with rain.

Nothing feels right, no comfort will do.

Might dig myself a hole and stay there a day or two

Won't walk on the land, just admire the view.

There seems to be nothing that can make me feel sane

And yet, you dig deep, try to keep me sane.
Another assigned piece, this time to take a famous rhyming piece of writing and rewrite everything but the final, rhyming word. I used the first verse of Blind Melon's "No Rain."
LVQuigley Mar 24
shame rips at my face the way you ripped at my clothes,
it was my choice to be there with you,
my voice that tumbled out consent,
but even in the moment I felt so far away.

It was meaningless, alcohol fueled and arbitary.
Is it society or my own ideals that make me feel this way?
That one drunken night with you, can undo all my progress
and send me spiralling back into this emptiness
that I know so well

I don't hate you, I dont like you either,
is that the point?
I hate myself, I hate that I had to scramble from your bed this morning with last nights makeup still muddied on my face,

I hate that the reflection in my mirror this morning cant accept who she's become.

— The End —