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Victor Marques Dec 2012
Sentimento multicolor

Na esperança do insólito, sentimento multicolor…
Deixar falar palavras inertes com amor,
No caminho seguidores fiéis,
Pedras preciosas e anéis,
Montanhas esverdeadas cogitam,
O inesperado e deslumbrante acontece…

Victor Marques
Pearson Bolt Dec 2016
we are not
who we are
at our best
anymore
than we are
the sum
of our worst
aspects.
we are
what we pretend to be:
misanthropes
possessed of empathy.
walking paradoxes.
amalgamations.
spectrums
in multicolor.
Samuel Nov 2012
Heavy breath, light
spirits
        as if my mind has at last
recognized the implications of not
   moving
           and decided to love and
                        love again.
At his little hippie college
he shows me a *** that looks like a wall
in a Rwandan museum, all skulls, he

learned clay in the Rift Valley
boarding school, on a kick wheel,
still his favorite

My brother is a potter
multicolor plaid shorts
little goatee

Banjo
Japan dreams
girl from Mozambique.

When we were little in Loiyangalani
we made tiny huts out of obsidian
while our Rhodesian Ridgebacks

sniffed the ground for cobras
sand vipers
scorpions

while twenty camels
walked by in a row
followed by tiny replicas

My brother is a potter, says to me
'When I am doing this I am
doing what I was created to do'

He makes a green and blue
candleholder for me which he calls
'The Islands,' light escapes through many holes

which look like sea turtles
pockets of air and
an atomic bomb just gone off

we turn off the lights
in my room in the hood,
snorkel in candlelight

My brother gives me
Rumi, incense, peace flags
We walk the silent night

smoke a clove
look at stars
like we used to do in the African riverbeds
Victor Marques Aug 2010
Sinto a tua falta

Perplexo com a cumplicidade, com a intimidade que nos liga,
Misto do amor, de uma saudade vivida.
Anestesiado pela sensação multicolor,
Paciente na cama do amor.

Pertinência dum amor sentido,
Porto sem teu abrigo,
Cadeia com grade prateada,
Musa multifacetada…

Pastoril é o quadro do meu pensamento,
Lençóis soltos ao vento,
Teus olhos com a maré alta,
Sinto a tua falta.

Victor Marques
Pearson Bolt Feb 2016
some 4.5 billion years ago
the atoms that would coalesce
to ***** your evanescent features
detoured to a lonely chunk of
rock aimlessly adrift in the
Milky Way Galaxy

you stayed alive by pure instinct
fight or flight
you could not thrive
yet you survived nature's
attempts to crush you in
her fearsome jaws

bits of you walked with dinosaurs
bone fragments ground to dust and
reformed over eons of evolution until
you stood upright and found a
tongue to describe planet Earth

remnants of those dead languages
live on to this very day
they inhabit the ink stains i
leave upon this yellowed page
while folk tunes croon over
my shoulder and Dallas Green
breathes a city in multicolor

a map of the universe is etched
across your face and i cannot escape
the smirk that spread with mirth
nor erase the memory of eyes
like interstellar space staring
back at me
unblinking
for 4 minutes that felt
simultaneously like a lifetime
and the space between
2 fractions of a millisecond

you came from the Big Bang
when the cells that would form
our bodies were forged in the
cores of supernovas exploding
across the cosmos and we've
been on a collision course ever since
an unstoppable force and
an immovable object
for matter
can neither be created
nor destroyed
jerard gartlin Feb 2010
oh how the coward counts his cards
blackjack entrapment habits
at least there's free drinks!
what a time saver:
enabling 2 addictions at once,
maybe i'll save some money this way...
hit hit hit stay, embrace
hug my hands around the chips
my multicolor relatives
i'm betting on embellishments,
time to double up or split
my hand's as steady as my faith in god
so i'm shaking like an epileptic
seizing with the scenery
blinking with the burning lights
knee-deep in unending debt
i'll go all in on my hesitance
& sleep on this abandoned bench
Life, the present tense
Pleasant and promising
Singular & plural
Fair blend of gender
Active noise, passive voice
The grammar of life

Life is intense,
Glowing and glorious;
Blue blown umbrella
For wide void exposure
Feather touch weather
For cool n’ calm respite
Illuminated one half
To eke out living  
Glittering dark on other half
To rest and recuperate    

Aroma of smiling flowers
Multicolor corona  
Green rich panorama
Overseeing mountains
Rousing roaring oceans
Patrolling Hydro Power Puffs
Add bonus to the bevy
What a glamorous globe in space!
Victor Marques Jan 2012
O Meu Eu

Imperativamente condicionado pelo meu eu,
Tempestade arrebatadora de meu imbróglio,
Sonetos de Inverno a óleo,
Inconstância que não magoa, mas adoeceu.

Incansavelmente ser perene,
Sustentado com a nostalgia,
Navio sem proa nem leme,
Rebento de tristeza e alegria.

Cortejado em corte divinal,
Infortúnio é sempre fatal,
Pintura lastimável de um grande pintor,
Estigma do meu eu multicolor.


Victor Marques
Ricky Rose Jul 2011
Dreams of enchantment swirls in my head! Majestically fluttering at all points of my mortal being. Images so serene I daze in amazement. Power frozen iceberg cold, weak with no movement. I'm being pulled in.

Yet no physical motion, how could this be? Eyes locked to yours paralyzed in ecstasy. Thoughts of intimacy fill me! Your my jungle juice, sunshine in the rain. Bestow a multicolor silk laced bow. Metal to a magnet, I'm charged with passion. Scenes at work with the aroma of your fruitfulness. The aromatic taste of cinnamon apple, cherry red!
Pearson Bolt Mar 2016
witches adorn the front covers
of ecofeminist zines
in an anarchist bookstore
nestled on the Left Bank
of Seattle's waterfront

rare rays of sunlight
filter through sheer curtains
photons glimmering
through fading droplets
clinging to cracked panes
refracting multicolor

i sit in the window-seat
listening to a homeless
balladeer's somber renditions
of Jonny Cash and Woodie Guthrie
serenading the locals bustling
down Pike Street Market
while the Olympic Mountains
keep their vigil
across a lonely bay

Emma Goldman whispers
for Alexander Berkman
and i balance on mismatched cushions
considering Proudhon's insistent
inquiries while Bakunin smirks  
nursing secret heresies of insurrection

colorful posters are paper-machéd
across the walls with slogans of struggle
scrawled in sisterhood and solidarity
stickers plaster the narrow halls
encouraging visitors to Smash Capitalism!
or Read A ******* Book
as jam-packed patrons chance
sly peaks at the black flag
suspended in the back room

a faint breeze flutters intermittently
drifting across the open threshold
lifting spirits as if sifting
through grains of sand
not unlike a child
digging for answers
armed with one
monosyllabic question

why?

the banner
cheerfully pirouettes  
for a revolution
without dancing
is not one worth having
Claire Ellen Feb 2013
All this candy is making me sick,
Or maybe iys me thinking of the huge ****,
You really are.
Dont go to far,
Tomorrow I'm running your face,
Into the ground; at my own pace.
Your to charming, to sweet smile,
Now just makes me want to bile.
I promise you, I'll be so much bigger,
And you'll be nothing more than a digger,
Digging for love, digging for lust,
And it will all be a bust,
Because you don't dig for love,
You stumble upon it, you find it,
You never let go of it, once you have it.
I hope someday I see you somewhere,
Somewhere like a state fair.
So I can look at you again,
And tell you how great I really am,
Just do you can see,
How much you really meant to me;
I gave, and gave,
I have you my all, and tore down my wall,
Hell, I gave you every last bit,
And you took me down, and stole my virginity!
But, Sam, I realize I hardly know
Anything about you, it was all for show.
I don't even know your favorite color,
But if I had to guess, it'd be multicolor;
"Multi"- for the two face you wear,
Red for the love we shared,
Blue for how far away I want to be from you,
Green for all the memories I have,
Black for all our physical touches,
Yellow for your immaturity you pegged on me,
And purple for how great you think you are.
Oh and I hope you don't care,
I'm going to party and drink,
Until I just can't think!
I'm going to do what I want,
I don't care if you think I'm a ****.
**** my kiss, baby, while you can,
Because tomorrow, I'll be gone.
It was fun for me, while it lasted,
Now, I don't give a blasted,
Thing you do. Talk to you in a year or two,
I'll stop in, with out notice, "how do you do?".
I'm going to listen to my music,
Sam, your right, we just didn't work,
You didn't try more than a dumb baby with a fork.
Please, don't make another excuse,
For why your not around to make amuse,
Stop with the jokes,
Stop with the show.
Good bye,
I hope you live a long life,
With out me.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2015
THE GARDEN OF ACCEPTANCE

Shadows are my friends these days.
Nobody can see me crying in the dark.
While the others lie around in the sun
I seek out somber arbors in the park.
The muted light of leaves and limbs
Caress the aches within my heart
And whisper to me to just relax
And let the healing grieving start.

Sometimes I hear some music there
Playing so softly in my inner soul.
I hope to find the inner strength
To think I might someday be whole
Instead of this half a person here
Who doesn’t even notice a sunrise
That spends its multicolor glory
Like a painted cathedral for my eyes.

If people pass and I notice them
They don’t serve to make me sad
Seeing them so happy together
Being contented or even a bit glad,
Because I am here in this serenity
I include them in my private reverie.
The message that life goes on does
Brings restful meditation to me.

But, mostly it’s the natural things;
The birds and the variegated leaves,
The flowers, and cool green lawns
That soothe, and comfort and please.
They slowly help me to realize
That the world in not all about me.
We have to let our sadness fall behind
To truly understand how to be free.

Brent Kincaid
4/3/2015
Adrián Poveda Sep 2015
Líneas, trazos, sonidos, me he dado cuenta que percibo frases ocultas, sin presencia verbal, literalmente perceptibles desde mi nube, creo que empiezo con imaginar un fin, hechos del futuro, idea tras idea, haciendo historias de un segundo que han durado una eternidad.

¿No es así como pasa?
Inicias con la página en blanco, a menudo se acerca una pluma, un momento de vacío; el destino puede elegir cualquier dirección, me apodera la curiosidad, ahí, en ese momento, la pluma me esta usando, llenando los vacíos con líneas de locura, desangrándose su tinta me dibuja, y a los demás, de esa forma oscura y a la vez multicolor; trazos en mis líneas que van sin sentido, un mundo alterno, vertical a lo que podría ser involuntariamente, si cayera en la gravedad.
Un momento en que la pluma me permite ser alguien más.

Copyright © 2015 Adrián Poveda All Rights Reserved
Scott T Jun 2011
I was happy on the train last night
On my own in the clinic white light
With earphones in and eyes closed
I smiled

Stewing in my loneliness, warm
With the country unraveling, free form
I couldn’t explain why and that was why
I smiled

I counted my problems and found four
Realized they didn’t matter anymore
Because time was on my side
I smiled

Zipping past personal dramas
Speeding past sleeping farmers
Coming back home to my bed
I smiled

I took the long way home that night
Stepping under multicolor street light
Got home and gazed and the ceiling
I smiled
Victor Marques Dec 2012
Argumentos que encaixam num turbilhão

Sentimentos que se juntam no átrio ao luar,
Mão tuas e de mais ninguém,
Veleiros de outrora, do além,
Sorriso multicolor que tu tens…

Deixa-me embebedar em tudo que acredito,
Queres o céu perdido no infinito.
Caminhas vagarosa e calma,
Melodia que sacia tua alma.

Sensatez e furor que cessam,
Ruído de amor e paixão,
Argumentos de um turbilhão,
Estrelas que a ti confessam…

Victor Marques
Gerardo Manllo Nov 2018
traveling the world around my neck
like a big hug, it comforts, does not suffocate
Toronto to Lisbon
Dallas to Spain
each and every city reminds me of your name

it felt my song and my tears it wept
apparently you're not someone I can forget
for dreams came true while it warmed my chest
those dreams were empty 'cause you were not there

forever with me, like it or not
although it was yours, to me you passed it on
miles and miles, we're still far from each other
always holding on tight to your scarf, multicolor
26/11/18
Victor Marques Apr 2013
Palavra inerte chamada amor

Na esperança, no sentimento multicolor,
A palavra inerte chamada amor,
Os santos são todos fiéis,
Os casados até nem usam anéis,
As montanhas esverdeadas que por amor meditam,
Pensadores sem nada dizer parece que gritam,
O deslumbrante e inerte amor tudo compromete,
O sapo canta amor no lago que o fortalece.

A noite cobre o céu sem pudor,
Do peito jorra e sai amor,
As nuvens de um branco censurado,
Pecado nunca confessado.
O amor inerte parece que tem asas,
Os salgueiros estão lá com folhas salpicadas,
O inerte amor tem penumbra e também tem luz,
Eu sinto o balançar que oscilando que seduz.

Victor Marques
Devin Weaver Feb 2013
I would that I could clasp hands, at once, with every diasporic man
And our hands could merge and rise up as a single fist
And all the subjective shades of our own colors and the
Daze of our own druthers would be shed in the process
Yes, I find that I absorb the pain around me like a fine osmosis
That unifies the minds forged in our generation’s social suffering
And I wish my skin would grow akin and reflect a synthesis
Because there is no bliss when men bisect people into “us” and “them”

I would that I could turn my insides out and transform my ***
Organs, as a moth does surge inside a closeted cocoon
Only to emerge with wings and the power of new found flight
And I wonder if I too could sing the perspective of new heights
Because there is only ******* in a world where those who
Share the same ****** shape cannot share the same heart
Are condemned to be kept apart by taboos viewed through institution
Started by confused men, afraid to admit that making love is a free art

I would that I could push my hand into the ground and grow
Roots that drive deep, past the sand, beyond the rending flesh
Of our loved ones’ bodies and mesh with the immortal earth
As if I could bolster, with my chemical composite, the site of true birth
Because when the mightiest of the world’s glories can be
Bought and sold for the price of arbitrary ******* figures
Written in the blood of forests, in the torn face of mountains
Then we can stop ignoring the forlorn thought of dark days before us

I would that I could bring back all those lost before their time
That a rhyme could sting the cold cheeks of slaves who never
Saw a western sunrise comprised of multicolor, of many brothers
That I could brush softly the minds of couples buried not together
And scream to them that time left some bereft of victories
Yet to shape their scene, yet to substantiate their dreams

Then I would quickly reseal the doors of slumber that guard
The restless dreamers of the past before revealing the
Horrors of societies stepping once forward, then twice back
Yes, before the haunting words of hateful choruses should
Ever shape their reposeful, moral-less, and peaceful sleep
For the hopeful eyes of soulful passing activists should never weep.
A Lopez Mar 2016
Wild woman of
The wilderness
Not giving into
The Wiles of my
Past. Ravenous
For multicolor
Glass, to see
Through the
Kaleidoscope
Of endearment.
Attachment I
Feel it, as
materfamilias
Of  the most
Extreme commitment
Where amor is the door
You take in and out.
JC Lucas Apr 2016
I've tried portaiture,
but for some old reason
I find it hard
to eulogize the living.

And when I do try,
the details just never seem
to fit right,
it's too much
or not enough
or just plain inaccurate,
from a few steps back.

I'll paint your actions, alright
'cause I can watch those happen
start to finish,
but I wouldn't pretend to be good enough
to encapsulate a whole person
-all that transient multicolor light under your halo-
with my petty vain jabber,
my incomplete vocabulary
of unflattering grunts-

take it as a compliment.
Pearson Bolt Dec 2016
buttressed by bisected nebulae
our galaxies coalesce.
soft-spoken Andromeda hurtling
towards a somber Milky Way.
a slow dance plays
to the crooning toons
of Brand New. am i experiencing Deja Entendu
or are the Devil and God
merely raging inside us?

Christmas lights, distant as parsecs,
twinkle every which way we look.
multicolor displays flash
in dizzying arrays, winking in and out,
drizzling like dripping icicles. sad songs
spill continuously from the stereo as we drive
through one neighborhood after the next,
aimless in our contentment.

it's half-past-2:00
in the morning and i'm singing Panic!
at the Disco with (and for) you. i write of sins
and hope this doesn't end in tragedy
as Trade Wind shifts and entreats us
to drift listless as asteroids
rocked to sleep in the arms
of an ambivalent cosmos.

we may all be made of star stuff,
but we both agree:
there's no god who could love this world.
so as we lift crude gestures
to an apathetic sky, we realize
the task falls to us. we must love,
for beauty persists
in spite of all the sorrow.

i am happy to spin perpetually,
elastic and ecstatic in your orbit.
for every now and then your beams of light
filter through my prism and provide
another connection along
our wavelength.
Jesus Christ, what have I done.
Acquired the battery can, yes,
But I shall soon go mad.

It buzzes and groans with the earsplitting capacity of an explosion, yet I am the only one who is able to hear it.
It's multicolor bolts pulsate my every nerve; ruin my every chance of survival.
Started out as ecstasy...
                                                      ­           ...And continues as madness.
The battery can fits into my hand, takes the shape of every fissure.
It knows me.
It wants me inside of it, another soul in the unforgiving and unrelenting abyss of electricity.
My senses are warping.
Vision blurring, Check. Limbs numbing, Check.
My corpse falls to the floor. The only thing not hollowed out is my thinking capacity. The battery can rolls out of my hand 3 or 4 feet and I am enveloped in a blue light.
It's uncomfortably warm in here, and the smell of a burnt corpse tingles my nose.
Heaven is a lot different than I expected.
Let me tell you, there is not really a definite point to this poem. The battery can is what you imagine. I gotta leave SOME of these parts for you to do for me!
Anais Vionet Oct 2022
It was one of those gray but somehow bright-skied New England Wednesday mornings that made you sad for anyone who wasn’t there. Fall freshness demanded my attention, like a hungry pet, from every open lattice-window in our stuffy common room.

As I watched, for a marvelous moment, the world was a cartoon whirly-gig. Trees, writhed, animal-like, to be free of their multicolor leaves, shedding them - like bad blind-dates. The four-color debris was immediately drafted away on gust-streams, those invisible elves, and politely scattered in corners.

I’m waiting for test results today and time seems to be passing with vegetable slowness. In uncertain hours like these, some students armor themselves with alcohol while others indulge in religious solace. Not Leong and I. Leong’s a communist - it seems that communists grumpily tough things out.

I was raised a Catholic, so I rightly deserve whatever bad thing’s going to happen. In Catholicism, failure and guilt are accepted everywhere, like the best credit cards. Any success is automatically categorized as unexpected, undeserved, if not fraudulent, and above all, temporary. In fact, life itself is little more than an inconvenient test on the way to wherever.

“We’re living in the age of crisis.” I announced, agitatedly, to the otherwise quiet common room (where the usual crowd was attempting to study).
“Figured that out all by yourself”? Sunny asked, “You ought to go to Yale,” she added.
“Hear me out,” I say, as if anyone cares enough to stop me. “Our parents had their war on terror” I say, with air-quotes, “but we got a pandemic, a crazy President complete with insurrection, a faltering supply chain, a cost-of-living crisis, renewed nuclear war threats and the climate meltdown. It’s hard to study with all that going on.” I self-declared.

“It’s hard to study because I’m out of watermelon.” Sophie said, digging through the fridge.
“You aren’t anyone these days unless you’re battling a crisis.” Sophie noted.
“Your parents are ALIVE,” Leong said dryly, “I MET them and they’re going through all that too.”
“And are we (mankind) going to take any real, adult steps to address these issues?" I asked, looking around to see if my outrage was mirrored, “apparently not.” I sermonized rhetorically.

“YOU” Lisa said, shaking her head, “are a hopeless optimist - you left out a few crises.”
“WhatEVER,” I declared, “It’s still hard to study,” I reiterated, while distractedly chewing on a #2 pencil that Lisa had loaned me.

Later, we’re outside, taking in the semi-sun and reclining on our fold-up “better beach” lounge chairs. We’re off-and-on playing “That’s why I am like I am.”
“When I was in 10th grade, I had 22 detentions.” Sunny revealed.
“22! What for?” Anna asked, looking over at Sunny while shading her eyes from the sun that briefly pierced the clouds and decided to stab her fiercely in the face.
“Talking in class.” Sunny admitted. “Wow, THAT’S a shocker.” Lisa laughed.
“Shut up!” Sunny laughed, adding a ******* for emphasis. “I got those detentions on purpose. I had the love-jones for my English teacher, and she supervised lunch detentions.
I would bring in these lesbian paperbacks, like “Keeping YOU a secret,” to hold up and pretend read - while eying her, seductively."
Anna gasped, “Did she ever respond?”
“No,” Sunny said with a sigh, “My love was unrequited.”
“That was a lot of trouble to go through.” Lisa commented.
“Being gay isn’t that deep,” Sunny observed, adding the tag, “That’s why I am like I am.”
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Writhe: “to twist” usually in pleasure or pain.
Robin Carretti Jun 2023
Yellow field of passages'
Vivid color images
Multicolor pink- red- purple
Days disappear new dawn color
appears two ears, peers
Colors define but smears
Feeling like a baboon

Swinging wizardly
Wanting to come home soon
Something strikes you
Cowardly- profoundly
Technicolor group
New frontier lovely

Career fit bravely
The
Gods* truth
Amazing* color* birth
Vivid Color images
Red- heart -damages
Piano fingers ironic

Start to panic
Vivid minds go- manic

Ship Titanic
Cake-food
Bake-Awake- mood

  Vivid brain waves
   Vivid parrot caves

Geometric lines Shakespeare
  *       *       *       *       *       *
Vivid color images
Happy New Year
Colors are fascinating but also have reaction feelings
A night of stars and galaxies too,
Wrapped up in black and multicolor,
Wringing out my idolatry; a ****** mental coup.
First, again, the third and forth as well,
A withdrawal of emotion, my payment’s in lieu.
To fret and to toil, for each and all,
Heart locked in place, while you stand in a queue.

To have you is sorrow, to forget you won’t do,
My disillusioned paradigm a macabre slaughter of squalor.
To tear within; your knife to pass through,
The tandem mechanization of a broken nous cast to Hell,
Confided in old friends when it wasn’t right to.

Alone do I sit, alone do I prove new,
A spark so fleeting; product of a scrawler.
A rebirth a second, a boy made anew,
The offensive given from inside, the brain is his cell,
Ever changing, ever warping, a wish to avoid methylene blue.
Kay-Rosa May 2019
we are young
so is the night
the multicolor lights are irresistable
so are you
libidinous teenagers are we
salacious in our thoughts
the smell of alcohol and sweat
a lecherous aphrodisiac
but we skittish non-lovers
because we don't know how
obsessed with bodies in a well-travel tale of amour fou
lascivious and bothered
stay young, my friends
it doesn't last long
this is coming from a 13 year old btw lol
Hannah Winand Aug 2014
“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches
on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?”
you say between impossibly tiny sips
of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea—
or at least I think that’s what you said;
I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which
your incomprehensibly long nose hairs
mingled with your bristly auburn mustache
as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole)
to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness.

But I reply:
“Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway?
Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff?
Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!”
Heh.

But my dialectical cynicism is no match
for your allegorical *******-ism:
“Ah, but we create meaning!
The lonely abyss of individual experience,
when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore—
Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!”

I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo.
When my eyes return to the table,
I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon.

          I painted a *******-esque piece in 9th grade.
          My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses,
          the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them
          while she said something about the creative subconscious.
          The first drip took some self-convincing;
          the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me
          with the possibility of mistake.
          At first I pretended I was ******* himself,
          trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought.
          It didn’t work.
          My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did.
          I began with green for no reason at all,
          and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed
          but that I couldn’t explain.
          Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me.

“Would you like a sip?”
I can’t avoid a smile because
****,
this tea does taste like sunshine.
Katzenberg Aug 2014
The night opens like an ancient book
all the lovers sleep under a crimson moon
there is a dream that becomes another dream
hurt and joy begin to melt into multicolor scales
pain and faith dance the chant of life
all the music is a different obscurity

must bear the weight of the channels of the mind
dark voids of stars exploding like candles in the dark
all beauty is cold, I can smell her parfume
cosmic restlessness and radioactive corrotion
solar flares and pitchful black light of a tousand suns
time folds itself by the passing of the spirit of Death

we hear trumpets in the sky
hideous symphony of sickness
foul smell of nausea drags on the soil
strange and unpleasent hallutinations
fill with the Nature of psychotropic womb

and I can hear a lament faraway:
"O Lord, give me a sing, send me a message!"
but there was no response, there was no God listening
is life a labyrinth of equations and sequences?
just lost numbers and imaginary answers
Destiny is joking around, Luck has been dead for years.
Follow me through the trees unto a forest of crones, we'll sit and wait, deliberate, about the world's unknowns.

And down through the rabbit hole will the two of we fall, until we come upon a perfect little hall.

The we two be of this I see a perfect matching pair, a girl set in her little green dress and her tiny pet hare.

Through the land of under we, do we solidly trot to find the crimes and treasured times of a land forgot.

The you and I, we do decline, a courting with the queen, though she insists we make a break and do not cause a scene.

The walrus and the carpenter do bring us many clams, but we partake and only break, the bread with many hams.

Our venture sought is cut short by a cat of multicolor, this we do outwit, the little twit, and make him seem all the duller.

Once and twice through the looking glass do the two of us stay, though the rain my pound overhead, we live to venture another day.
Natalie Wood Mar 2013
There is a teddy bear that still guards my bed,
but never gets any love,
It sit upon a lonely shelf,
Watching from above.

A multicolor box of crayons,
Sits on my bedroom floor,
It's leftover from my childhood,
That is sadly nevermore.

But the memories are still sweet,
In bitter sort of way,
And even if some are sad,
It was a happy day.
Pearson Bolt Sep 2017
at peace, you breathe
in somber cadence,
a masterpiece blossoming
as the sun wakes from sleep.

shaded in multicolor
like a painter’s palette,
wrapped serene
in a nest of sheets.

the natural *****
from your hip
to shoulder creates
a canopy,

a perfect spot
to rest. rise and shine,
Beloved,
there are better days ahead.
Rune amergin Feb 2010
Never thought the day would come so soon
Where we'd say our goodbyes forever
But come the full phase of the moon
Ill ride over on a multicolor balloon

I will be the reflection in your eye
Help you laugh when you scream
and make you smile when you cry
Take a ride to your soul and make a stop at your thoughts
To all the men in all the wars who died for causes they believed in
Or found themselves unable to escape the roll of dice that sent      
them there.
A country posey picked in a shady lane by hands of love and care.

To those three thousand souls who fell crushed by towering hatred,
And those who fell at other bomber’s hands on other days,
A long stemmed perfect snow white rose from the garden of regret.

To all the children taken in their innocence on ordinary days,
In ordinary places, thought safe from all the madness of insanity,
A wreath of multicolor blossoms tied with cotton candy bows.

To all the revelers out for fun who sought the music in a crowd,
And learned the rhythm of an automatic gun instead,
A vase of yellow daisies, with a petal for each one

To all the tots who suffered at the hands of those supposed to love  them,
And lived with wounds and deprivation until there was no hope of life,
A potted red geranium that will go on blooming endlessly.

To all the lonely elderly who slipped away without a sound or note,
And went into the ground with no sad songs or mourners,
A small bouquet of lilies tied with velvet ribbons.

To all of those who couldn’t live the number of their ordained days,
Felled by accident, disease, or lost in limbos of mental illness,
A planting of daffodils to bloom each Spring.

So many lives, so many flowers.  So many to grieve and mourn for.
Just one day is not enough, nor is a week or year.
The best memorial is memory, and it can last forever.
      ljm
It's not just about the military any more..
Anais Vionet Jan 18
One evening, in a sleepy Connecticut town, the locals saw a peculiar sight,
a UAP had landed in an empty field, and man, it lit up the night.

They were, axiomatically, from a distant galaxy, here to explore our shared cosmic space,
their metallic-*******-rocket was multicolor pastel bright, like a carnival showcase.

There were cows that mooed approvingly and dogs that barked up at the sky,
like they needed to show where the thing came from - no one really knew why.

Soon little green people-like beings emerged, they had big, wide eyes that looked eerie,
but then again, this is how they’d always looked in movies and on TV.

"Take us to your leader," they said, but it was hard to take them seriously,
because this is America and most of us disagree on who that leader should be.

Someone brought out lawn chairs and the alien-astronauts settled in,
tables appeared shortly thereafter with a spread of pies, casseroles and fried chicken.

They spoke of their interstellar journeys, of planets far and wide,
of space cafes and wormhole highways and how gravity worked like tides.

One of the kids played some music and the explorers started to move,
soon we were having a dance-off - which they won - with some wacky, cosmic moves.

As morning light edged the horizon, our little green friends waved goodbye,
after saying that in some ways they envied us and our simple terrestrial lives.

Though they never promised to revisit, when the sky turns certain shade of blue,
townsfolk will set up a pasture party - just in case they do.
(*BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Axiomatic: something understood as obviously true*)
Pearson Bolt Nov 2016
she is a kaleidoscope. an ephemeral array
of dazzling multicolor. an LSD trip,
a hint of DMT, a tableau of ecstasy.
Thoreau once said, "all good things
are wild and free." i penned those lines
in the leather-bound journal i gave her
alongside a host of lineated iterations of empathy—
the first of many sloppy attempts at poetry,
earnest ideas penned to arouse
and amuse my muse.

a hopeless romantic, through and through,
but wise enough to recognize the folly
of storming a castle barricaded by a dragon.
she's going to have to save herself. after all,
she has always been the heroine in her own story
and ****** in mine. so i'll bide my time,
organize and strategize. i'll build bridges
faster than the dragon can burn them.
i will raise an army and wait patiently
at the gates, soulful if not entirely sober.
after all, she is as mesmerizing as fine wine—
and just as intoxicating.

when she chooses to kick down the door
and tear down the walls, i will yield
no ground when the barricades fall.
i've long since abandoned the sword for the pen
and bear only a shield to protect
and secure the health and safety
of the one who stole the stars from the skies
and adorns her eyes with the irises of nebulae.

'till then, i opine.
Danilo P Cabrera Feb 2015
When I saw you, the first time,
all sound became unfocused,
I heard in multicolor,
I almost tripped on a dime.

In the time you were around,
your candied words lit my day,
there were doors on the ceilings,
I felt weightless, and aground.

The moment, we reached an end,
there was an dark kind of light,
by grim noise I was attacked,
I was lifeless, I contend.

If I see you once again,
right into your eyes I will,
then clasp you in my embrace,
and your love I will regain.
© Danilo Cabrera. All rights reserved
Anais Vionet Dec 2023
It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night.

Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch, my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows.

Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong.

We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, ***** clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization.

I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely.

As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment.

It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?
gelaxing = gelling & relaxing
Hey poetry lovers, do you like Christmas music? Are you IN the Holiday mood?
Here’s a website (Free) where you can stream over 33 of MY unique Christmas playlists (there’s a little ‘play’ button under the art for each list).
Enjoy, Merry Christmas! http://daweb.us/xmas/
Anais Vionet Sep 2020
Fall changes erase
the cheap substance of summer
with holiday joys.

Multicolor leaves,
multicolor lights with turkey
delights and kinship.
It's fall! My favorite time of the year  =]
Joe Hill Mar 2014
Stained glass snakes turn thoughts into ghouls
while sanity blows the barrel to ****** ******.
Glistening molt forms a lead-lined home
through fissures where brain and bone used to be.
Slithering kaleidoscopes mar face and eyes
but anguish seems friendly in multicolor.

Becoming mad doesn't mean I now have nothing to say.

At my first attempt to speak it strikes. I taste copper and the sting of candied fangs injecting crystallized honey, I can only bite back. It shatters behind its shining eyes and long body falls away while I chew the head, paying no mind to gashes in cheeks and blood filling stomach. I feel my tongue begin to melt and drip down my throat, mixing with blood glass and bile. Death appears to me, stepping out of a pink clown car winding up to throw an unlit birthday cake, I'm not ready, I have so much more to try to say.

I remember I have hands. I remember.

I push my fingertips in below the ribs and open my stomach to shovel the contents out onto the ground. As I do the soil turns black and grass grows into twisted thorn bushes around my body and into my wounds posing me as a grotesque homage to the sadistic. Death sets aside the cake to watch with a smirk but it isn't long before Elvis tapes a "kick me" sign to his back and finally drops dead and sinks into the ground and I feel the thorns grow thicker and longer piercing into and out of my flesh burning and spewing red smoke replacing the air making breath heavy and unforgiving I reach through and pull out my lungs to spare myself but Death is distracted he won't let me leave God missing Teresa in chains Stalin playing Pat-a-Cake with Shirley Temple on fields of infant bones and burnt bacon I try to twist my eyes out next but the snakes hold them fast so I watch

through horrific shades the earth fold in on itself.



*Yes, I remember.
Pearson Bolt Feb 2017
a phone call
from area code 772.
Jensen Beach, FL.
a retreat beside the waves.
a refuge built
so far away
to keep you safe
and help you
recuperate.

i slide my thumb across the screen,
busting the chains of my purgatory.
you pause briefly,
right before you say, "Hello, Pearson."
your inflection hangs
on my name,
as if to hold me
in your mouth.
i linger in your lungs
like the smoke
from your favorite
cigarettes.
when you breathe
me out, i hear the sigh
of relief, signaling how much
you'd hoped i'd pick up.

you say, "so,
tell me something new."
a detail i neglected to include
in one of the daily letters
i'd sent to you. absently,
i search for a subject.
anything. but all
that comes to mind
is, "god, you've no idea
how much i've missed you.
it's so good to hear you speak."

five minutes. that's all.
i wish i'd had more time.
i would've used my tongue
to gently ply
your contours
and tantalize your mind.
i once built a home
inside your psyche.
a dragon usurped my throne,
but only temporarily.
i returned with an army
of those who'd die
to liberate you.
so permit me to feed
your creativity,
enabling your addiction
to my free-verse.

don't mind me
as i continually use
my poetry to clean
up the place.
i'll weave you a tapestry
of multicolor. you've kicked
the habit, but you still fancy
the way my lyrics get
your knees knocking,
your body quaking.
you couldn't quit me
even if you wanted to.

so, i'll remain
in the secret places
of your brain, building bridges
across rivers of synaptic gaps
until, one day,
you'll find me spray-painting graffiti
in your dopamine cathedral.
you'll ask, "after all this time?"

and i'll say, "always."
i'll plant new seeds
until i run out of letters
to string together. with each
polyrhythmic twirl,
a dexterous melody
will exacerbate your ecstasy,
each stanza a slick finger
slipping beneath
your skin, leaving you
calling out my name again.

— The End —