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Nat Lipstadt Feb 27
being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~


a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas


upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
Vaniexe Kafka Jun 26
Fighting my demons are always hard
For they have the poet's mind
That lured me in their metaphors of
the taste of the sun
or the comfort of solitude

They pull me in between their lines of
Desperation and depression
As if basking in the sunlight will make it less empty

They tangle me in the swirl of the words
Embracing me with each broken thorn of a flower,
or every drizzle of the rain, or every blanket of snow
or the feel of the breeze
As if those imagery
will make it less painful;
Written in papyrus with the ink as thick as blood and teardrops on the footnotes
As if those drops can lessen the burden that clutches my chest

They envelope me with every space
in between their words
as if letting me breathe
but then they enter
cutting the peace in between letters
but never putting a period
to end this miserable excuse for a poem
they made me

It's all a hallucination
An endless illusion
for in the end
I'm still chained,
existing with this void inside
and with my demons
Eating the life out of me

Then suddenly pressing save
for all the world to see
without even really
saving me
Chris Saitta May 18
Like the frog of batrachian notes in the inkwell of swamp,
And the bee waggling hieroglyphs to the papyrus of hive,
Like the flight of birds in the palm of radiating skyline,
And the sad might of the world to the caged dog’s eye.
Amoy Mar 27
writings on the inside of my walls
pictures and symbols of our love
deep sounds of moaning rising from within
nails digging deep and deeper into flesh
carvings of sensual sensation
creating waves and waves of passion
******* together in unison
simulating each senses, the aroma of love
written on my papyrus
zebra Jun 28
I'm not coming back
no more vain rebellions

hello to nothing
from the inquisitor of nothing
no ones home but shapeless shadows
cutting across mysteries
of multiple worlds

an empty head
so patient
ghost moon

my legs aren't tired anymore
here in the undergrowth
of slugs slides and slime
whispering hymns needle green

buoyant belly on the rings of night
libation of death
apprehending the void
dissolving doom broadens to immensity
like a light flicks on
wonder wave

no death for the dead
they could care less
nearby in endlessness
stretched out on a couch
spumed mouth
papyrus frail
creature of black steps

waking will not raise burnt wings

where I lived and was broken
noon day demons lost
I dangle from a nightingale floor
burning hair waves windless

linking one self with the other
like night with day
gales of dreams
falling lulls weave me together
like a thorne bridge knits fate
hand over red hand

mind of winter
now I inhabit you
slain and shaken
Because I'm better at being all alone
Than living up to someones expectations
And that's not living at all
They will drown you in plastic
To cover your flaws
I'm sure thats a job that lasts all year long
And I've got lots of them
Time to conjure one last acceptance speech
I'd like to thank the industry
for teaching me how to sleep with sheep
I'd like to thank the machines
For making, able bodied apes think this laziness is okay
I'd like to thank the dawn of a new age
Where hope is holding on with bruised fingers
Though we cheer passionately from the sidelines we wouldn't dare go up there to help it
I yell until passion wells
In the eyes of the wealthy who couldnt imagine a life that wasnt paved and pre packaged for them
But a single moment washed over us ,and so we lowered our
Heads to let it
Sink to the bottom
Now to unlock our DNA strands
Standing in a perfect circle
A surge of energy immersed us in the ability to understand what we weren't certain of
Electricity fizzed from our finger tips and now we're seeing this
Is being amongst brothers, sisters, and friends
No longer strangers, haters, liars or saints. Saints who sin .just creatures each was cursed with consiousness; in constant connection, we met to
Shed the skin of society chip at the obsession with illusion of time so we can finally aquire the tribesman lifestyle, simple, yet well earned we listen to the wind and learn from the Earth
I accept it as perfection
And think that pain is a hurt stray waiting in windowsills
Praying that peace will fill
Some lonely girls chest
Though she too was begging
To rescue something other than herself
To love is to welcome the infedel
With open arms
To love is to become and see
from each soul, go and leave  
yo tremendous
Ego half dead at the last show  
Now we reaching deeply to all walks of life, argue bout the art of hard knock life, weather lazy fate will win or through some luck find the strength to fight
Keep on getting beat down
But I rise up Everytime

Oh come on come at me I needa scapegoat for my anger
You came to play huh?
Wait til i load these lungs
lets release a contagion of language
if it's a virus anyway let's get sick and stain the papyrus with inkblots and secrets lost under my mumbles so I'm bout bankrupt on selling my emtions
To get well..very unprepared
I know, but under the surface I'm working on a dwelling I can go
To escape the hell
Here she comes they call it
The inevitable farewell
I accept the plane is powering down
Thank you for the freedom to scream my thoughts loudly
Though the crowd might be lousy
At listening
This time we've tried Bonding
Instead Of repeating
To all of my survivors
Alive and well still wandering
Among the wreckage and can't quit bettering the new new
I accept you and respect you
So until our next hello my friend
Regretfully I bid you and the world farwell
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.
Arlene Corwin Oct 2018
What Would I Do Without You?
(Or Scribbling in the Car)

What would I do without you, lexicon?
What would I do without you, dear thesaurus?
Rhyming book to rhyme with -saurus: chorus, porous, e’en papyrus if it fits?
Wiki’s storehouse ‘cyclopedia?
Little things that make me big and ‘pigg:
Languages that set agog
The richness of the word?

So much I would  not do without;
And isn’t that what life’s about!

Mind so connected to the word,
I would think
Without a varied herd of word
T’would shrink.
T’would atrophy,
T’would wear away,
Become cliché
As cliché wears away the play
From boredom’s lack of stimulation.

So connected is the action of the word
To all the wisdom, the absurd
in all the minds in all the world
Of minds and hearts unaired, impaired…
Is mind to word.

pigg is Swedish for lively, spirited
What Would I Do Without You…Mind So Connected To The Word 7.19.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin
shyspy Aug 25
lungfish wallow in the sand
wait for the willowy fertile crescent
to change its course
snakes by a pyramid’s spinx
there lotus grow papyrus scrolls
where stands a hippo
crocodiles are grim-eyed satchels
denial is not for you and I though

— The End —