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September Roses Jul 2018
As the sun slowly sets
The precursor to the week
With deadlines,
                            Orders,
                            ­               Oh so bleak
The calm before the storm
  Too restless to enjoy
For everybody knows
     It's sunday's melancholy ploy

    Responsibilities loom overhead
     Our heart as heavy as the air
      The world has now gone silent
              We sit in subtle fear
zero Nov 2017
I dreamt all my dreams away on that first night,
I spent them on you.
Dia,
-Z.xo
Daisy Marrow Jun 2014
You lay in a field of flowers counting each bird that passes overhead.
You've erased concern and decided to live for the moment because you always would say, "we might be dead by tomorrow."
Flowers grew from your heart and bloomed across your lungs,
creating a garden that sang the most beautiful hymns,
while my garden was withering.
Each breath you took was never wasted,
but I couldn't help but count mine like they were birds passing overhead.
Every night you would view the stars and moon with pure amazement as if it was your first time seeing them.
You gave all your love to me and each kiss was coined in my pocket.
You fell in love with me every night and I fell for all your hymns.
Soon enough the world would pass us by but I wouldn't blink because I could live off your touch for the rest of my time.
You showed me there is more in life than just one color,
but instead, the world is a whole painting with colors that can't be described.
You showed me just how beautiful the world was.
You taught me how to grow beauty from my eyes but lately, I've been dreaming and falling for stars.
Imagining what it'd be like slow dancing with the planets, getting lost in constellations.
But I'm just not ready to go yet however I do not control time.
You showed me that dying can be beautiful.
That we'll be okay because when we leave we all become one with the earth and one with nature.
So love, love me until time runs out,
until I become one with nature.

And many years later as time starts to fly by and you slowly start to watch your clock tick down, you'll know where to find me, my love.
I'll be up with stars.
Somewhere lost in the cosmos.
I'll be spinning with the planets dreaming about what it would feel like to be able to walk on flowers again.
2014
Silverflame Aug 2018
my old futile dreams
make the windows all misty
ripping up the seams
blood mixed with ancient whiskey

a smile around the corner
lures the naive mind
******* up the world order
another death wish signed

overhead, brick by brick
the november wind stands still
heart oozing of homesick
empty thoughts my glass refill

delusions cover my sight
faraway lights blink with eager
fixing the crooked night
dinner with the grim reaper
A poem I wrote last year, which I someone managed to delete with my clumsy fingers.
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Shoulders rolling, rising
as icebergs from their glacier calf to sea—
as men, we fend the rimless wilds

With force, flung, withheld,
intelligence, ancestral songs of origin,
of prophesy, returning avatars

Overhead
white seabirds
wheeling
.
I guess you’re on your own with this poem. I can tell you where it begins. The scene is set in ancient times, and as near as I remember— a northern, coastal region following the spring equinox. A few of us had embarked upon a quest to find The One.
.
The One: Everyone knows what "The One" means for themselves, whether they love or hate or are indifferent. Of course, "The One" was not what we called such a Being but it serves to communicate. The name does not matter for the purpose of this poem. Most of Earth have heard it anyway, in one incarnation or another.
Calf: The offspring of various large mammals, such as cows (cattle), elephants and whales. Also, a piece of an iceberg or a glacier that breaks away or the action of this happening.
Fend: (figurative) To defend or attack with skill, make one’s way.
Avatar: The manifestation of a deity or released soul in ****** form.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
ryn Feb 2015
.
•they'd               
come at night•               
these footsteps are               
never light• always                    
heavy and running ar-                      
ound•...they are annoy-                        
ingly creepy..., these aw-                       
ful sounds•every night,                          
after eleven without                        
fail•into rooms,                        

us they would                        
tail• making a                        
din overhead                        
•when all                        
                         should
                        be quiet inste-
                         ad•like barefooted
                          children i would ***-
                          ume...•wandering and
                          exploring into every ro-
                           om•...could they come
                            wilfully•from the cou-
                                ple who live above
                            me•i very much

                             doubt so•bec-
                             ause this much
                             i know...•that
                             the neigh-

bour up-                    
stairs, they're                        
old•frail and meek;                            
never bold•they'd re-                            
tire early•after late, ne-                            
ver a party•now... there                            
the feet go again•drivi-                            
ng me almost insane•                            
on my ceiling now,                            
they're pacing•                        

they know i kn-                        
ow and they are                        
playing•these                        
invisible                        
                        feet•ne-
                        ver would we
                            meet•one thing for
                           sure•this is not a friv-
                            olous tour•determined
                            to tell•that they exist
                              as well•nothing i'm
                               certain but it is clear
                               •i think they really
                              like it here...•

                              •i don't think
                               they're leavi-
                              ng•they're
                 ­              bent on


staying...
.
I live in an apartment on the 2nd storey. My family and I would hear these footsteps every night.

Initially we would dismiss it to be the neighbour living upstairs but that became very improbable simply because the couple who lives above us are far too old to be jumping and skipping in the wee hours...

We have tried ignoring the sounds but they would intensify. We'd hear intentional heavy footsteps, running, jumping between rooms but most of the time they would follow us to whichever room we're in.

Lately these sounds had progressed to rapping on the concrete walls in my bedroom. I could hear them as I lay in bed knocking and tapping on the wall by me.

The thing is... I live in a corner apartment and beyond that wall is the exterior of the building... There is no way anyone could be on the opposite side of that wall...

Creepy much?
.
Sam Hawkins Oct 2013
On the low-flung periphery of the salt marsh bay,
near the twisted beach, an eddy--

Sun low with the tide going up
where softly and under I lay.

For a pillow I was given
a yellow shell.

My ears were listening.

In its restlessness and reaching,
my tongue and its languages
felt lashed and closed.

I shall not leave
my waterworld.

But I must go,
ashore.

Hermit crab
raised itself up.

One silvery minnow played
across my open eyes.

Then, a cloud-blue sky
answered me
with a white seabird,
overhead circling.

So strange and beautiful,
this land of my dream I see--
in my amphibian way.
Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
This girl I know
She is just ... like a book.

Her cover is so beautiful
And yet ... forever changing looks.

But this girl's beauty
Is unlike any that you've seen.

It really comes from all those pages
Those pages in between.

Each page tells a story
Some of sorrow oh so sad.

But for every one of those that you read
You'll find one of better time's she's had.

This girl I know
She rules a realm that no one ever see's.

This girl will never show it to you
And she will never show it to me.

This girl is tough
And dauntless and strong.

This girl she sings
The most beautiful songs.

This girl will never let you see her cry.

This girl will never answer you why.

This girl she doesn't need wings to fly.

Because this girl ... She is the sky.

You will find her overhead
Every day and every night.

Her sun will warm the hardest heart
And her stars they shine so bright.

If you should ever catch her and open that book
You'd better read as fast as you can.

Standing still in any one place
Is never in her plans.

But, this girl I know isn't running from something
And it's not that she's some bird on a wire.

She isn't blindly running through time, you see
This girl I know ... She has a world to set on fire.
Written in the Fall of 2012 about a friend of mine that just means the world to me. I'm too shy, or whatever, to show it to her. With my chronic case of Charlie Brown Syndrome, I am forever in fear that I will be somehow misunderstood. I hope one day, if she ever see's it, that she realizes it is about her.

PLEASE, with all due respect, do NOT tell me to give it to her. If I haven't in 5 years ... I am never going to. That's just me. I PROMISE you that I am THEE most stubborn Aries that you will EVER encounter. My stubbornness has made my family and friends, quite often, call me "The Immovable Object".
Kara Jean Jun 2016
Situated in self caused misery
Her choices translucent
Influenced by a life of negativety
She filled her tub with murky water
Warm, a place filled to the tip with disgrace
A bed is shelter overhead,
comfort is never enough
In this vague interpretation of what is good,
she has stiffened posture
A symptom of exposure
Revised
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Be a voice; not an echo*

somebody had written on the wall.

People are in love with echoes,

reverberating off walls of canyons,

in love with the sound

sounding off.

Nothing for me, they decide.

Nothing for the girl, lifting her hand

to caress the branches of trees

hanging overhead.

They want the familiar sounds

of girls

sounding off.
Dead Rose One Feb 2015
"how can you be in bed so fast?
we just got home five minutes ago?"*

You got girlie stuff to do babe.

unlock the front door,
thirty steps
to our bed.

maybe stop to basketball shoot
***** clothes into a swish
of the hamper's netting

or,
maybe not.

turn off the overhead left handed in
a single motion, a highlight video,
both left foot socks
hid in the snow boots,
outside the front door.

you understand.

my unseen
girlie stuff,
requires me in state of ******,
while you be
prepping.

face washed, creamed,
hair n' tooth brushed,
other stuff,
unmentionable.

am doing
my thing...

my girlie stuff


starting a
poem interruptus
my pre-Coitus exercise,
just a new love poem
conception,
initiated,
doing my thing,
waiting on you
primped n'pumped,
décolletage clad,
to give me that
girlie stuff
closing stanza
Bison Jun 2016
Sand chokes my sea blue eyes
Heat like waves invite Delusion's rise
My wandering soles worn to pride
But I won't give up on paradise

'Cuz I know
There's an angel waiting
To welcome me to the oasis
And I know
I can make it to your cool shoreline and
I won't waste this, my new horizon

There's the ocean just overhead
I'm not dreaming, no, I'm not dead
I'm just hoping for a splash of rain
Some clouds to wash away Thirst's looming dread

I'm collapsing and it's not enough
I'll be buried before the sun is up
And you will never know if
I truly loved you or if this was all a bluff

'Cuz you know
I'm no angel gracing
St. Peter's golden grating
And you know
I don't know to give up my hallucination and
return to your old foundation

I may die with my bones
Exposed in blistered sunlight
But in my hand
there'll be an old photo
Of you and I
zuMee Aug 2018
Field of sun-flowers overhead:
The sparkling yellow grains
bursting out
from the stamens

A wind rises
The call to pollinate

I tuck myself
into a sheet-cocoon
fly upwards
out of the chrysalis.
ryn Feb 2015
There once was a man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He worked long and hard; and wore a tan,
He was a plantation tapper.

One night he packed,
In haste after a long day of toil.
Quickly had his belongings all sacked
Under light from a lantern that reeked of kerosene oil.

He was ready, flame from the lantern he did ****.
Overhead, the midnight moon brightly shone.
Bound his sack to the rack above the rear wheel,
Mounted his bicycle and soon he was gone.

The dirt trail leading back,
Undulating with gravel all strewn.
Almost treacherous this forgotten track
He only relied on light from the moon.

The air was cool just like any other,
But something was different about this night.
Squinting ahead he spotted a figure.
Flagging him down was a lady in white...
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
Juhlhaus Jan 13
Long ago my mother gave me birth.
From her molten womb in the cooling rain I took shape.
Wind and water gently fashioned me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

Men found me on the mountainside,
Stripped me of my mossy cloak
And hauled me away on a cart of wood,
To be used for the glory of God.
With metal tools and hammer blows they fashioned me
And gave me hard edges.
They stacked me high on top of other stones,
Fitted me snug and sealed me in.
Through narrow windows colored light shone on the floor below,
And in the darkness voices rose with scented smoke,
Singing of the glory of God.

Men warred with other men, took each other’s lives
And threw down what they had raised up, for the glory of God.
Scorched by angry flames, I fell
From that high place to lie broken in the ashes.
Wind and water gently washed me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the ruins
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

A shepherd found me in the grass, lifted me up
And carried me away in his arms.
He nestled me alongside other stones
To keep the wandering sheep from deadly cliffs.
Though riven clouds the bright sun warms us,
And in the mist life weaves us mossy coverings.
Day after day we listen to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
I would not have thought a stone could possess a soul, until I visited Scotland. This poem was inspired in part by a visit to the ruins of the Cathedral of Saint Andrew. I composed the poem a few months later, after a friend suggested I write an essay describing my spiritual journey through disillusionment and doubt. As I pondered this, it seemed that no essay could ever convey my bound-up thoughts and emotions, but a poem might begin to do so.
Frank Russell Mar 2014
Never feel alone, my friend -
dormancy is also transient,
same as your winter depression...

Only yesterday I heard a flock of geese
overhead in the twilight
announce their return
while a heedless scampering squirrel
repeatedly circuited the trunk of an oak.

The Pervasion is always complete;
embrace it in your awareness
as the Sun's virility will soon
embrace the fields and countryside.

Regrouping the sacred elements
through delicate processes,
rugged mating rituals,
and rebirth -

Forming a symmetry
of vital love incarnate
dispelling all loneliness.


-fr
ryn Sep 2014
Sun up till sun down
Trapped in a perpetual frown
Moon comes then she goes
Drops free fall from my nose

Waking hours in the daylight
Aimless motions; clumsy, puppet-like
Waking hours in the night
Uncomfortable in my own skin and psych

Sleeplessness be my companion
Restlessness be my actions
Despondence be my demon
Crest fallen be my reason

Frantically sifting through my head
Vertically upright or supine in bed
Compartmentalising might be key
To fend off self inflicted insanity

Desperation hangs overhead; ripe and bruised
Excuses upon excuses ridiculously overused
Furiously typing before my mind curds
Hopes of finding peace in these unspoken words
Darkness is upon me... Please excuse my rantings
King Panda Jul 2017
I imagine I can write about
war—that god and man
have contrasted to the
continually shading
topaz of bodies being
crystallized.

stoic,
tangled planets overhead—
circling as my eyes
fill with infinity-pools.
your edges
fall off when I
look up into space to
see you without
seeing you.
Tammy M Darby Sep 2013
Of woman's strength
Feminine emotion
Novice poet of rhyme
Wandering traveler in time
A skilled hunter

I am an outlaw
Choosing not to embrace conformity
Or integrate into the system
Societies matrix
The definition of normal
Existing uneasily on the fringe

Confederate born
Southern bred
I fly my flag with pride overhead
Not out of hate
To represent the heritage of my birth

A scholar
Obscurity is my chosen environment
Connoisseur of the written word
The yellowed paper soon obsolete  

These are my many attributions
I will not dispute it
Indeed I am a maze of confusion
In the conscious world
I am a strange combination


All Rights [email protected] Tammy M Darby
All Material Stored in Author Base Sept. 2013
ight reserved
Natalie Aug 2018
My limbs pinned and flayed.
A curious crowd of men hover overhead,

Floating faces bobbing closely
Like great bearded balloons.

In a flash of white and sharply gleaming silver,
They swiftly strip my leather skin

And, upon prying the cage, are astounded to have found
Only a cavity in the place a heart should be.

Throughout my warren of vein sits the last true proof
That anything once flowed there—

A thickly pickled ichor to make sickened
Wives’ stomachs turn at their evening roast.
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.

Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gail outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.

The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.

Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.

Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.

Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.

The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal

sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.

Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Kara Jean Jun 2016
His heart a setting desire
A holy man on fire
The ashes from his clothes hover overhead
Tarnished dry rain attached to eyelids
Blinding the ones admiring
He could've been loved
His demons were not friends
A lighter was no different
He screams in tortured relief
His body empty caressing the ground
A entity formed through headaches and torn garments
His need for her was never finished
King Panda Nov 2017
tenderness leaves
my eyes in capillary ribbons.
your diamond lips are chalked,
released from rock.
your head, a knot of angel pine—
a dark-brown blooming
sticky and lucked to the back
of my throat.
it is in this moment that
I hear a wisp of rapture
blowing through the oak overhead.
my heart’s motor cranked
like October’s last churning
bumble bee.
pollination
susurration
be gone…

you kept looking past me,
your hand on my shoulder.
the precious gauze of your profile
mixed porcelain doll and found a
chisel to perfect your nose.
I feel the love of everything and
you—so unaware of your
beautiful.
King Panda Dec 2016
the birds sifting through
the clouds
there is no chance
of rain
only sun
and the rarefaction of
wings against
molecules
ah
the simple things
when the morning is quiet
and I see
an imagined crane
perched on a branch
in the lake
we used to walk
around
the benches we used to
sit on
the black mist
that sometimes sits
around our
feet like a dog
we are not maquettes
but sculpted
made of marble
the stone birds sailing
overhead
the toy boats
the water
the lack of tears
and the machinery it takes
for me to say
*fly, fear. fly.
bring home my birdie.
ryn Oct 2014
Elated to see you aloft in the night sky
To what do I owe this enchanted boon.
In the merry company of winking stars,
Enthralled by this sight as I admire my moon.

Bathe me in your streaks of translucent silver.
Accompany me through my sleepless nights.
Watching over me with unwavering vigil.
Swathe me in whispers of peaceful respite.

Oh how you govern the raging tides of my soul.
Rest your gaze as the waters break upon my shore...
Erode and weaken the load strewn over my burning shoals,
Sands drowned breathless but craving for more.

Few nights now... Smitten as you coyly turn away.
Thick strands of shadow clad hair in gentle cascades,
Alluringly obscuring a slight fraction of your face.
A tiny crescent blanketed away; into the blackness it fades.

More nights pass... Now I see only a lesser moon
Leaving me with only half; darkness so had claimed.
Please make yourself last; you mustn't leave too soon,
I'm not ready to be left crippled and maimed.

I silently look up as more nights go by.
I watched my lunar love dissolving into space.
My heart too, torn away a morsel at a time...
Finally she had gone; without a sliver or a trace.

Every nightfall since is rife with emptiness and despair.
I asked the stars if they could soothe my gaping void...
But they'd only twinkle in indifference...
Regardless of the pleas I've employed.

Unsure of how many rises it has thus been.
Nights only brought the onslaught of mocking stars above.
Still I toy with the promises made overhead,
For the awaited return of my crazed elusive love.

I know it's frivolous to think I'm the only one...
There are others who pine just as I do.
But I yearn the most for your sought after attention,
For our hearts have sung in every colour and every hue.

Anxiety at peak, dismayed almost broken,
Then I hear a sweet song sung; distant and far.
A song that shared the words we once had spoken,
Again enveloped in translucent silver, with relief I sighed...,
                          *"There you are..."
Inspired by the lunar cycle...
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