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Jade Louise Mar 2015
Phase 1:
The rain was eating the world
The acid drops falling into attack
At first they had been glistening
Sparkling clear, like giant glass tears
So beautiful a child held out his tongue
But then they had began frightening the flowers, puckering holes in their pretty petals
They made the house's crisp coats of paint stream in desperate colorful tears
The roads filled, like acid rivers
Rivers that no sail could survive
The world dissolving, right before my very eyes
Like a canvas being erased from inside its frame

I was running with my umbrella
Clear plastic hexagon on a handle
Hovering above my head
Like an insect’s stretched out wings
Sheltering me from the storm
My magic umbrella
My rain boots pacing faster, acid avoiding my eyes
Getting to the dandelion garden
A garden where not just any
kind of poppies grew
But silver poppies

The garden was dripping in cobwebs
Shining like stretched maps of ice
Medinal mushrooms formed in clusters
***** and distinct
My head was spinning from the odor
The garden’s sleeping spell overcoming me

A lightening bolt cracked outside
Splitting the sky into two
Toxic clouds steaming into the atmosphere


Phase Two:
Toxic air
The animals breathing in its chemistry
Their eyes growing wild
The barks leaping from their vocal chords
In short snaps at first
Then as the insanity ensues, stretched energy
Howling, growling, wild
Ravenous
The humans locking their doors

My heart still beating
Like a drum
Searching for a silver poppy
The garden encased like a giant glass box
Holding the plant that ends the storm
Me like a fish in a bowl, separated from the rest of the world
Trying to find the poppy
To save it

My eyes searching
The silver poppy lying somewhere in this glass greenhouse
Each time, to be found in a different place
Like lightening, never striking in the same place twice
A silver poppy never grows in the same place twice
Once plucked, reappears somewhere else
Wherever you would least suspect
Somewhere in this garden

My eyes dry and stinging,
My hair tangled and tired
My clothes with poked holes from where tiny droplets of acid rain hit
Raggedy
The poisonous plants begging me to touch them
Like Eve and the apple
The dirt has no poppies
No silver poppy to be found
But then

The water pool
Cool and placid
Like a mill pond
I dive in
Silver catching my eye
Like glass
The poppy looking like almost any poppy
But silver

Lying like a secret at the bottom of the pond
My fingers grasping at the poppy's thin throat
I had swam in like a mermaid
I emerge like an animal
On a mission
Cupping the silver poppy to my chest
Like a baby dove

I escape the greenhouse doors
I pluck the poppy's petals, scattering them into the rain
At that moment
A hungry dog approaches me, quickly morphing into a wolf
Mid-leap, its teeth about to sink into my neck
The silver petals pressed flat into the concrete by the rain
The acid burning my skin


Phase 3:
And then
Relief
The rain tastes sweet like lilacs and water
Me turning into circles as the dog presses me with wet sloppy kisses
The rainbow shining, an upside-down smile
The plants glistening and growing
The birds chirping, their voices light like silhouettes
The world in harmony
Children running out of their houses
The animals rolling in the grass, the woodlands

Me, standing, left holding the silver stem
Tears rolling down my cheeks
How many times would I have to do this?
My mouth like a bow
My hands like a lotus
My whispers like a prayer
How many times would I have to stop the chaos?
More tears


Phase 3: The Maker's Forest*
Then, giant hands scooping me up
My body, the length of the pinky
The giant hands without arms
Stretched out to me from the sky

Carrying me
Across forests and fields
I peer over the thumb
Passing over deserts and oceans
A tiny breeze tugging at my hair
Sleep overtaking me
How many times will I have to stop the chaos?
Dissolving into my dreams
Like a tiny doll in my Maker's hands

I wake up in darkness
Except for a crack of sunlight, smiling in
I’m in a sphere enclosure
My hands tear at the two walls of the split
Breaking open the egg I was in
The soft segments of the shell
Lying in cracked pieces around me
I am in a nest, with three other eggs
A nest high up in a tree

I climb down the tree
Branch by branch
I am in the Maker’s forest
The Maker’s healing forest

I have heard before we have a Maker
But I never believed it
How could I
If we had a maker, why would our world keep falling apart
Why would I keep having to retrieve the silver poppy to remedy it

I walk down the forest path, getting closer to the sky blue cottage
The path is lined with evergreens, redwoods, trees tall and high
Filled with hundreds of nests and eggs

Phase 5: The Maker's Paint Studio
I open the white picket gate
And a painter emerges
Dressed in off-white overalls and an apron, carrying a brush with a tip of ruby pink paint
No words yet
Just sparkling blue eyes, shaggy grey hair, and leathery creased skin

I catch sight of myself in the reflection of a puddle and gasp
My lips are ruby pink like a bow
My skin is healed and smooth
Like porcelain
My hair is soft and silky
Falling in waves down my summer dress
The whole forest is bright and shining
awake and alive

How did I come to look like this
How did I come to heal so fast?
Why is this forest so beautiful?

Come with me
The painter says
I step inside, the room filled with pallets of paint and aisles
The walls standing like giant canvases
Covered in illustrations and images
The golden desert I passed over on one wall

The sparkling ocean whose breeze tugged my hair on the next
And on the Maker's canvas, me
I’m standing there, the silver stem in my hand
But the world around me, it's not falling apart nor dissolving

Its beautiful
I look at the painter
The chaos I say
I can’t take it anymore

I tell him
This world you paint
It pains me
Paint something prettier
Don’t ever paint a storm again
Why can’t you always paint the pretty picture on the canvas?
That’s the world I want to live in

But I do, the painter replies
His eyes kind

But I am not the only painter
He says looking at me

My illustrations, he smiles
The people I paint,
They can paint too
And the world you see,
Sometimes it’s the world you paint

You mean, the storm? I painted it?
He smiles
It wouldn’t be very fair if I was the only one allowed to paint now would it?
"How do I stop? How do I stop painting storms?
I don’t ever want to leave this pretty forest"

He faces a white canvas, starts painting a tiny girl
Sometimes what we see, he says
Is more of a reflection of what could be, of our minds eye, than what is really there
Storms do happen of course

But the storm you repeatedly see
Is the storm of your mind
Let me ask you something
Are you afraid?

Yes, I reply
And what are you afraid of?
Well everything, I reply.
There is so much to be afraid of

Then that is what you are seeing, he says
Free yourself
Of all nonexistent time, of what could be and what was
And just be exactly where you are
And you will see things as they really are
Your paintings will add the beautiful details to my paintings

With that the, little girl, the one with the short brown hair and pink dress steps off the canvas
She smiles at us
And then she opens the cottage door, her ruby lips and blue eyes taking in the forest around her, walking further into it

Phase 6: The Storm of your Eye
And then I’m back, with my hexagonal umbrella
Running to the garden
Acid rain splashing around me
Instead though, I stop
The world doesn’t need the poppy, I hear my Maker say
The poppy isn’t even real
I stop and close my eyes
Forget my doubts
And everything that could go wrong
I forget everything
The blood running through my veins, the splashing acid, the storming clouds
My minds goes blank
What the world needs
Is me

When I open my eyes
The world is quiet
Then I hear the sweet chirping of birds singing
Children playing

An old man walking his dog
“Looks like it might rain” he says, pointing to a far away cloud
I close my umbrella
I won’t be needing it*

~ JLH
Asominate Feb 2019
Unrealistic-
Expectations
Sends me ballistic,
I can't function!

Animalistic-
The beast in me won't stay in its grave!

A mental misfit-
Tell me am I too much to save?

These pastel colours are painted on my life pallet:
Love and Laughter,
Rage and Regret
The memories I'm after
The memories I want to forget
The red and blues are abused

These aren't the colours I should see!
How could I tell you?
You never come through-
It is killing me
I'm at the point where it hurts so much I hurt myself
Don't you understand the meaning of 'help'?
Zajan Akia Sep 2012
He ratchets a smile
she sins in her heart
and he pallets a romance
she fearfully starts

He catches her breath
in a bottle of time
and melds her aroma
to shards of his mind

She sketches a portrait
betrayed by the dawn
and illuminates fantasies
kept all along

He pallets a romance
she smothers it slow
and he shatters the bottle
that she overflows
Paul Butters May 2016
People, you are pots of paint for my canvass.
With all your quirks and foibles,
And wonderful ways.
The world indeed is crowded
With many pots of paint:
Glorious views.

My brushes are all aquiver,
Inspired by everything.
From India to Iceland,
Russia to sunny Spain.
You folk, I love to paint you,
Though never your actual words.

The universe, a marvel,
Flying through the heavens.
Swirling spiral galaxies,
Pallets for my verse.

Paul Butters
Inspired by a conversation with Beth Squires.
A L Davies Oct 2012
wednesday  ..
                      is faded black jeans/old white tank (too big) (hole from belt buckle centre front)

glass of water stuck into the rings left by past week's mugs of beer
sitting by the ashtray. and you are better than a nip of rye in the truck cab heading to work.
the dust in my lungs (wide open saskatchewan fields)
is not as important as watching the clouds stain purple with the sunrise
patting two gorgeous farm dogs who run over from behind a silo turned to bronze in the light
(there is an angel laying naked in the wheat grain)
to nip playfully at my calves while i unchain the derrick,
somewhere in my mind's recess it feels like i am loosing atlas from his *******
tho i do not register the thought until later upon waking from a nap.

saturday // 1:15:44 pm
i am in only briefs now working on a song/i clocked 4
                                                               ­                                       hrs greasing truck 1117 this morning and
hauling pallets.
daylene from dispatch brought in donuts.

i'll spend the afternoon listening to kanye and talking to women online.
—there are no girls in estevan. i have (kind of) looked.
                                                       sometimes i believe this to be pathetic but then i think further ahead
and it's not so bad.
you do really meet some nice girls. phone is replete with their numbers &
they keep me company on long rides to and from leases,
asking about work. hoping that i am well.
(once back home by christmas account will be deleted and i can
take them out at my leisure. you'll understand i hope that i am not
a desperate man. but one has to work with that which he has.
would you rather i go lonely? make my home in the mud to croon hank williams to crows?)
(temporality.)

15/10/2012
there are now three beer cans on the carpet & one on the washing machine by the
bathroom door which i will drink in the shower.
it was sort of a long day.
oil field poems though.
Jon Tobias May 2013
The doorknob to the closet
full of my skeletons is made of
funny-bone

But there are days
when honesty tugs a little too roughly and
I realize this isn't all that funny now
Is it?

As a writer
You learn presentation is key
In the bend of language
I create this man
I want you to believe me to be

And so I tell you these stories
like they are jokes
Like they are no big deal

Like the first time I got drunk
was with my friend's mom
who was a known child molester
She tried to order us ****
But couldn't work the cable

Or my friends and I used to travel our city
via the water drainage system
Near the mall
We got lost once
and while standing
in ankle high water
we saw at least 20 homeless people
sleeping on pallets
We called that place *** City
We had to get directions back out

There's a possibilty I have been an accessory to ******
Around the time in my life when I learned
How not to dwell

My body was a wishbone
My father meant to break
But every beating
left me the better half

I find so much of it funny

My brother's most recent suicide attempt
My mother's
My father's Alzheimer's

He once chased after our mailman
naked
Asking him about some letter
from some woman
I have never met before

I find laughter
and beauty
in the bend of language

When this chest becomes a broken radiator
and my heart grows cold
The metaphor mutates Campfire

Come here
I am lonely
and I have a story to tell you
Dorothy Apr 2014
Green peppers
Red peppers
Onions
and shallots
Get ready for some intense flavor to hit your pallets


A splash of vinegar
Salt
Chives
And garlic
Your tongue will dance for joy and actually seem to frolic

Epis
Sos Pwa
Rice
And baked chicken
The taste buds in your mouth wont know what hit them

Four hours later and I've enriched in my culture
I'm almost like a new woman
Because today I learned to cook food from my parents native nation
The time and effort was so very worth it
And now I feel a little bit more Haitian
Creole Translations:
Epis = herbs and spices
Sos Pwa Rouge = Red bean sauce puree
Wake: the silver dusk returning
    Up the beach of darkness brims,
And the ship of sunrise burning
    Strands upon the eastern rims.

Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
    Trampled to the floor it spanned,
And the tent of night in tatters
    Straws the sky-pavilioned land.

Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
    Hear the drums of morning play;
Hark, the empty highways crying
    "Who'll beyond the hills away?"

Towns and countries woo together,
    Forelands beacon, belfries call;
Never lad that trod on leather
    Lived to feast his heart with all.

Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
    Sunlit pallets never thrive;
Morns abed and daylight slumber
    Were not meant for man alive.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
    Breath's a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey's over
    There'll be time enough to sleep.
AP Staunton Jan 2016
Go on, my Son, go out and box,
don't wave this chance good-bye,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

The Judges have it Fifty/Fifty, an equinox,
apply yourself. . . apply,
Go on my Son, go out and box.

Keep it crafty, like the fox,
acid to his alkali,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

Jab, Jab, Hook! Unpick the locks,
it's time to modify,
Go on my Son, go out and box.

Unloading pallets of concrete blocks
until the day you die ?
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

Win this Round, escape the docks,
would I tell you a lie ?
Go on my Son, go out and box,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.
AP Staunton Feb 2016
In B and B flop-houses, poems I wrote,
Stuffed into damp pockets, of a Donkey-Jacket coat.
Poems about building-sites and too much beer,
Being far from home, despair and fear.
I read them to comrades, who all nodded their heads,
Then went back to sleep, in one room with eight beds.
I read them to lads, who for the first time,
Sat and listened, to words, their rhythm and rhyme.

Folkestone, Dover, Hastings, Brighton and Hove,
I wrote poems, by the light of a Camping Gaz stove,
Describing MY feelings, MY way of life,
Cut straight to the bone, like a Stanley Craft Knife.
The Channel Tunnel, dumpers and cranes,
Concrete burns, bruises, hangovers. . .shame.
Days without eating, nights full of drinking,
Hours on a Shovel, digging without thinking.

Then along came the books, I started reading at night,
Discovered Jack London, by wind-up torchlight.
I read more and more, captivated by books charms,
As my work-mates pursued , bar-maids down the Kings Arms.

Then one day, McNamara, with his belly full of beer,
Came looking for me, called me a queer.
". . .Reading and writing ??? Its NOT for the likes of us. . ."
I agreed begrudgingly, with this. . .. back-end of a bus.
He helped me gather up, my words and my books,
Into a couple of barrows, like scrap-metal crooks,
And wheeled them over, to where we burned the pallets,
Electric cable(for the copper)and broken slab-laying mallets.
They went on the embers, which began to ignite,
And from my caravan window, I watched them burn through the night.
As they glowed, I felt pity, not anger,
At the ****** ignorance, of this eighteen stone Ganger,
Who believed words were impotent, compared to the fist,
Our lives were mapped out, digging trenches, getting ******.

But the books had given me hope, that life was for living,
Not dying at Sixty, when your body just gives in,
Knees knackered, back broken, knuckles dead with rheumatics,
From working in all weathers, holding hammers, pneumatic.

Days later, on a Porta-Loo, McNamara settled down,
With a copy of ******* and a hard-on to pound.
He never smelled the petrol, mesmerised by *******
And pleasured himself, quickly, across the bottom of his vest.
Sparked up a rollie, relieved and relaxed,
Thinking of Fridays time-sheets to be faxed.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM !!!!!

We heard the explosion, looked to the sky,
Saw Doctor Who 's Tardis go flying by.
But it wasn't a Time Lord, just a burning box,
With a melting Eighteen stone Ganger, still holding his ****.
McNamara, was identified by the fillings in his teeth,
And buried, by the Council, just outside Haywards Heath.
If I hadn't continued writing, McNamaras threats, defied
No-one would know about him, or the way that he died.

Books and words are everything, they lift the mind
and they raise the anchor,
And they let me tell your tale, McNamara. . . .
How you lived and died. . .a ******.
Poetry is for everyone, not just a select few.
Jason Cirkovic Apr 2014
The sun its farewell to the skies
As it cranks out this unexplainable color
That Painters can’t make on their color pallets

The Wind creates this unexplainable noise
The wind gives you reasons to keep dreaming towards the sky
It is something that city slickers can't hear in the rowdy subways

At this time the sun bids me farewell
But don't worry, It will return
When it pokes its head out
On the east
Coop Lee Oct 2014
rotting horse carcass.
green glowing filament by moonlight ******
& mistrust us.
radioactive drums of waste &/or dreams.
boys swimming.

fistfights at night
by headlight & tooth crackle. (spit) then bonfire pallets
lit & danced upon.
plumes
of gas-can outcries.

the days & abuelitas
& ghosts
pinched cheek - pinched cooler - grandaddy
on the grill.
his gasping yellow dogs.

judy is in the underbrush with a walkie-talkie
& a p.b.j.
desmond leaps from high rocks; he
descends into another world by way of molecular-mishap.
dove deep.
riding the portal boar.

wasps hover above spilt wine
& declare war upon brothers with b.b. guns
& firecrackers
& spf 50+. the saturday/sunday sagas
between beams of heat laughter breakdowns
to knees, to bees,
honey.

homecoming queen dead & wrapped
in plastic.
body found with
turtle bites.
fungi.
the slabs of granite.
old iron tractors bent & held by tree wives.
toast.
jam hewn hwedges of crisped bread.
previously published in Deluge Magazine by Radioactive Moat Press
http://www.radioactivemoat.com/deluge-issue-three.html
Jon Tobias Dec 2011
She kicked me out of bed first thing in the morning
I didn’t even have time to make us breakfast
Not that she was hungry
She seemed satiated enough
So I left
and later met a friend for lunch

He was kicked out of bed first thing in the morning
He didn’t even have time to make his new lover breakfast
Not that he would have eaten
He seemed satiated enough
So my friend left
And he met me for lunch

Our attempts at fuckery find us
Not too far from one another
It is the distance of a coffee table in a diner
After we make our way to the wayside again

We both have water
And it washes our pallets clean
Of the liquor
And the cigarettes
And her mouth
And his mouth

Still lingering a little bit bitter
So we sip some more

These are sheets we leave behind so stained
That you hope the passion will stay
Until there are so many it doesn’t matter anymore
These one night stands will never feel any less *****

The spots of sweat and memory
That still won’t wash out
So many
They look like constellations
As the sheets hang to dry

I imagine they trace out your body
Not just your body
Any body

So generic now
It makes The Shroud of Turin
Look the aftermath of Babylon’s midnight bustle

These are the ways that love leaves you
Hanging you wet to dry
Stained and *****
And equally alone again

Forgive me for the way my mind wanders
I am still with you
I just didn’t want to *** yet

These are the ways my body leaves me
And then you
The morning after I accidentally told you I love you
Even though we just met

I have found and lost love
Enough times to secure my spot in hell by now
I mean
My fear of death his hell enough
To love you as much as I can

Forgive my neuroticism
As I leave again
Finding myself where my fuckery leaves me

At lunch
With a friend
Who is equally awkward
As we make way to the wayside again
Break from finals studies. One and a half weeks left. It is 1am. I can't wait to come back to this site fully. I feel like I am missing so much.
Eriko Apr 2016
lie down embroidered in the cool darkness
startling signatures dotting infinite oblivion*
capsizing a raging fiery glow transition
singing of great chorus daunting premonition

anticipate the halt of breath prior
the splinter in time where the trees
gander the melodious swell intimate
the slumber left behind to the well of day

that fraction of a moment
my bedroom window encompassed
upon softest pastel pallets, kissing the breeze
soothing the scars and ceaseless throb

amazed, drinking in the spilling of sunlight
clouds streaking the stains eradicating, pulsing over
nature chirping and sighing with that of sage
lucid bliss settling gently on defenses in my chest

and as the day swirls and falls, pulses and cringes
coming home, bustling with stings pinching
thoughts gone quite tired and violent
the sun descends, and night begins

shadows cast, swimming in direction
like a flood of acoustic strumming
and wink of yawning black cat
the world softens and slows

lives retreat and flowers sway in the breeze
aching hearts and bitter limbs rest in sheets
linen of softest cloth, woven by threads
a comfortable place to rest my head

and the day descends and night takes full
crickets crying and mystery lurking
fingers soothing the spasms in my brain
with every turn of page, the stroke of brush

resting with the sliver lurking
everywhere I go, ghosting in echoes
reaching out with eyes quite closed
*mind swirling with undefined competence
melina padron Nov 2014
now a days i take my coffee black like my father did
sometimes i add sugar,
small traces of me still pretending we are not one in the same
now a days i paint my nails black like my mother taught me
she urged me not to be afraid of the brush
"be brave in the way life calls for"
now a days i count every line on my palm like my aunt would do
told me every one was a little sin,
and that when i arrived at the gates of heaven
i would raise my hands to god and he would merely watch
now a days i wear my hair back like i did when i was a kid
i am still setting fire to ant piles
and painting my knees brown and blue with pallets from the earth
Cunning Linguist Sep 2018
Triggered much
I'm the boss
Take the loss -
I'm the sauce *****,
A1

Call my bluff
Mindless thots
Gobble ****
Catch me bustin
Like it ain't nut

Go to sleep

Fighting wars with keyboards,
While Grandma knits
Globally postal
Wit that anthrax mix
only hoping that reality splits;

These Lizard overlords
be slitherin quick
Underground:
u kno this wigga, B. Hittin-Licks

I’m ****** imminent  
to infinity and beyond
This dude buzzed lightyear,
Woody full attention;
Lil Bo Peep
She be getting no sleep,
Its a methed up situation yuh

This the celebration

Make yo ****
fissure into splinters
Crack the Ripper
with my finger
on the trigger
just hope it dont slip
~make you quiver
Rock a tight sphincter

Boi got nothing to lose
u bet your *** that I deliver
Devastating maneuvers
leave you hatin fools
Like who dis kid
with parkinsons jitters

Its a disgrace
cant lace ya shoes
But tryna play catch up
**** outta my face
*****,  hail the victor ya trippin'

Make no mistake,
my alias is satan
You lost the game
Restart the mission?

Dyslexic peasant,
I brought yo presents
I'm aggressive
reckless and relentless
got a rope necklace take some lessons

Finna hit em with that finisher
Sippin licks with dinner sure
Smokin out the villagers
**** and pillage conqueror
Down the bottle slurring words
Blurring out the big pictures
Swinging from a high fixture
Slanging sherm above the curve

rello I be rollin
biscuit limp but i be blowin
Out the water laps I'm stroking
Real **** love got homies choking

Smoke bricks kick rocks
Got the socks on with the flip flops

Golf cap on my noggin
Give me top like its hats off
grab some charmin
keep that *** soft
***** gravier than thicc sauce
Like my salad full toss
About to clobber em
Jump jump ***** crisscross

Taskforce Outlaws with chainsaws
Pale horse when that bass drop

And it’s occured to me
Since I lack the courtesy
To say the pleasantries
fore i be pushing out them boundaries

Killer O.J. quenches thirst
a murderous summer is the worst
But if the glove fits, must acquit
need a magnum, Jonnie Cochran
blast em wit the Chewbacca defense

Flowerboy spit my seed *****
Loose lips in the whip aye
Firmly grasp the shaft
when I switch lanes
Pallets of ******* call me rick James
Pull up round the clock
Gone off that rock
Knocked my mf block off ***** I'm insane
Tha fire token renegade

through that snapback
Spills ya ****** brains
Brent Kincaid Apr 2016
Some will make their home
Wherever they can
Get to with their feet.
Cardboard box houses
And pallets they find
By trash bins on the street.
The boxes work well
Unless it snows or rains
And then when they melt
It’s out to find a home again.

Go on home
Where the love is
Home to family
Go on home
Where you’re welcome
There is no home for me.

Cookie used to be a chef
He lives under that low bridge
He cooks in used coffee cans
That just how his life is.
Makes dinner when he has it
For us who have so little.
You’ll find him most days
Cooking delicious food
Halfway to the middle.

Go on home
Where your bed is
Home to wife and your kids
Go on home
And be grateful
And not living on the skids.

Some people gripe
When the waiter is slow
And some were once waiters
Themselves long ago.
Some people are full
After they have dined
Others only manage to eat
Whatever castoffs they find.

Go on home
Because you have one
Because you have a job.
Go home where no one
Call you a lazy slob.
Go home and thank God
You have a place to sleep.
Go home and be grateful
Go home and God keep.
JP Goss Sep 2014
Just, thought I, to escape a while,
Mundane light in the desk at home
On these splintered, black-tar roads
Marching, festooned in leaf and in rock
Snapping and scattering from underfoot.
My heavy breaths are this odd meter
In-out, in-out on this pavement slap
The knees are strained, down, the stream
Of rheumy little beads—lines! (I sense
Conception of a rare cadence
In which earth finds its synchrony).

‘Round the walls of rustic homes and will
To this walking gallery of the ‘ville
Ancient oaks, they lift their head and grin
To a sky beyond the storm, what with plumes
Unearthly fronds, dark with salmon painted on
Softened, its oil, burnt carnal black
That loose-end feeling holding it back.

Furrowed brow, I run with now
Sweet winds and pirouette
The dancers go amidst the leaves
Hold Hell high ‘bove white hands
Turned in deference and o,’ Arbor!
Your threshold live and saturnine
Entire eternities unfold now, silk scarf on
Goddess Eve, her halo proud
Gold embraced by Pink and now
She strides in by the choral geese
Flown to sing her godhead to sleep
Her rest had blest pain to leave me now
At those gates loud, effervescent
Shimmering, shimmering
In calm disbelief
And on
And on.

Back at the source, that in-between
Bare **** of the Fasick bridge
Magmatic pallets, on faces two
One shared tear drop, a cosmic breadth.
I saw from there the garden of stone
Lonely tombs in blamy play
Fruits sprung in those past lives.
I shared their rest for moment still
And back it goes, the nameless past
Where they exists as dreams, beside me.

Two sides, met then so diverged
I saw their peace where night emerged
Where pink embraced the dark
Went to rest on low horizons.
The world closed its lips and lids
Its eyes and loving heart
Bathed, it all, in low florescence
And lullaby of cicadas.
Amber Blank Jul 2014
Funny how a building with four walls made of brick becomes a home.
Becomes almost like a member of your family
The memories seep deep into the paint
Hopes and dreams fill the air in every room
Every tear shed, every laugh shared, every scream in anger, every lonely evening, all bundled up and all that will remain
Now after almost 8 years my home is being taken away
After fighting for a hopeless marriage, surviving a ugly divorce, and the worry for this single mom, its all being snatched away.
I tried my best but no help was offered from this cold world, of banks and money and power.
Where I am only a number, not a person
They don't seem my struggles, they don't seem that I have spent my life trying to help my fellow man, regardless of the pain it may cause
All that is left are boxes of card board line the walls
Every photo removed
Every memory packed away
Every mark on the door showing how my little girl has grown
The driveway she rode a bike in for the first time.
The room I rocked her to sleep in
So sad to leave this old friend behind
So hopeless and frail are the now empty walls
So eerily quiet are the rooms once filled with love.
Once filled with lullabies and songs, laughter and fun.
Dancing in the kitchen
Making pallets and forts on the floor.
All gone.
Summer gets darker,
Sun begins to fade,
Our lives get more wise, through the dances of autumns haze.
Leaves fall off and a charmed aroma of sweet cider symphonies come down the trees unto hearts that bleed.
Enjoy the rich colors autumn brings, deep burgundy red, grape purple, golden bronze and chocolate sweetness floats into the air of a summoned season that we call Fall.
Delicious treats on our tongue touched pallets,
soft, warm, chewy cinnamon buns, red stains covering our lips from that glass bitten candy apple we bought at the fair. Smells of apple cider and maple syrup and our lovers kiss that is smooth like a pumpkin spice dream when my chap stick smothers your face in such delightful ways.
I love the fall, it is my favorite season. What is yours?
STLR Nov 2016
Inspired by my friend's assortment of shapes and colors

Original style & traditional technique  

Creates art like nonother

My art brother, taking the colors and shredding the canvas

distorted faces from other planets

From traditional to digital

Those techniques are critical

Sketching, drawing on paper

Emotions turned physical

Contrast with contours of color that’s Subliminal

I can take a brush and ****** a million strokes

only to a evoke that life is a chameleon coat

Plenty colors mix with a heavy dose and an antidote

Spectrums tell the story of pallets scattered across the globe

Intersections of civilian lives create a chain effect like some dominos

Retrospective minds seek ideas that are divine yet quite bountiful

A beast confined in walls is but a human animal

unleash and you will find that everything is tangible

Instinctual being, seeing is the true believing

literal beams shine, to find a truer meaning  

unpredictability, dictates our true abilities  



I am but an entity

who seeks to be a piece of energy

not blinded by identity

I forge these recipes, so all your eyes can eat

for these words are too delicious

so don't hit backspace our alt delete
Wisdom permeated all over Spinalonga, needs were supremely supplied, Wonthelimar was together with Vernarth in the endeavor to honorably defer the Manes Apsidas converts who evacuated the cells of the leprosarium, after the Ottomans and Orthodox priests had left them, the custodians arrived at its end. Now everything has the life and the will to touch the lightning bolts of the blue sun, with the personal image of the Saint's devotion from the origin, and the new lives that rose up through the complex of the sectional rampart. The Palmario Apófisi de la Santa was made of a great awakening semblance, with the Panagia Theoskepasti, in Kimolos. From this labyrinth of the skepazo or "velar" that the Saint smudged from afar the counterweight pallets so that they are not returned through the axon tube that will take them far to this region of purgation, in the Cyclades and Dodecanese. In the bay of Dekas the archpriest of Kimolos would wait for them, receiving them near the small islet Agios Andreas, similar to Spinalonga, where they will live until Vernarth goes, after speaking in Kimol and Milil. To arrive at Psathi with his entourage to exhume them definitively in Court V of Elleniká, seeing the extreme longevity of the fallen of Spinalonga and their leprosy cloistered in a fleeting substance.

Iteration of Marie Des Allées: “The Vas Auric will rotate in all ellipses from here to Elleniká sprinkling crumbs of the purest bread of Arcadia, on a gray Monday with hummus and bobota, to attract the vinegary souls that were in a catatonic state, thus doing more esthetic or in Aisthesis in the reactionary when reincorporating them in the three courtyards in magnificent concordance with Rhodes. At the beginning of the Archpriest the talk derives the prayers from him to the semi-inert matters that were made in communion with the oratorical dyes; with worms and with the distractions of larger snakes that were planted waving, being, in reality, Vermes that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest and the protocol, who circled the universal destination of his elegies to be celebrated from an ambo or pulpit, in classical Latin to propheir the archpriest the form of Era Dies Lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies. On a dark Monday, but full of grace for those in attendance, they would give sermons, to interpret the alabaster courtyards that would lead to Tsambika. The first worms were chased by Kanti, believing that they were games that emerge from the eternal ground. Of whose ecosystem the earth was beginning to ignore them due to their annelid metamorphoses, appearing to increase in their texture, more ultra hadic than the same remains of doubt without sarcophagus, turned into sharp intestinal curves that were depressed breathing autonomously over massive folds of the acquiescent dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká, further away from all sub-divisible organic matter of finite mortality towards the eternal other, contributing to a neural complex of tremors, and in veiled sensations that are lost between itself and that of its own bodies being able to take them with their own disorders "

Vernarth indicates: “long are the hours, and doubt overwhelms me, only my instinct follows me, and then I follow him. Khaire everyone and may the light of Mashiach be with us "

Etréstles reiterates: “my spirit has met Marie des Vallées, my spiritual hers, and my mischievous spirits play with them. Divine thanks, O venerable St Marie, here we are to honor the labiernago that have brought her Marian lattices, their dark green that blends with the layer of her attire, in margins that are found out in their change of shades "

Wothelimar answers: “what fire will extinguish the similarity of the Labiérnagos with the Astragali of Vernarth, when they meet those of the Santa Marie?

Theus replies: "We have been redeemed by his spiritual fire, whose conscience has placed in us in the Apophisi that reproves him, under the joint weight of beatitude"

Vikentios answers: “the Matakis of redemption will filter the doubts of his third person for an inextinguishable, to the degree of the second character that could divert his prerogative. Thanks to the spiritual fire that burns in the brambles that result in martyrdom by already being free from the torment of *** Bei Hinnom and Spinalonga fully expiated "

The protocol is broken and Theus, once freed from the last link of the Apophisi, goes to hug his brother, together they hug and kneel down the rough *****, after the ghostly chairs run wild for a prebend of Mother Marie that from The sky presented them weightless, with the effective of the marvelous Logos of God, and the Rhema of Vernarth, who would make the plate in the aromatic herds of Myrrh, Myrtle and Marjoram, to aromatize the appearance of the Saint and to bat the world of the Howls Kósmos with this triad of balsams for the foreground of the bigamist horizon in bloom, which sprinkles the talc of the resinous species when falling from the serene on this great day. They all looked at each other for more than three days in a row without moving, nobody did it from where they were. Leaving sticky resins, deserting the greased bodies of eternal days, some looking at each other in the infinite time that anointed them with different minutes, and monuments that released their souls moistened with Myrrh and carmine for the muffins of a Hellenic piece, with properties healing for mythology that was reborn in the sub-mythology of Vernarth and the essence creators Myrepsós. Or creating essences for the Saint, condensing from the perfume on all the alabaster containers, smelling of the insurmountable effects of Alexander the Great who appeared before everyone, to support and even in the ferrous breath of the stratosphere, and the island that was reconverted by the trampled waves, which were made to fall on all the megatons of Hellenic incense, which does not lead fights or disputes, only entertained everyone here united in the order and temperance of the frenzy, which follows the fields of fragrances directed towards everyone, also for the Manes Apsidas to Theoskepasti. Supremely Marie des Allées poured Rose concoction, ordering them to have their mouths open to receive their fragrances, and then to be able to expel them to the nauseating winds of the east, where the Beit Hamikdash was free of Gehenna, transferring the Apsidas to Dekas and then to Helleniká.
Apóphisi Palmario from Marie des Vallées
A trailer built by vikings
it can never be
sold
The porch is just
some broken
old
wooden pallets
The walls are green with
mold
Spiders hide under
the cushions
And it's either
too hot or too
cold
But if you are there to
hold
me
I wouldn't wanna be
anywhere else
in the world.
Allen Robinson Oct 2016
Love made to order
like a luxury bottle
of fine wine that
appreciates with time
We open ourselves
and let the relationship
breathe as it matures
Never gulped, yet sipped
slowly and enjoyed as
a guilty pleasure
The finest crystal used
akin to dressing up
in ballroom attire for
the proper occasion
A myriad of flavors
and bouquets dance
on our pallets like
a waltz composed
by Tchaikovsky
What follows is left
to the imagination,
but consider a good
bottle much like a
good relationship
always leaves you
yearning for more.
Don't judge me... just having fun with this one.
Romantic Poetess Jan 2011
Swept up to the path of moon chilled air
Above the mountains of clouds
To see what only has been dreamed
To seek what has been sought
In pallets mixed only
With earth drawn media
The dream revealed
The secret yet contained
Lying in wait
For the seeker's return

Each shade, each tone, each tint
Revealed  before
Was but a prelude
To this last proof of the divine

To call it midnight is but a bewildered seekers word
To evoke comparison

The moon was there its glory
Reflected in boundless mosaics
Of shimmering movement
Not the singular heavenly glow of other midnights

When the sun awakens
The new midnight
Reveals a peculiar dimension
Of its magnificence.
A deep and pure memory
Of a life now forgotten
Of a dream ever there
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
The 352 Blues

this city treats the poor
with swift unkindness,
but if you peel your eyes,
you don't necessarily have to always
sing the ole 352 Bleecker Blues

the eyetalian storekeeper,
gives us morning java,
when we sing for him on the guitar,
The Star-Spangled Banner,
refills, if we add America the Beautiful

they say that heat rises,
but that don't seem true
in our third floor walk up
on rue 352 Bleecker Street,
the cold companion enters
thru the busted stain glass window

no matter, no cares,
we light the fireplace,
with wood and anything that'll burn,
we scavenged from the street,
pallets and newspapers,
rent bills overdue,
yesterday's 352 truths

at two AM, the cops, in their cars
cooping, fast asleep, only just us,
the johns, the ****** and troubadours,
walking the streets looking for
free stuff to burn

pass the hat for tips
next to the arch,
enough for daily bread
but we get our ***** and ****
for free, just for singing the 352 blues

even when down and out
on the village streets,
bleak on Bleecker street,
you gotta sing the 352 blues,
especially when you're
riding high and living cool,
down on easy Bleecker Street
in 1968
~~~~~~~
Before you ask me if this true,
save your breath,
the answer is
Which part?
There will be a journey, a gathering of mixed herbs
Great swathes, buttressing mountains grazed with
Grassy wigs. Metal structures lining up calculating
The swing to left, to right, catching the intermittent gasps
The rhythm snakes me away, its rattling chorus marching
Ahead, spying on the quality of this paragraph sitting side by side
A vacancy on the page still wearing its white robe, alone for now
I searched out a chance at freedom on a fast track, borrowing scenes
From oiled pallets, hills & dells daubed grandiosely. They deliberately
Bait. Once bitten twice shy. I heard it bandied around.....but...
I am not shy of the wild dogs, howling is a lullaby.  I have the ticket
To be smitten with bitten chances; once, twice...maybe thrice
.....does it for me.
Q Apr 2013
There's nothing to be said about flowers
That hasn't already been said
Pretty little pastel pallets
For landscapes and scarves
Eight dollars for a real rose
That turns to dust at the
Midnight strike of its bloom
Eight cloth daisies for a dollar
Tucked behind ears and into boots
Until the plastic breaks down and then
You buy a dozen more
Eight cloth daisies for a dollar
But I've never learned anything about life
From something that wasn't impermanent.
4/3/13

I really like how the shape of this one turned out.
Clay Smith Jul 2018
Beneath the shallow
Winter Moon
i watch lowly
from distant hill

pallets colors of
muted light
paints the
landscape
in shades
of
grays


lifeless trees
guard
lifeless hills
reaching up
like
bony limbs

fingers
forearms
stretching forth
to pull the moon
from high aloft

bitter cold
gropes winter's
night
still as death
beneath a grave

snow and ice
shackles earth
in cold
shadows pale
from orbs
dim light

creeping slowly
overhead
disc it arches
through
blackened sky

shadows shrink
elongating
again
sphere retreats
or' yonder ridge

once more
moon
finds a place
to rest
'til darkness
awakes
It once again
nick armbrister Jul 2021
Alpha Pistols
It’s a nice warm summer’s evening in 2004
The cool man was on top of the Manchester tower block
He fires down with various guns at his lower targets
There is a builders yard two hundred metres away
The fork lift trucks zip about and disturb his sleep
When they reverse their beeper goes Beep Beep!
This riles the man and makes him madly dance
Round his one bedroom flat on the 22nd floor

He grabs all of his guns in a heavy holdall and rushes up
To the very top of the building where he can pop them
While wearing only his bleached white Y-fronts
He sits down by the edge and gets ready for war
From up here he can hear the fork lifts beeping
He grimaces and shakes his head then opens his bag
And removes a small tape player then presses play
The 12 inch version of So Alive by Love and Rockets

His chrome and ivory Colt 45 follows with three clips
Clicking off the safety he aims at the reversing trucks
Their blinking orange light and street lights illuminate
Y-front man aims and fires at the small trucks
His gun is loud and follows thru the muggy night air
Bullets spark off concrete blocks and one hits home
Going thru the windscreen and shocking the operator
Quickly reloading he fires again till the mags are empty

There are 30 different fork trucks in the yard and area
He killed one driver and wounded another in the leg
They are all instructed to to their job while able and alive
Next he gets a 45 calibre Grease Gun with long barrel
He opens the shoulder support and readies his toy
He stands up and sprays the yard from the hip
His grin sez it all as his sub gun blazes away
Two fork lifts collide and drop their pallets of bricks
Reloading he fires at the upended yellow trucks

Their gas bottles explode and cremate the drivers
His song is on a loop and goes on forever
With raised arms and eye to the sky he dances
Round and round he spins to the goth song
Next he grabs his Al Capone 45 Tommy Gun
It has a round mag full of bullets good to go
Standing and firing from the shoulder he goes
The recoil pushes him away from the roof edge

He leans into it and the muzzle flash is serene
The slugs impact all over the yard and 6 trucks
Snapping chains piercing tyres hitting drivers
Two are killed one hurt three are terrified
They still operate their vehicles as ordered
Second mag time and more damage below
A gas bottle blows in an orange blast of debris
While this occurs beepers still beep and lights flash
It’s a huge yard and there are many targets still

Slowly but surely he eliminates them like a surgeon
His next gun is a BAR Browning Automatic Rifle
This he shoots on single shot bipod lying down
It’s a powerful 7.62mm gun and simply superb
Each shot hits home and kills 4 operators dead
Explodes rear 3 mounted gas bottles and more
But the BAR does full auto too and he we go!
*** ****** full ******* auto 30 shot mag wham

Soon empty rounds down range more hits
The fire has been devastating attrition mounts
There are far less fork lifts now in use there
Burning trucks and dead or dying operators cry
In his head he’s the rock n roll man on a roll
I’ve got more guns to fire and now it’s my cod piece
Browning 7.62mm machine gun with bipod
I quickly pull the parts from my bag to assemble
Then a belt of 250 rounds with 1 in 5 red tracer

Happy it’s ready I click off the safety and fire
I’m sat down and hose fire downwards
I slowly move the gun left to right left to right
Impacts spark and in the night air tracer guided
My 250 bullets lasts fifteen seconds and is it
Nothing intact remains below working wise
I took out 30 fork lift trucks and operators
Many are dead some injured others hiding
Lastly I use my M1 Garand rifle with blank ammo

I fire eight rifle grenades at the builders’ yard
I pop a grenade on the end angle up and fire
The blank shell launches the grenade up and down
It takes seconds to fall and hit and Bang Boom Blam!
I fire 8 at random spots of the huge yard
There are no more reverse beepers sounding
All fork lift truck use ceases forever due to me
Now I can peacefully sleep in my room at night
Do not destroy my slumber!
MAJOR INSOMNIA
CORPORAL SLEEP
Nick Armbrister and other writers
Lynn Greyling Dec 2014
Falling  leaves,  
a  gentle  shroud  
of  smouldering  fire,
stirring  pallets of colour
upon  the  face  of  the  earth.
Tailor Hunter Nov 2015
A poet's hands are slow and small
Surveying the mind for a new poem to tell
Before putting their pen to the paper
Taking the time to think and to toil
Growing as slow as a small White Cedar.

An artist's hands are fast and crafty
Rushing to capture the moment ahead
Stopping only to change their pallets
Creating worlds of wonder and woe
With passion as wonderful as a drooping Willow.

A musician's hands are rough and beautiful
Playing their instrument with the power of a hero
Each one standing out among any other
The notes of their nectar flowing like a rushing waterfall
Making music as sweet as a Maple's sap.

A child's hands are ever changing
Learning skills unique to them alone
No two child hands are the same, yet all fit in
Like a sapling growing in a forest of art
Growing to become a mighty tree of its own.
Garrett May 2013
You're a finished
Black and white painting
Hung up in my minds eye gallery

I hope it's not too much trouble
If I add some colour of my own
And let you be your accented self

There was nothing wrong
With you, black and white
But wouldn't you look lovely in colour

Wouldn't you look lovely
Having someone else
Paint you in a different light

I'm a black and white painting
In need of your paint
Your shades and hues

We compliment one and other
Each other's pallets
Each in need of collaboration
this is... okay, but I liked the metaphor, I might do another version of this in the future

Mads

— The End —