"nooks" poems - Hello Poetry

162 My River runs to thee— Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me? My River wait reply— Oh Sea—look graciously— I’ll fetch thee Brooks From spotted nooks— Say—Sea—Take Me!

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22.7k

Emily Dickinson

My River runs to thee

162 My River runs to thee— Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me? My River wait reply— Oh Sea—look graciously— I’ll fetch thee Brooks From spotted nooks— Say—Sea—Take Me!

8

Isn’t physically quick or agile. Disappears in libraries. Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books. Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks. Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming. Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube. Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.

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Aug 5, 2015

Aug 5, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC

kat-walsh

Catch her if you can

Isn’t physically quick or agile. Disappears in libraries. Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books. Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks. Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming. Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube. Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.

7

Evening slipped into the long abyss So fell the red moon Malicious shadows forecasting doom For the cursed animal man Inhabiting the precious earth Fearsome rolling rivers ran dry Black smoke filled the spanning azure skies The churning murky green oceans gave up the bones of their dead When the moon turned red The crust of the hard ground shook Split and burst into deep fiery crevasses Dark yellow orange smoldering nooks Swallowing all of life So obliterated was mans world as we know it Destroyed Barron and dead When the moon turned red This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.10, 2014

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Jan 12, 2014

Jan 12, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC

tammy-m-darby

When the Moon turned Red

Evening slipped into the long abyss So fell the red moon Malicious shadows forecasting doom For the cursed animal man Inhabiting the precious earth Fearsome rolling rivers ran dry Black smoke filled the spanning azure skies The churning murky green oceans gave up the bones of their dead When the moon turned red The crust of the hard ground shook Split and burst into deep fiery crevasses Dark yellow orange smoldering nooks Swallowing all of life So obliterated was mans world as we know it Destroyed Barron and dead When the moon turned red This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.10, 2014

20

There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams; Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool, And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool: In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare, Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna, And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound. As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind; I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more, As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start - For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.

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14.5k

H.P. Lovecraft

The Garden

There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams; Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool, And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool: In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare, Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna, And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound. As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind; I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more, As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start - For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.

16

The Eid is bustling with joy come let’s give it a try f l y away! To the deathless groovy paradise floating high on the elixir flow: The triumphant joyous wave streamed up from the secret bottom line! Up above the lapis lazuli sky. A pair of butterfly basks in the sunlight quietly indulges in style. It goes on in slow motion illuminating the night a firefly perches on a slice of the Moon flanked by the moonlight. But you and me we will rhyme and chant in our lovely mother tongue. In the same original lingua like ‘Adam speaks up and all angels listen in paradise’. Come let’s give it a try f l y away! On the wings of the moonlight we will s a i l away! Ambling by the Moon we'll **** through the starry nooks. Eyes open and gently perched atop a star for a moment or two. We will see miles of galaxies over the moonlit lakes of the blue playing cool ravishing lutes! The spring night is in bloom and the cute sleeping beauty wakes up playing the flute! Musical half lights filling the sky. Come let’s give it a try f l y away! We’ll drink sharaban tahura the holy wine of paradise and once for all we will k i s s the death goodbye! Our story will fill the divine soil the heaven's flora and fauna each and everyone will shine on our page no houri will ever say finito singing our tale! As Adam did it first stunned the angels telling the nature of all things in paradise. We will do that once more without a smirk this time we will see the loving Creator!

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Aug 23, 2018

Aug 23, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC

shofi-ahmed

Eid Mubarak - Lets Fly Paradise

The Eid is bustling with joy come let’s give it a try f l y away! To the deathless groovy paradise floating high on the elixir flow: The triumphant joyous wave streamed up from the secret bottom line! Up above the lapis lazuli sky. A pair of butterfly basks in the sunlight quietly indulges in style. It goes on in slow motion illuminating the night a firefly perches on a slice of the Moon flanked by the moonlight. But you and me we will rhyme and chant in our lovely mother tongue. In the same original lingua like ‘Adam speaks up and all angels listen in paradise’. Come let’s give it a try f l y away! On the wings of the moonlight we will s a i l away! Ambling by the Moon we'll **** through the starry nooks. Eyes open and gently perched atop a star for a moment or two. We will see miles of galaxies over the moonlit lakes of the blue playing cool ravishing lutes! The spring night is in bloom and the cute sleeping beauty wakes up playing the flute! Musical half lights filling the sky. Come let’s give it a try f l y away! We’ll drink sharaban tahura the holy wine of paradise and once for all we will k i s s the death goodbye! Our story will fill the divine soil the heaven's flora and fauna each and everyone will shine on our page no houri will ever say finito singing our tale! As Adam did it first stunned the angels telling the nature of all things in paradise. We will do that once more without a smirk this time we will see the loving Creator!

67

is just a word used to describe me. You don’t look long enough at me to really see though. I didn’t laugh when I realized what I was. It wasn’t new, I knew how my mind worked. The word wasn’t new either. Just the label of being a psychopath. The insanity of my sanity has long since made me comfortable relaxed amused by my wild untamable uncaring traits. Who I am what I am- it taunts me so dearly, never leaving my mind. Resting in the crooks corners nooks that my mind has available.

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Feb 9, 2014

Feb 9, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC

callmealaska

Psychopath

is just a word used to describe me. You don’t look long enough at me to really see though. I didn’t laugh when I realized what I was. It wasn’t new, I knew how my mind worked. The word wasn’t new either. Just the label of being a psychopath. The insanity of my sanity has long since made me comfortable relaxed amused by my wild untamable uncaring traits. Who I am what I am- it taunts me so dearly, never leaving my mind. Resting in the crooks corners nooks that my mind has available.

26

We two kept house, the Past and I, The Past and I; I tended while it hovered nigh, Leaving me never alone. It was a spectral housekeeping Where fell no jarring tone, As strange, as still a housekeeping As ever has been known. As daily I went up the stair, And down the stair, I did not mind the Bygone there— The Present once to me; Its moving meek companionship I wished might ever be, There was in that companionship Something of ecstasy. It dwelt with me just as it was, Just as it was When first its prospects gave me pause In wayward wanderings, Before the years had torn old troths As they tear all sweet things, Before gaunt griefs had torn old troths And dulled old rapturings. And then its form began to fade, Began to fade, Its gentle echoes faintlier played At eves upon my ear Than when the autumn’s look embrowned The lonely chambers here, The autumn’s settling shades embrowned Nooks that it haunted near. And so with time my vision less, Yea, less and less Makes of that Past my housemistress, It dwindles in my eye; It looms a far-off skeleton And not a comrade nigh, A fitful far-off skeleton Dimming as days draw by.

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9.4k

Thomas Hardy

The Ghost Of The Past

We two kept house, the Past and I, The Past and I; I tended while it hovered nigh, Leaving me never alone. It was a spectral housekeeping Where fell no jarring tone, As strange, as still a housekeeping As ever has been known. As daily I went up the stair, And down the stair, I did not mind the Bygone there— The Present once to me; Its moving meek companionship I wished might ever be, There was in that companionship Something of ecstasy. It dwelt with me just as it was, Just as it was When first its prospects gave me pause In wayward wanderings, Before the years had torn old troths As they tear all sweet things, Before gaunt griefs had torn old troths And dulled old rapturings. And then its form began to fade, Began to fade, Its gentle echoes faintlier played At eves upon my ear Than when the autumn’s look embrowned The lonely chambers here, The autumn’s settling shades embrowned Nooks that it haunted near. And so with time my vision less, Yea, less and less Makes of that Past my housemistress, It dwindles in my eye; It looms a far-off skeleton And not a comrade nigh, A fitful far-off skeleton Dimming as days draw by.

40

A Saturday, slow and sleepy Unfolds like old attic linens And drifts along Like pipe smoke through the reeds On a Saturday, bleak and weary We just can’t get our act together With hollow talk of book nooks High seas back road voyages And pints of Casey’s best bitter On a Saturday, slow and sleepy Taking action is hard to do So slip into a daydream And meet me out on the fringes Where the sun and the moon fade from sight And time is no longer real

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Sep 18, 2014

Sep 18, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC

michael-burkholder

A Saturday, Slow and Sleepy

A Saturday, slow and sleepy Unfolds like old attic linens And drifts along Like pipe smoke through the reeds On a Saturday, bleak and weary We just can’t get our act together With hollow talk of book nooks High seas back road voyages And pints of Casey’s best bitter On a Saturday, slow and sleepy Taking action is hard to do So slip into a daydream And meet me out on the fringes Where the sun and the moon fade from sight And time is no longer real

15

We will sail away on the wings of the moonlight over the lakes of the blue we'll cross the starry nooks. We will go, we’ll go far beyond where the flow is musical every air beat plays the lute. You and me we’re only one who says we’re two?

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Sep 18, 2017

Sep 18, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC

shofi-ahmed

Wings of the Moonlight

We will sail away on the wings of the moonlight over the lakes of the blue we'll cross the starry nooks. We will go, we’ll go far beyond where the flow is musical every air beat plays the lute. You and me we’re only one who says we’re two?

9

Why do you still occupy the nooks and crannies of my head? Drifting up through the cracks in the plaster bent nails and poor construction hammered hastily into place How do you fill my vacant minutes with shadows of you? Your outline walks beside me on the street, wound up in my headphones the echo of your daydream touch a humming static on my skin How still do you fall asleep beside me when I am wrapped in the disquiet of a restless night? How do you ease yourself into my brain like its nothing and hide among synapses that try so hard to lose you And how still to lose you? When the thought of you occupies the wasted time that escapes order and control and slips under the floorboards And in that quiet and that dark is where you and I occupy, held together by the wandering nature of thoughts, that find their way into the nooks and crannies of my head The thought of you is indifferent to my hasty plaster work, and the thought of you is intoxicating.

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Jul 3, 2014

Jul 3, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC

Sobriquet

Your indifference to my construction work.

Why do you still occupy the nooks and crannies of my head? Drifting up through the cracks in the plaster bent nails and poor construction hammered hastily into place How do you fill my vacant minutes with shadows of you? Your outline walks beside me on the street, wound up in my headphones the echo of your daydream touch a humming static on my skin How still do you fall asleep beside me when I am wrapped in the disquiet of a restless night? How do you ease yourself into my brain like its nothing and hide among synapses that try so hard to lose you And how still to lose you? When the thought of you occupies the wasted time that escapes order and control and slips under the floorboards And in that quiet and that dark is where you and I occupy, held together by the wandering nature of thoughts, that find their way into the nooks and crannies of my head The thought of you is indifferent to my hasty plaster work, and the thought of you is intoxicating.

25

It is only in the state of galvanization, do I realize what it means to be impervious in youth. I have a father who stresses to me this: "Happiness is elusive." This is the kind of statement that must be swished around in the mouth, only to be spat back out. "Happiness is elusive." It is cause for concern, really. I will do my best in order to refuse to believe it, to believe him. Happiness is achieved through discovery. I think that I may have once had a sister (in my recollection she was very pretty). I was around her whenever it was deemed possible to do so -- it honestly wasn't too often that I could. In the very nooks and crannies of my childhood, if I could fall back unto the natural sublimity of it all; I do recall that I had a sister. Her features must have been youthful, from what I remember she was no more than inexplicable. If it were not so ambiguous, I might feel more inclined to speak with her again some day. The past is a scary thing. I feel pain in thinking of the lengths behind me, for what I have cultivated is sour. Recently a good friend accused me of this: "Being a recluse, spiteful, selfish person." Her notion both confused and throttled me, and only afterward did she speak in such a fervently aural tone: "That is o.k., you're only human after all." This is the very comment that sliced my being into a duality, leaving me to write poetry in order to attempt to find higher acceptance. Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion; And in my youth I am impervious.

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Apr 9, 2013

Apr 9, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC

emerald-proctor

Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion

It is only in the state of galvanization, do I realize what it means to be impervious in youth. I have a father who stresses to me this: "Happiness is elusive." This is the kind of statement that must be swished around in the mouth, only to be spat back out. "Happiness is elusive." It is cause for concern, really. I will do my best in order to refuse to believe it, to believe him. Happiness is achieved through discovery. I think that I may have once had a sister (in my recollection she was very pretty). I was around her whenever it was deemed possible to do so -- it honestly wasn't too often that I could. In the very nooks and crannies of my childhood, if I could fall back unto the natural sublimity of it all; I do recall that I had a sister. Her features must have been youthful, from what I remember she was no more than inexplicable. If it were not so ambiguous, I might feel more inclined to speak with her again some day. The past is a scary thing. I feel pain in thinking of the lengths behind me, for what I have cultivated is sour. Recently a good friend accused me of this: "Being a recluse, spiteful, selfish person." Her notion both confused and throttled me, and only afterward did she speak in such a fervently aural tone: "That is o.k., you're only human after all." This is the very comment that sliced my being into a duality, leaving me to write poetry in order to attempt to find higher acceptance. Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion; And in my youth I am impervious.

33

This poem is a toast to our love, to pure love. Let peace, purity & contentment prevail everywhere evenly dispelling hatred. There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! Whether it's writing poems, Whether it's riding horses, Whether it's reading books, Or it's roaming nooks... There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! Whether it's blooming flowers, Whether it's raining droplets, Whether it's crooning lullabies, Or it's draining tensions... There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! There's a hint of you, In everything I do...!

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Jul 27, 2013

Jul 27, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC

Atul

There's A Hint Of You

This poem is a toast to our love, to pure love. Let peace, purity & contentment prevail everywhere evenly dispelling hatred. There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! Whether it's writing poems, Whether it's riding horses, Whether it's reading books, Or it's roaming nooks... There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! Whether it's blooming flowers, Whether it's raining droplets, Whether it's crooning lullabies, Or it's draining tensions... There's a hint of you, In everything I do...! There's a hint of you, In everything I do...!

23

The night is quiet and dark within A place to disappear and hide your worries in, Far away from Life's demands and unforgiving eyes, Just pull the darkness in around you, Shut out the lies. Walk softly in the shadows of the day, Rest in dusky nooks along the way, Take solace in closing out The unrelenting glare of light, Renewed there in the softness of the night. In the midnight hour there is no black and white, No terrors to relive, no wars to fight, No one there to call attention To all you've tried and failed to do, Just the peace of the night....And you.

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Apr 22, 2011

Apr 22, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC

sharon-hawkins

The Peace of Night

The night is quiet and dark within A place to disappear and hide your worries in, Far away from Life's demands and unforgiving eyes, Just pull the darkness in around you, Shut out the lies. Walk softly in the shadows of the day, Rest in dusky nooks along the way, Take solace in closing out The unrelenting glare of light, Renewed there in the softness of the night. In the midnight hour there is no black and white, No terrors to relive, no wars to fight, No one there to call attention To all you've tried and failed to do, Just the peace of the night....And you.

15

It's such a beautiful relationship like birds cleaning crocodile teeth feeding on what didn't make it to the stomach these words rely on me A vessel and hopefully they don't act like hermit ***** because without them I would just be a *** who drinks and smokes too much But as long as I have the ability to manipulate the world around me in the chaotic rush of my infinite mental expanses and nooks and crannies I can give them life like a midwife I bring them into the world and name them poems or stories so that they might live forever burned in the retinas of strangers or etched on the wood of my desk I hope we will always need each other

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Feb 26, 2013

Feb 26, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC

harry-j-baxter

symbiotic

It's such a beautiful relationship like birds cleaning crocodile teeth feeding on what didn't make it to the stomach these words rely on me A vessel and hopefully they don't act like hermit ***** because without them I would just be a *** who drinks and smokes too much But as long as I have the ability to manipulate the world around me in the chaotic rush of my infinite mental expanses and nooks and crannies I can give them life like a midwife I bring them into the world and name them poems or stories so that they might live forever burned in the retinas of strangers or etched on the wood of my desk I hope we will always need each other

25

The horror echoes in the neglected nooks between the stained walls of my heart, smeared in dust and smoke, the mirror tells many truths, the impermanence, the impermanence of it all, Hope takes a minute to die, forever even lesser. To love is to lay naked with a bullet in his hand, the heart pounding and bleeding the fallacies, of love and of hope and of dreams and of every false sunset, stinking of what we never had and what we will never have. We die the moment we believe, we believe it lasts, all in all grows another wallflower and dies before you notice. Infinity? Eternity? the shallow truths we made just to live a little, just to live on. There is no door, there is no key, no secret and no escape, no soul and no mate, no blue and no red, There never was more than lies just to live a little, just to live at all.

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May 23, 2015

May 23, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC

rain20

The impermanence, the impermanence of it all.

The horror echoes in the neglected nooks between the stained walls of my heart, smeared in dust and smoke, the mirror tells many truths, the impermanence, the impermanence of it all, Hope takes a minute to die, forever even lesser. To love is to lay naked with a bullet in his hand, the heart pounding and bleeding the fallacies, of love and of hope and of dreams and of every false sunset, stinking of what we never had and what we will never have. We die the moment we believe, we believe it lasts, all in all grows another wallflower and dies before you notice. Infinity? Eternity? the shallow truths we made just to live a little, just to live on. There is no door, there is no key, no secret and no escape, no soul and no mate, no blue and no red, There never was more than lies just to live a little, just to live at all.

20

Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts, crevices and nooks catching at delving digits as they seek between the ****** ***** of remov-ed meat. For before the bones the meat. And before the meat the scalpel, Running liquid through the tendrils with its clever carv-ed lines in the succulent, decadent dead. The gore on the board. Seen in rivulets of scarlet, A tracery of cuts, Multi-layered and exquisite. I taste the smell of this corpulent finery. Hands reaching into the layers, slick with blood pulling at the fat. Sleek and deadly I ply them, my tools. For I am the butcher And you will eat my meat. Feast upon my carnage, And leave me with the bones. And leave me with the bones.

0

Feb 19, 2011

Feb 19, 2011 at 1:01 PM UTC

hb

Skeletal

Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts, crevices and nooks catching at delving digits as they seek between the ****** ***** of remov-ed meat. For before the bones the meat. And before the meat the scalpel, Running liquid through the tendrils with its clever carv-ed lines in the succulent, decadent dead. The gore on the board. Seen in rivulets of scarlet, A tracery of cuts, Multi-layered and exquisite. I taste the smell of this corpulent finery. Hands reaching into the layers, slick with blood pulling at the fat. Sleek and deadly I ply them, my tools. For I am the butcher And you will eat my meat. Feast upon my carnage, And leave me with the bones. And leave me with the bones.

26

I have a favor I must ask of you, and only you: I need your body back, your flesh, your warmth. Your arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, pulling me in- silently speaking the words "you're mine, I'm your's. We are safe." because baby, I have a confession to make I wrote poems in your skin that you don't know I left there. You see my dear, I tucked my quiet rhymes behind your ears for times I knew you'd need to hear my words so soft and sweet, My words: I love you My words: I am here My words: I am not going anywhere. (Little did I know you would.) ••• I hid similies and metaphors in the nooks and crooks of your elbows and knees because poetry must be just as good an oil as any for a twenty-eight year old tin man right? **** I don't know but that's where they fit, where they were meant to go. ••• The first time our bodies connected, our forces colliding just like The Milky Way and Andromeda will in four billion years- my universe aligning with yours as we lay in the grass you and I both whispered: "This is wrong." For the first time on that summer night I wrote my words secretly into your skin. My words: "How can something wrong feel so right?" ••• Baby, I'm looking for home and I know you're looking for a heart so here's mine- written in words on your flesh that you don't know are there. Here's mine- to fill your dark cavern because no heart should be dark, no heart a cavern. Here's mine- my throbbing, beating mess of a heart filled with everyone I've ever loved and there you are on top. ••• Then came the days without "I love you." On those days, with my fingertips frostbitten and trying to text, I wrote my words on scraps of paper, turned them into airplanes, and aimed in your direction hoping that maybe, just maybe, their tips would pierce your skin injecting the warmth I once received. ••• To the man I used to love, You can keep your body and all the words I wrote in places I wanted you to look and hoped you wouldn't miss.

0

Jun 29, 2013

Jun 29, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC

emily-reardon

To the man I used to love,

I have a favor I must ask of you, and only you: I need your body back, your flesh, your warmth. Your arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, pulling me in- silently speaking the words "you're mine, I'm your's. We are safe." because baby, I have a confession to make I wrote poems in your skin that you don't know I left there. You see my dear, I tucked my quiet rhymes behind your ears for times I knew you'd need to hear my words so soft and sweet, My words: I love you My words: I am here My words: I am not going anywhere. (Little did I know you would.) ••• I hid similies and metaphors in the nooks and crooks of your elbows and knees because poetry must be just as good an oil as any for a twenty-eight year old tin man right? **** I don't know but that's where they fit, where they were meant to go. ••• The first time our bodies connected, our forces colliding just like The Milky Way and Andromeda will in four billion years- my universe aligning with yours as we lay in the grass you and I both whispered: "This is wrong." For the first time on that summer night I wrote my words secretly into your skin. My words: "How can something wrong feel so right?" ••• Baby, I'm looking for home and I know you're looking for a heart so here's mine- written in words on your flesh that you don't know are there. Here's mine- to fill your dark cavern because no heart should be dark, no heart a cavern. Here's mine- my throbbing, beating mess of a heart filled with everyone I've ever loved and there you are on top. ••• Then came the days without "I love you." On those days, with my fingertips frostbitten and trying to text, I wrote my words on scraps of paper, turned them into airplanes, and aimed in your direction hoping that maybe, just maybe, their tips would pierce your skin injecting the warmth I once received. ••• To the man I used to love, You can keep your body and all the words I wrote in places I wanted you to look and hoped you wouldn't miss.

81

My love for you isn't just a feeling. It's a civilization. It's a group formed in unorganized noise. A commotion of expression purposely existing the sole purpose of you. Living & breathing. A jumbled language overheard. Stenciled with each patter of foot. Every horn honked. Each lane clogged with the thought of you. A foundation built from the ground up in means to explore. A stone age modernized. Misinterpreted by the desire of fire. Protected. Built upon. Built into the tallest building, which I call your name. My love for you is like the plane that flies overhead. Roaring loud in repetition. Tedious nooks & crannies. Places to shop, things to see. All the things I see when I look into your eyes. My love for you a province of sorts. The smell seared in a pan. Best served on a plate for two. A mix of different pastas, vegetables. Fried in upbeat cafe, different aromas. The chit chat different versions of me. Complimenting the very essence of you. A new building erected with cranes and steel beams. Plastered dry wall. Soon opened for your arrival

0

Aug 10, 2018

Aug 10, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC

kewayne-wadley

Civilization

My love for you isn't just a feeling. It's a civilization. It's a group formed in unorganized noise. A commotion of expression purposely existing the sole purpose of you. Living & breathing. A jumbled language overheard. Stenciled with each patter of foot. Every horn honked. Each lane clogged with the thought of you. A foundation built from the ground up in means to explore. A stone age modernized. Misinterpreted by the desire of fire. Protected. Built upon. Built into the tallest building, which I call your name. My love for you is like the plane that flies overhead. Roaring loud in repetition. Tedious nooks & crannies. Places to shop, things to see. All the things I see when I look into your eyes. My love for you a province of sorts. The smell seared in a pan. Best served on a plate for two. A mix of different pastas, vegetables. Fried in upbeat cafe, different aromas. The chit chat different versions of me. Complimenting the very essence of you. A new building erected with cranes and steel beams. Plastered dry wall. Soon opened for your arrival

31

I desire to go deeper into your intimate-space. I yearn to travel into all your nooks and crannies. I want to decipher a new language, implement fresh code onto your mainframe. My aim is to please beyond all recognition. Can't you tell Sweet Darling? I'm in love with modern technology & its swell electric-buzz!

0

Apr 13, 2014

Apr 13, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC

jonny-angel

I'm In Love With Modern Technology

I desire to go deeper into your intimate-space. I yearn to travel into all your nooks and crannies. I want to decipher a new language, implement fresh code onto your mainframe. My aim is to please beyond all recognition. Can't you tell Sweet Darling? I'm in love with modern technology & its swell electric-buzz!

13

My pen weeps; *It weeps everyday, upon the rugged pages of my diary. A rainbow of tears.* The blue ink sets free *Dark shadows Looming in my soul. Deep; Amidst the hollow wasteland of my thoughts. They take me To the nooks and crevices Of my past. A yesterday, So beautiful, So far away, Yet* unreal. The red ink, *It paints; Swollen memories, That refuse to Let go of my grasp. Buried deep within Yet* alive. And Indigo; *That sketches, The abysmal dreams. That scar my mind, When the world Is snoring, In it's beauty sleep. As i slowly slip, Into a wilderness. A madness, Exhausting Yet* Infinite. My words; *Rain upon the blank pages, With a ink so melancholic, It seems like the tears, Would never dry off. Yet* they do. *Just like the colours In my life. Slipping away, into pages.* *How the cage of my body, Confines a heart;* Suffocated Starved *That sings like a canary, Woeful ballads Of freedom. That begs to stretch, It's wings. And taste the dew Of morning, Lying upon the half awake Bud. A charming melody, it weeps everyday.* Just like my p e n.

0

May 6, 2017

May 6, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC

MahnoorKamran

My Pen

My pen weeps; *It weeps everyday, upon the rugged pages of my diary. A rainbow of tears.* The blue ink sets free *Dark shadows Looming in my soul. Deep; Amidst the hollow wasteland of my thoughts. They take me To the nooks and crevices Of my past. A yesterday, So beautiful, So far away, Yet* unreal. The red ink, *It paints; Swollen memories, That refuse to Let go of my grasp. Buried deep within Yet* alive. And Indigo; *That sketches, The abysmal dreams. That scar my mind, When the world Is snoring, In it's beauty sleep. As i slowly slip, Into a wilderness. A madness, Exhausting Yet* Infinite. My words; *Rain upon the blank pages, With a ink so melancholic, It seems like the tears, Would never dry off. Yet* they do. *Just like the colours In my life. Slipping away, into pages.* *How the cage of my body, Confines a heart;* Suffocated Starved *That sings like a canary, Woeful ballads Of freedom. That begs to stretch, It's wings. And taste the dew Of morning, Lying upon the half awake Bud. A charming melody, it weeps everyday.* Just like my p e n.

65

Another copycat,don't do that it's all been done before and one more pretender shown the door, swing out swing in and another cat comes ring a ding, ding. I need uniqueness I want to feed on the sweetness of novelty,there seems to be less and less of that deliciousness and not much of that newness I can claim for my own, I think I'm fading into the woodwork,full of knots and gnarlings and look at me darlings as I disappear. No copycat here, this is a first time,straight from the bread line into a basket case and how can I possibly face that which is new? New is getting fewer and the few who do new don't know and never knew what few could be in this land of lots and plenty for me. I was told that old is the new folding currency and that doesn't suit me,too many wrinkles,too many nooks and nannies with crooks,like little Bo-Peep,I wish they'd all sleep, there is time for the sheep to try on for size,oh my dear Lion what gigantic eyes, is that a bit new or just me cooking stew? A copycat like folding currency folds flat and I'm having none of that,I like the chinking and clinking of real gold and that don't fold. So beware if you share and don't credit the writer,who with meagreness in his pockets pulls his belt a bit tighter,one more notch he can't feel,,one more meal never felt in his gut,but copycat see,copycat do,copycat never think anything new. What are you?

0

May 25, 2014

May 25, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Pantograph

Another copycat,don't do that it's all been done before and one more pretender shown the door, swing out swing in and another cat comes ring a ding, ding. I need uniqueness I want to feed on the sweetness of novelty,there seems to be less and less of that deliciousness and not much of that newness I can claim for my own, I think I'm fading into the woodwork,full of knots and gnarlings and look at me darlings as I disappear. No copycat here, this is a first time,straight from the bread line into a basket case and how can I possibly face that which is new? New is getting fewer and the few who do new don't know and never knew what few could be in this land of lots and plenty for me. I was told that old is the new folding currency and that doesn't suit me,too many wrinkles,too many nooks and nannies with crooks,like little Bo-Peep,I wish they'd all sleep, there is time for the sheep to try on for size,oh my dear Lion what gigantic eyes, is that a bit new or just me cooking stew? A copycat like folding currency folds flat and I'm having none of that,I like the chinking and clinking of real gold and that don't fold. So beware if you share and don't credit the writer,who with meagreness in his pockets pulls his belt a bit tighter,one more notch he can't feel,,one more meal never felt in his gut,but copycat see,copycat do,copycat never think anything new. What are you?

16

I find you In the strangest places Like In between the freckles of her nose - Curled up to sleep in the nooks and crannies of a bittersweet melody Dipping your toes In pools of sound - Or Shapeless, clinging To skin bathed in light - You drip Letter after letter Into the palm of my hand As blue skies melt to blackness - Sometimes You sit, cross-legged, peaceful Up to your neck in rippling whiteness I can tell you've been Waiting Until a too-long stare brought you to life - Yet You crumble when I reach for you A beautiful mess Your inspiration drifts soundlessly down Glowing embers At my feet - You leak in measured counts From melancholy eyes - I breath your colors Your impassioned purples The anguish in your orange vibrations - You reach through the crack of my window Stardust in your amber hair My muse Rock me to sleep With lullabies of the mind - You swallow me, in silence Stare at me through the eyes of my lover Whisper secrets When the wind holds its breath - You wrap your feathered arms Around all that exists And bring it to the edge Of a kiss But just For a moment

0

Apr 3, 2014

Apr 3, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC

samuel-clemens

Blink

I find you In the strangest places Like In between the freckles of her nose - Curled up to sleep in the nooks and crannies of a bittersweet melody Dipping your toes In pools of sound - Or Shapeless, clinging To skin bathed in light - You drip Letter after letter Into the palm of my hand As blue skies melt to blackness - Sometimes You sit, cross-legged, peaceful Up to your neck in rippling whiteness I can tell you've been Waiting Until a too-long stare brought you to life - Yet You crumble when I reach for you A beautiful mess Your inspiration drifts soundlessly down Glowing embers At my feet - You leak in measured counts From melancholy eyes - I breath your colors Your impassioned purples The anguish in your orange vibrations - You reach through the crack of my window Stardust in your amber hair My muse Rock me to sleep With lullabies of the mind - You swallow me, in silence Stare at me through the eyes of my lover Whisper secrets When the wind holds its breath - You wrap your feathered arms Around all that exists And bring it to the edge Of a kiss But just For a moment

49

Natalie! at present I am present on a small isle, which is so green genteel to the eyes and the ayes, you might include it among yet unmastered possibilities, living here forever. indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here, but actuality has a way of intruding, like Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu, saying I know you, even if it doesn’t this breeze bearing load suggests your name as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE, a practiced curtsy for a queen, whatever is he babbling about? why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse so you buy a house on the water, party all night, write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon on a summery isle, modestly hungover say! where is this isle so sheltered, where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of those things that poets endlessly babble? so add : come here and let us listen to all your possibilities and cross just this one, your presence here, off the list

0

Jun 22, 2019

Jun 22, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC

onlylovepoetry

I was born into a universe of possibilities, hers, natalie stiles carmona

Natalie! at present I am present on a small isle, which is so green genteel to the eyes and the ayes, you might include it among yet unmastered possibilities, living here forever. indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here, but actuality has a way of intruding, like Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu, saying I know you, even if it doesn’t this breeze bearing load suggests your name as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE, a practiced curtsy for a queen, whatever is he babbling about? why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse so you buy a house on the water, party all night, write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon on a summery isle, modestly hungover say! where is this isle so sheltered, where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of those things that poets endlessly babble? so add : come here and let us listen to all your possibilities and cross just this one, your presence here, off the list

36

What is that reality that appears to me in dreams, chock-full of misgivings and doubt. I counteract my fear of life with my fears of slumber, dust in my eyes and stiff as lumber. In truth - I'm not stiffened by fear, by nausea, post-pubescent sacrilege, or all of the above. I'm not up-kept, grizzly with ennui; I'm dizzy, confiding my loss. I feel the lips that kiss but can't be drawn: from mind, stencil paper pen, on sheets of thick pale and cellulose, for the heart to mend. My unsteady hand is my fearful friend A soft embrace from a warm mind Somber and so full of Life clung to by the scent of Death Endowed with an eternal promise and regret from veins of plants or the glow of stars. Cold, mechanical debt. (my heart, so full of...) (my mind, so hot with...) (my body, trembling in...) I am gulf-like a stream full of trees and glass echoing a promise of shattering wind. Will I be published after my death, asleep predating, a life conceived. Will I live to see myself alone, and to discover that which I'm not? Or will I stutter and wallow a curse, Up towards the sky, Until the final verse. On a boast or chasing the Rail, pale as dirt, and shallow still. Will my true love abandon, break, strain, Burn away the wax, or hurry to blame? Omit my evils from the star-charts, then just to vacate the void. From the half-broken corridors of rocks, nooks, crannies. Carry laughter through the night burn the effigy bowed-down, before dawn's courageous, ever-splaying light Angels, of Carlo and Marx, plenty by noon festoon, again by day thus replay, Endeavor to infinity, fair child. Remold the light by Day and remold the Day by Night.

0

Feb 23, 2013

Feb 23, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC

j-patrick-h

Tenderness

What is that reality that appears to me in dreams, chock-full of misgivings and doubt. I counteract my fear of life with my fears of slumber, dust in my eyes and stiff as lumber. In truth - I'm not stiffened by fear, by nausea, post-pubescent sacrilege, or all of the above. I'm not up-kept, grizzly with ennui; I'm dizzy, confiding my loss. I feel the lips that kiss but can't be drawn: from mind, stencil paper pen, on sheets of thick pale and cellulose, for the heart to mend. My unsteady hand is my fearful friend A soft embrace from a warm mind Somber and so full of Life clung to by the scent of Death Endowed with an eternal promise and regret from veins of plants or the glow of stars. Cold, mechanical debt. (my heart, so full of...) (my mind, so hot with...) (my body, trembling in...) I am gulf-like a stream full of trees and glass echoing a promise of shattering wind. Will I be published after my death, asleep predating, a life conceived. Will I live to see myself alone, and to discover that which I'm not? Or will I stutter and wallow a curse, Up towards the sky, Until the final verse. On a boast or chasing the Rail, pale as dirt, and shallow still. Will my true love abandon, break, strain, Burn away the wax, or hurry to blame? Omit my evils from the star-charts, then just to vacate the void. From the half-broken corridors of rocks, nooks, crannies. Carry laughter through the night burn the effigy bowed-down, before dawn's courageous, ever-splaying light Angels, of Carlo and Marx, plenty by noon festoon, again by day thus replay, Endeavor to infinity, fair child. Remold the light by Day and remold the Day by Night.

73