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CK Baker Jan 2017
Under the old house
cast in conglomerate mix
the cataract window
and cracked sill
broken joists
and cross beams
wringer wash
and saddle set

A draw string light
brings life
to the corner bench
fowler toads
and fingerlings
jitter bugs
and dazzy vance
dirt planks filled
with mason
crown classics

Buggy whip
and whippletree
shelved on the
chopboard
tackle and mucks
stacked at the back
horseshoe and jack rod
bend the pike pole
a sawhorse placed
for the Martindale push

Gallon jars
and growlers
prepped
for the taking
ropes and reins
for transport
and fest
goggle eye
jumps the flyer
setting up nicely
for the
Haldimand town fair
With the car stereo tuned in
to the radio waves, our vehicle
glided through the cityscape.
The machine had been fumigated
and anguish had been cleansed;
Our anxiety was subjugated
and our appetite, content.
Got nicely blazed with the aid
of that sliver haze.

*Driving in the calm of midnight,
Through city streets in the half-light
while The Numbers Song by DJ Shadow plays.
Nigdaw Jul 3
It's all for a laugh
Why the long face horse's ****,
Put a lightbulb where the sun don't shine
And lighten the **** up
This is a roller coaster, baby
I don't know where it stops
But it's all for the crack
You can stumble as much as you want
Fall if you need to
My hysteria will see the funny
Sunny side of the street
Make a dance for happy feet
So don't be sad
Come laugh it up with the lads
You're one of the boys
Toys that is
We can play all night
But I,
Not so nicely with the other kids.
My tribute to The Joker of Batman fame.
Mohamed Nasir Jul 2018
The teacher's eyes gathered colours about
The cultured garden scene she knew so well;
She likes the section flowers nicely sprout
Her hidden world where varying colours jell.
Achievers pride she takes with all her heart;
Like outstanding pupils she proudly groomed.
But scrappy lazy ones, never seems to start,
She wished them luck and left alone to bloom.
The sun regardless shines on all juniors.
The bright ones, the brats she pitied a lot.
Through years and wise by age she remembers,
Oft visiting her those she had forgot,
Those she loved and cared have whittled away.
But strugglers now trees they weathered to stay.
King Panda Jul 2016
when you’re depressed you can get people
to mix you Arnold Palmers
or even
John Dalys
if you ask nicely
then you can get drunk
without anyone giving you ****
because all good depressed people
drown their grief with *****
and all good depressed people
die silently in doleful cloud
without drawing attention from
burping too loudly
or collapsing on a street corner
no
pain should be silent
with a tall glass of sweetened tea
a couple shots of *****
and a pencil writing furiously
the last thoughts
the last rights
the stencil of the moon
because all that will be left will be
a memory of you
standing naked in the mall screaming
I love you John Daly!!! Take me with you!!!
unfortunately
John Daly isn’t god
and he can’t zap
you from this earth
no matter how much you scream
you will always be a ghost on fire
drunk and afraid
wailing through the atmosphere
like a cat being held by its tail
you
the definition of good depressed people
Megan Foukes Dec 2018
When you say sorry,
I only think of one thing:
K A R M A
It comes back to bite.
So, you better get ready.
'Cause karma's a *****,
And she doesn't play nicely.
I'm sorry, my dear.
bekka walker Jul 2016
If you feel lonely,
I was lonely too.
I long to know, you, pale cryptic thing, beyond my reach.
If only, I could breech-
space and time for some sliver of a moment-
to tell you-
I'm sorry.
You'll never know
that the sound your boiled blood makes reaches me-
I'm sorry.
Believe me, when I say,
I meant to build something to keep us safe,
together.
But the tempest was too strong.
And my will to weak.
And I can't help but linger of your graceful physique.
I mourn
for my shards that came smashing through your pastel stained windows,
tumbling onto your nicely kept white sheets.
A home made of skin,
so delicately adorned.
I think you're tasteful.
I think you're tastey.
I think you're.
I think you.
I think.
I.
What it all boils down to.

You are the East, and Juliet is the sunrise.
My hedonism tangles the 3 of us in demise-
I despise-
Myself for it.
I long to be punched by your

"soft little fists"

as he once said.

I long to know.
I long too.
I long.
I.
Hedonism
Renee Danielle Aug 2016
if the eyes are the windows to the soul,
then dress them up nicely.
keep all of the anger
threatening to pour from you
behind a locked mouth.
nobody asks the person living
in a well kept home if she is okay.

wear every apology like a thorn.
let them stare at the resentment
that blossoms from those roots,
and let a garden grow from each puncture.
they'll let you talk about your pain
if you disguise it in flowery metaphors.

love is the wide eyed child
that beckons you to this address.
forgiveness is the 12 year old girl
dusting off his promises to change.
you have outgrown these faces,
but you still put them on
because naivety has more to offer.
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
"my day will be different today"

she declares, when she sees herself hidden in
in a passing spending and breaking broken
drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem,
stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident

gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines,
that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground,
where the words and letters assemble,
where the firemen train,
adding logs, love, accursed ego,
to the hearth,
steady on burning, to practice putting out the
ohms and uh-uh's
of electrical resistance that
your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation
has...** ** **
sparkling stabbing mirror

this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting

but your simple complementation
fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity,
because it is a
provocation stabbing piercing  a self-questioning, of
why to write I need pen paper and ink,
and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial

the Zola j'accuse
of every poet, even the gone-ones,
looking down
at highest bar in poetry!

did I really do that?

even for a brief moment,
a nanosecond,
me words
modify the entire continental shelf
that another writer occupies,
change its axis, the rate of spin,
the angle of another's
solitary human's day

nah  

all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng
a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and
let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest

so I guess it could be true
what you wrote,

but about me

"my day will be different today"

and why I practice this
wonderfully ridiculous
craft,
cause the pay is so
**** good

10:36am
I came across your poem by chance. Could it be you have read my poems too? Honored to be in this exchange. My day will be different today.
Carter Ginter Jan 2018
I know I've felt happy lately
But you don't see how close
The darkness really is
Threatening my neck with every step

I am ashamed of what I've done
To you and others alike
But that's why I'm trying to change
It's why I'm growing into a better person

Believe it or not
Worrying too much about others is
At least in part
Why I've hurt so many people
I try to save these broken people
But I hurt them more in the end
Because I was listening to their desires
Without thinking about myself
Without realizing what I truly feel

Trust me for once
It isn't easy to live this life
I am not proud of my past
I am not proud of my choices
But I really am trying
I really am changing

I know you think it's too late
But there's nothing that could change
The fact that I hurt you this bad
All I can do is learn from my mistakes
And stop myself from hurting anyone else

Because even though I'm happier these days
I still hate myself for what I've done
You think I'm standing on the bones
Of the lovers who I've hurt
Just to get myself ahead
But those skeletons live in my mind
And they're not tucked nicely away in closets
They're scattered in unexpected places
Drowning me in endless flashbacks
Burning the skin where they've touched me
Their goodness destroyed by my darkness
Those memories destroy me
But I'm trying to get better

And since I can't change the past
That's all I have to hold on to
hc Jun 20
today
in manhatten
i let a guy on drugs cut in front of me at the checkout

he asked nicely;
i found him endearing

i had never seen someone so earnestly and sweetly
trying to contain how strung out he was

the cashier gave him a look up and down

he turned back at me
and smiled

he said,
thanks for being so nice.


you have green eyes


and in that moment,
my stomach twisted up

i no longer was watching
a new york moment
the glamour and romance was gone

because i knew he had seen me

and some people take weeks,
months,
and years,
to notice

he grabbed his cash & left
Cameron Alix Mar 7
Faith is a golden coil
That fits so greatly in the binding
Of texts that
Dictate a non-universal
Truth
Faith is a silver coil
That wraps around you nicely
Tightly
When times are hard and
Icy
Faith is a copper coil,
Cheap, commonly used and
Slithers, a bronze snaking cloud
Seeping quickly into
Permeable minds
Faith is an aluminum coil,
The easy way out.
Steals from your conscious
What can be found in
Yourself
Faith is essential
Needed to man
And to man armies
Unable to feel soft,
Cotton-ball faith
Anymore


Cameron Bell, Copyright © 2019
Feedback, please! I'm trying to develop my own style and eventually want to independently publish my own book. I think that humans have an innate need for a sense of deity; it's a neural pattern that has circulated throughout civilizations and we all still grapple with it individually.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
Songs of Oregon: No 5 no general impressions specifically

For the Poets of Oregon, each a unique travel guide

no salt n’ pepper shaker of general impressions for the offering,
for now, ubiquitous generalities means inclusionary which means
likely accidental to be exclusionary,
so specifically,
no ‘all in' clauses

just a few specific eye-sights, hoary words, new birth canals,
to be either eaten, resurrected, van-slaughtered, backyard buried,
all are filed nearby in the seed cabinet or the garage freezer,
or on the C drive of your brain

awaiting ideal planting conditions, and the rest,
a series perhaps,
Songs of Oregon?
Someday

someday, when all the big brief poems are fully formed,
earth ripened, mind fomented; oak barrel aged,
harvest-reading-ready,
green trees shoots busting thrusting through
misleading sandy looking soil,
needy for quenching from
aquifers that are gold geyser plentiful,
a hundred feet deep, needy only for a
“please sir, may I have some more,"
they’l be writ

but for now, these below are,
some easy to be specifics,
reveling and revealed, useful takeaways,
specifics pacifics
for those who might be traversing upon
Lewis and Clark’s Oregon Trail:

them multicolored redneck
full bearded boys
and those of the
vinnie, millennial hipsters and aging ex- hippies, also,
full bearded boys  
are indistinguishable!
many of both wear matching bib jeans,
so be careful who you be calling
a hillbilly in open carry country

the forever refilled coffee mug still exists though the price
is now $2 but the coffee is sustainable (I am evidence)
organic, from a rain forest from Timbuktu,
so it gets planted in your bloodstream and then replaced
in the soil & land,
the loam of the soul
by you

in Milwaukee,
they know how to spell Milwaukee but
not in Portland

don’t be shocked at the town naming,
these borrowers got no  i-magination,
that’s surly lacking in Oregon; mthey’ll steal your
Nor’easter or Indian
town or city’s name
with no shame
or comp-unction,
claiming it’s different cause
they made it organically and
then misspelled it,
correctly

think that pointy poem point well made,
god made only one coast (theirs) and
just forgot to put Shelter Island NY  upon it;
threw it up randomly skyward, landed on some
atlantic backwater body

getting there or anywhere in Oregon traffic
about the same as in NYC traffic, thus
the heavens balance the scales of justice with
dramatic automotive irony

in some counties, the school week is a
four day affair, for the children need to repay
their parents birthing labor, by laboring beside them
in the vineyards, on the tractors, learning from
the book and look of their parents
sun aged faces and hands,
life learning
that man must earn his sustenance
with the sweat of ones own brow
and that word;
week,
can be spelt in contradictory ways
but only one is acceptable
out here

do be careful though Oregonians are very willingly to lam it,
(Willamette) if you ask nicely,
pick up normal looking weird hitchhikers
and drive many a mile
in yours, not theirs, but sure,
“going-the-same-way direction”
if you ask polite with just a smile

and the river salmon have hired their own governmental advisors


like I said,
no general impressions
just a private’s brief recollections
from his first tour of duty
abroad
where he was purple heart medaled shot
through ‘n through with
Oregon kindness

some juicy real specifics to follow eventually
someday
songs of oregon No.5
Daksh Sep 2
Black clothes, no clothes; cuffs and ropes
Those Innocent eyes kept looking at me
I already warned you;
but now its time.

So I wrote a poem with my tongue in your mouth, and hands on your body

Looking in the eyes the whole time.

You screaming till your neck hurts
And I’ll not stop till my body hurts

I treat her nicely
I watch the stars everynight
I love their beautiful sight
They shine so brightly in the sky
As I marvelled their numbers in the sky
So tiny,yet full of might
And an alluring sight
I tried to count them oneday
And thought there is no way
For the sky has no end
And could neither be touched nor bend
They all appear so little and new
For the only stars I knew
Were situated in the sky
They sat nicely up high
I moved from place to place
Looking at them on the face
AvaGrace Aug 2018
hi
i know we're not on the same team anymore

but is it wrong that i still root for you?


i know you know
that i know this is best for us

we were never burning nicely

always to bright or too soft

sometimes the wind would leave us

stuck in the dark

when i think of our conversations
i know it is clear

that there is good reason

for you being somewhere else


and me being here

but when i lay down at night


and i hear your favorite song

the only way to sleep

is to pretend im in your arms

so is it OK that i need you
even though i don't want you

is it OK to still miss you
while wanting nothing to do with you

so when im in the stands all alone
is it OK that i root for you?
don't even ask me bro im over it but that one song brings me to tears
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