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ryn Oct 2014
On this carousel
You and I
Ringing bells
Time passes by

Scorching bulbs
Ornate bobbing horsies
Enchanting music
Tell of magical stories

I am here
On this side
You are there
Same ****** ride

Opposite ends
Placed we two
We can't see
But each other we knew

Friendly peeks
Directed to you
All I could afford
Keep you in view

Still rotating
Ride goes on
Chasing each other
No closer we've drawn

Enjoy the ride
Soak in the sights
Hold at bay
Reality that bites

Thought about
Getting off
Don't know how to
Come to a solve

Can't hold still
It's eating me alive
Can't just stay
Have to strive

Hand still holding on
One foot dangling
Second thoughts play
But bent on releasing

Take the first step
Don't overthink
Take the leap
Step off the brink

Close my eyes
Time is now
Just let go
Fate I must allow

Ready now
Time came to a freeze
one...two...
three...release


Now off the carousel
Cloying uncertainty
Never been here
Unknown territory

In the music
Found familiarity
Unsure if here
Is where I want to be

What do I do?
Wait a little more?
Hop back on?
Or await what's in store?

Glad I waited
Glad patience I found
There you are...
Coming back round
Madness plays in loops...
A sick little spin on the carousel.
zebra Jul 2016
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped

as above so below

the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
******* below ...flesh woven

does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy

then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children


i build  temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****

do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes

the catechism
of the  solar ****

to know
to adore
to prostrate

to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth

to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries  

those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives
Harsh Jul 2015
I roar with a bravado
that echoes throughout
the deepest caverns
of brave souls

yet with every time
there lies a risk
of my own reverberations
shattering my heart

I am fragile glass
fashioned into
the fearsome form
of a lion

I have been chiseled at by
Father Time and Mother Earth,
carved away by my pains
and my worries.

I am no façade;
there is nothing ornate
about me designed to
hide something heinous

I can shatter
just as easily
as my mother’s
prized china set

But I roar on
even as I chip away;
my joints creaking
and my body scorched.

Do not mistake my
scratches and cracks
for weakness,
I have demons of my own.

I walk this ground
with the hope
that my roars,
in spite of my fragility,

will instill a sense of hope
into all of you
with glass hearts
such as mine.
This piece was inspired by this -> http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1110481/paper-lion/ which doesn't seem to be working, but the piece was entitled "Paper Lion"
Chris Neilson Aug 2018
Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages
I wrote most of this after returning from a hospital appointment earlier this year but have now added to it to bring it up to date
laura Oct 2018
i do this thing where i stay quiet
for too long
sometimes i feel i ruin things
like a garden
i touch that starts to wither away
or an ornate jar
shatters to irreparable pieces
like a wound
that keeps reopening and all
the doors in my
life keep closing, so i leave my feelings
on the low key side of things
coaxed by
billow blowing
my back toward
double doors

bloomy blush palms
grace cold chromium
transfixed yet still
slightly froze

by their magnitude
stellar statuesque
ornate etchings
on the outside

engravings tonging
somethings subtly
warbling up vertebra
no longer numb

and I
remember
this hand
this voice
this vibration
this harmony

a fifth or a third
resonant progression
of ordered chords
this same old song
never heard, yet
- known -

buried, now begging
eternal womb
to be born

the want
wavers fingers
in front of the bell
until the know grows
too large to hold
behind stately doors

craving light, space, time
to stretch and unfold

dew-spun carbon
beyond the threshold
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
My sister was born here
yet I know she does not recall the:
streets and sidewalks.
vagrants and beggars
full of history
full of bohemian young people
looking  for stylish bars.
Plenty of music
  and art galleries.
African music and South American shops.
expensive boutiques with impossible prices
Alternatively, you can take the pink,
Tropical garden with a pond full of small turtles
A memorial to the victims  
The roads within are difficult to navigate
junctions underground provide relief from the sun on hot days.
night owls cover the city
a green libre sign in the windshield
far too many cars and not enough space
narrow streets in the old town,
  is the heart of the city
The clock tower marks the Twelve Grapes  
a bear climbing a tree,
ornate iron posts.
the vacant Palace
lavishly decorated
Baroque-style gardens surround a large monument
Dozens of statues
a sculpture of Don Quixote
A massive roundabout
a chariot pulled by two lions.
A tall obelisk sits in the center
a pedestrian walkway full of fountains and trees
The vertical garden can be seen from the street outside,
features fine furniture and porcelain
impressive art collections with paintings, sculptures, and prints.
young hippies play bongos and dance.  
And I have never been there
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source https://wikitravel.org/en/Madrid
Paul Hansford Aug 2016
The flag, a white crescent and single star
on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' —
tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı
at pavement tables, even in Ramadan,
and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls,
parading with bare-faced confidence,
tell of other influences;
but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer
from the marble minaret, a slim finger
pointing to the sky beside shining domes
reflecting the vault of heaven.
At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing,
or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle,
and we remember where we are.
But especially at the midday hour,
when the voice of the muezzin echoes
over noisy street or market,
and from another minaret and another
the duet becomes a trio, a quartet
of different melodies, out of tune
with each other but never discordant
(in these tones the word has no meaning),
the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be,
that their God requires something of them.
Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque,
entering the quiet forest of pillars,
feeling through the soles of our bare feet
marble polished by the tread
of generations of worshippers,
fine-grained wood,
the rich softness of crimson carpet,
we luxuriate in the textures as they combine
with the formal floral patterns of the tiles,
the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions,
the rich colours of the glass,
and we realise that the builders of these mosques
knew what they were doing, so many years ago,
how peace can enter the soul
through the senses.
The letter that looks like a lower-case "i" without the dot and appears here in "kırmızı" and "rakı" is pronounced, in the delightfully phonetic Turkish language, as a kind of "uh", as in "I am writing A [uh] poem" or "I have read THE [thuh] book".
I’ve grown tired of this suit.
I don't like wearing it anymore.
It’s not what it once was.
It’s a constant burden to me.
It’s discolored, faded, and worn thin, especially around the knees.  
It’s marred with tears and stains.
It embarrasses me.
It itches.
It’s suffocating.
It’s downright ****.
I no longer feel comfortable in it. I haven’t for decades.
I’ve taken it to the best cleaners, the best tailors that money can buy, but it's still a tattered mess beyond repair.
People say I look good in it, that it’s me, it's who I am,  don’t be so self conscious.
But what do they know?
They're not the ones who wear it all the time. I ******* do, ******* it.
Maybe there’s some hidden truth in all of this that I’ve been bypassing all along?
I don’t have the patience and tolerance to keep wearing it.
The long-avoided decision to rid myself of my suit finally catches up with me.
I’m not timid, not scared, not anxious - just relieved. Excited. Ready to undress.
There’s a fresh, clean robe waiting for me, hanging from the mantle at the bottom of the stairs.
I prepare myself for facing the uncertainty.
So, here I go.
I undress.
It takes a matter of seconds before I rid myself of the suit.
I stand naked, towering over the folded mess.  
I think to myself, that wasn’t so bad after all…
Just like anything in life, it’s the anticipation that cripples us.  Remember that.
I lower my head and stare only for a few moments at my *****, mangy suit.
Nothing at all, no remorse, no guilt – only liberation.  I receive the peace that has softly spoken to me in my dreams, through music, by feeding ducks and listening to the early morning birds.  They usually have the first thing to say, and it’s the most beautiful message one will ever hear.    
I place my robe over my naked body and start walking up the worn, creaky stairs.
Distant laughter and muffled conversations travel down to me as I climb higher towards the thick, ornate door.
The voices are familiar.  
I push open the door, welcomed by the faces that have been gone for far too long.
speaking of
the greatest good,
I have been devoutly
praying for it

for everyone in
The Whole dang club

wherever it
pulls flows goes
aside under over tow

even though I know
it's kinda like asking U
to tie me to a spit
à la *******-bi

with clock hands
slow-cranking circles
orbiting until dizzy
harshing me
pristine

and I say
yes to it

because more
than any one thing
I want to spread
pearlescent wings
glinting orange
off our star

and I believe
down to the marrow
regenerating inside
my chiming bones

my path to awakening
is submitting to love,
worshipping in skin

and all these
tumultuous turns
and infernal spins

this gutting
inner work

will be worth it

as preparation for
open-heart melding
melting into mellow

bliss peach cheeks
blooming on the
wisp-kissed wind

pulling toward
ornate saintly gates
unraveling metallics
with boiling points set

at incandescent
serpentine
Michael Sep 2018
Complicated words, drawn out phrasings.
Lines that flow like water and perfect pacing.
Truth from the heart, no more, no less.
Converted into art, forged without rest.

Your tongue is a hammer, nailing bars into place.
Ornate articulations to fill out all the space.
Between every line is a moment of awe.
Study it well and remember it all.

Maybe some day you'll take center stage.
You skipped the last step so you read off the page.
They applaud you in dim light, then you make your exit.
But sure as shine, the feeling is still where you left it.
English Jam Jun 29
Summer's here in all it's depression
Bound to make an impression
Pretty little leaves fall and weave into a pattern, so naive
Marigolds of black and yellow
Stopping to say hello
Old flames anew, the myriad of youth debuts, shimmering hue
Here they come to make it right
In this garden of delights
Colourful and young among a palette of sweet songs to be sung

Glad to see you back again
Honey bees my old friend
You answered my pleas
Now you're back again sweet honey bees

Flowers assemble into a crown
Laughter rings all around
Eyes trace the rise of the wind, graceful and calm, as she flies
The innocence that went away
Has come back to play
Upon sunbeams, it seems they have flown right out of our dreams
Nature calls, ornate splendor
To it we surrender
Sunny craze lost in a haze, spurred out of celibacy, mellow laze

Glad to see you back again
Honey bees my old friend
You answered my pleas
Now you're back again sweet honey bees

Nature has something to say
Sun has a brand new day
Laid back with ease, all that it sees it gives new life, honey bees

Sweet honey bees
Buzz buzz
Emeka Mokeme Nov 2018
My life at
the beginning
of creation
is woven with
words and
watered down
with poetry.
My mind
creates the
pictures that
the heart
wants me to
interpret into
words and
give it life.
My eyes
feeds the mind
with profound
scenes of the
unspeakable,
which my mouth
translates into
intricate words
of clear speech
and poetry.
Complex in nature,
convoluted and tangled,
complicated and twisted,
ravelled and ornate,
labyrinthine and winding,
maze-like and knotty,
serpentine and sinuous,
circuitous and detailed,
daedalian and involute,
mixed up and fiddly,
byzantine and Gordian
mind blowing words
that are arranged
in a delicate way,
to soothe and smooth,
correct and mend,
comfort and bring
solace to heal
our brokenness.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Wk kortas Jan 2018
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
SilentAce Mar 2015
The sun is shining beautifully onto the gold dome.
It shines so bright I can hardly look up.
I am dressed in black head to toe, sweat beading down my back making the cloth stick to my neck.
They make me take off my shoes before I enter.
The bare tile exposed to the sun scald the soles of my feet.
I don't know why I am here.
Mother says I have to pay my respects to some little girl in a tomb.
But I still don't understand why, she never said.
Her name was Zanib, the little girl.
and she was the daughter of someone important I suppose. A prophet I think. I didn’t really pay attention.
Figures though.
No one would build a mosque for a girl. Only because she belonged to an important man.
I want to leave.
It really is quite pretty though.

We finally crossed the scalding courtyard and enter the ornately decorated Mosque.
I find myself looking at some kind of shrine.
People are crowding it. I don’t even want to try to go but mother grabs my hand. “Yullah Samantha.” I don’t want to yullah.
They are all placing their palms flat against the shrine and leaving delicate mesbahas or prayer beads as an offering.
And bowing their heads. All whispering prayers to this little girl.
As though somehow she is their connection to God.

I try to look inside
but I don't see a little girl.
Just a pretty coffin
In an ornate cage.

I weave my baby blue mesbaha into the barrjer surrounding the coffin the for the little girl. Zanib.
It’s my favorite mesbaha
But she is the daughter of someone important, so she deserves it I suppose.
I press my palm onto the shrine
daring to feel something, anything. Maybe she will be my connection to God.
Only to feel nothing except foolish.
I leave the mesbaha, whisper a goodbye
and leave just as untouched and hungry as before.

Mother takes me to the prayer mats and I know I will be here for a while.
Mother always has a lot to pray for.
I say I want to get closer to the Shrine and leave her with other ladies to pray.
I take my blue prayer mat with me and a prayer rock.
only mother's side of the family uses the prayer rocks, she says she’ll tell me why one day but honestly, I don’t care.
I just think its a nice place to rest my forehead.

I kneel in front of the emerald cage
the sun shining through it is making a beautiful rainbow onto the floor by my knees.
I bow, still hoping to feel something.
Anything.
But I feel nothing still.
Truth is I never actually pray
I never felt God talk to me the way mother says he does.
I feel more alone than ever listening to my own thoughts.
But I bow my head and slightly part my knees so no one take notice while I spy on others instead of praying.
I like to see how they pray.
They all look like they are in a trance.
I don't understand it.
I don’t think I ever will.

I hear someone shuffle beside me.
they sound small like me
I dare not to look because I am supposed to be praying, and good Muslims aren't supposed to notice their surrounding when they pray before God.
So I keep my bearing and look only straight in front of me or down at my mat.
I am still bowing when I feel something touch my back. So lightly I almost don't feel it at first.
I hear the ping of beads hitting the tile beside me.
and I peer up just enough to see a pair of little girls feet walking away from me.
I rise and try to see who it is but they are gone already. But they were just there...
I ask the woman next to me if she had seen a little girl just then.
"Lah. Habibti, mafi ****.”
She said no. But looks like she has a secret. Whatever.
I look down at my mat and sure enough I see the prayer beads.
Emerald with a dark red tassel.
How did they know I was missing mine?
I glare at the shrine.
Surely not. No.

It was a little girl. Or at least the feet. I had seen them, I knew I did.
I look at the woman
she smiles, with a secret in her eyes.
I look back at the shrine
back at her cage and I get it now.
Something had heard my thoughts. But definitely not God.

I remember the imam at Sunday prayer had taught us about jinn.
He said they tend to gather in places they are thought about. And that they somtimes grow attached to people. He said if they felt strongly enough, they allow us to see them. For good or for bad. They like to play with our vision.

And I had thought about her.
She was a daughter of an important man so if there was a Jinn attached to her it must adore her as much as these people.

Mother is bragging about all the things she prayed for again as we leave the mosque.
I am quiet.
listening to her and trying to relate but cannot focus
all I can think about is the little girl I saw.
"Mama"
"Yes Habibti?"
"Can I see jinn in the daytime? Good ones?”
"No habibti. They don’t like to be seen.”
I shuffle the emerald beads.
I don't think she is right.
JS CARIE Nov 2018
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape

What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted

Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years  placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
William Jan 3
Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses

Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, ****, and violence
In their suburban domain

“In marriage there’s no such thing as ****!”
“I make the money, if I want *** I’ll take it!”
“I’ll end your life if you try to escape.”
“I’ll cut off your money, you’ll never make it.”
“I’ve explained to your family you’re crazy as hell.”
“You have no friends left, no one to tell.”
“It’s always your fault you make me hit you.”
“Now tell the **** doctor you just tripped on a shoe.”
“Get yourself tested I brought home the clap.”
“You’re lucky to have me, I’m the real catch.”
“Keep eyeballing me, you’ll get a fresh slap.”
“Stop crying your eyes out, it’s just a rough patch.”
“I love you so much, why can’t you see?”
“This creature is something you force me to be!”
“NOW STOP YOUR WHINING AND MAKE A NEW DRINK!”
“ELSE IT’S YOUR HEAD, NOT MY GLASS, THAT SHATTERS THE SINK!”
“YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN, AND YOU WON’T GET AWAY.”
“YOUR NIGHTMARE IS HERE, AND HE’S GOING TO STAY.”
...
“Lock the door? I’ll kick it in!”
“Fight back? I call that a win.”
“The struggle is what turns me on!”

The terror carries through to next dawn.

Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, ****, and violence
In their suburban domain

Sprinklers water the grasses
The sobering monsters cover their *****
They put on a grin and dress in fine suits
Greet peers with **** salutes

Off to work he goes to make cash
The kids trudge glumly off to school
The night before? Just a bad dream
She’s buying clothes, spending's her fuel.

Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses
I've been wrestling with the experience of the most important person in my adult life, whose husband played the role of the honorable and even pious successful business owner with the Bentley and all the bling. Always was (is) able to convince people he's this great guy, when he was simply a wealthy man who felt like that meant he could do anything he wanted to anyone, without consequence. He has a long history of domestic violence and did things to her that cut me to my soul (though my piece speaks in general terms and is not necessarily literal in whole). This clumsy 'poem' just tries to approach the **** underbelly of suburbia -- where everything is perfect on the outside, and catastrophically ****** behind closed doors.

Not something I enjoyed writing, not particularly comfortable posting it, and it didn't serve to substantially advance my voice in this medium -- but it needed to be purged.
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