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LexiSully Jun 2016
Shells coming and going,
Locked in to movement of the waves,
Crushed by the magnitude of their strength

They float in and out of beaches,
Leaving their mark on passersby,
Only to be forgotten with the next wave of treasures

They long to be found,
Crave to be picked up,
Ache to tell their story

Until at last, they're swept out to sea,
To the next beach which it will call home,
And into the life of another who will see its beauty.
Butch Decatoria Jul 2018
A Passersby-“J”

A Passerby’s “J”

Good for lookin’ out

These harsh / hard times

Endangered kinds

Hanging tough love

Peace up

Peace pipe

A Passerby’s “J”


For lookin’ out.

Puff puff give—

Nothing turns this angel down
Excellence, in the flesh
And if they try, an evening gown
In satin works the best

Is beauty deeper than the skin?
Surely she'll impress
Instead of showing what's within
She forces you to guess

Eyes of gold been tarnished brown
By tears that have been wept
Dark and shining locks abound
Make up for shades not kept

Sin runs red in times of blue
Every angel's seen
Temptation's there to carry you
When you have lost your wings

Consider but the outside shell
For that is most well-known
Appearing to be straight from ****
To garnish feelings shown

How could she be so mean, you ask?
What makes her be so spiteful?
Why can't she see it's not a mask
That makes her feel delightful?

Lies frozen, held through time
In silent desperation
Hiding at the scene of the crime
A ****** confrontation

To free the memories from her head
Would unleash such a fear
She'd rather end the night instead
As not to feel him near

Ah, here's the one; the big bad wolf
That's haunted all her dreams
Whom proved too well by wearing wool
All are not as they seem

But I am ****, but skin and fur
And showing her my core
And telling her the parts that hurt
While donning nothing more

He's changed her mind, she's cast astray
But I could be the shepherd
To keep the hungry wolves at bay
As countless dogs endeavored

One light can only shine so much
Before the flame has died
To reignite it just a touch
Of love might satisfy

Surely there is nothing worse
Than feeling left to dry
Entrapped within a lover's curse
And never knowing why

Well, in defense of self-defense
I must admit it's snide
To hang her face upon the fence
Until she's picked a side

It's safe, my friend, just be yourself
***** down to nothing hidden
And let emotion feed your health
By eating the forbidden

A heart must be coaxed from its hide
With tenderness and passion
In order for the passersby
To notice what has happened

From way out here it's hard to tell
But underneath a soul
That liberates a girl of twelve
Longs for a soul to hold

To hold would mean to carry, too
When harsh times rear their heads
To be the one to follow through
When love needs to be fed

But most of all it means to dress
With confidence or loathing
Just make sure you can impress
A saint in Sinner's clothing
Brain pictures
Natalie Sep 2018
Tiptoe so as not to wake the dead
Who slumber underfoot,
Their empty heads
Resting on mossy pillows of stone;

All their gelid dreams sour with time,
Beneath linen of soil and grass,
Under pounding paces of passersby.

At night, hear them snore and brood,
Chattering, gnashing bare bone gums;
At dawn, they roar and call and hoo,
They whistle through a ***** cheek,
**** long-forgotten tunes
Through combs of dry and brittle teeth.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2017
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal

the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir

Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide

His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst

needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time

Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding

The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being

A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.


The Twist

This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.

Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.

I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.

For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.

It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers

for Nat Lipstadt
one of us, his tongue Moses-stung, with a hot coal of language's divinity
this would-be poet,
weighty troubled by misdirected words
of a musing troubadour,
for if ever a reflecting pool ought be
a two-way mirror reconfigured,
this poem is deservedly reversed
and of him homaged

by time, well weathered the poem above,
it's simple elegance tips and tilts the scales,
double blinding the justices supremely,
binding them for honesty for the subject,
is the auteur, one who sees too well
and yet l!
cannot perceive himself in his own words,
when now needs the judgement of their verdict
and your worthy recognition

now I ken better distance 'tween artist and art,
I, a workingman's daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in the waterfalling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
not I,
one of us, his tongue, like Moses-stung
with a hot coal of language's divinity

blessings, the keenest of nature,
where they divide and how they intersect
his brimful heart in our eyes fulfills the passerby's thirst
for revelations, small shards of shared sensibilities

my voids filled by the words of his quill

"to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees"

This was written April 15, 2017
for Harlon Rivers
by Nat Lipstadt

behind the poems,  travels another world…
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018

If only the War would

but it lives on
crawls across the mind

the everyday things

people in trams and buses
wearing my dead friend's face

until everyone
becomes him.

A car backfires
and I hit the ground

to the amazement and amusement
of passersby who pass by.

It's what kept me

This the curse
of survival.

Even birds wear
my dead friend's face.

Even his face
in a flower's petals.

He falls in the rain
again and again and again

stranded on the wire
like a ****** broken puppet

the wind
pulling his strings

dying for days
on end.

"Die you ****** ******...die!"
I beg him.

But he refuses
to listen.

Three men dead
by ****** fire

trying to get him
me I got it in the leg.

I see him rot
stage by stage

the secrets of the grave
open for all to see.

I see the rats
gnawing at his dear face

until only his skeleton
grins at me.  

His voice forever
calling to me.
Vicki Kralapp Dec 2018
I woke upon this winter’s morn,
with Christmas in my heart,
despite the news across the earth,
and grayness it imparts.

Reports of quakes and Etna,
with its crest blown to the sky,
while Central Sulawes’ floods,
chased people for their lives.

In Syria, its people mourn,
the tears and blood they’ve shed,
their civil war, it rages still,
marks eight years with its dead.

The fires that swept our golden state,
left thousands without homes,
its victims living now in tents,
with nothing of their own.

While winds of last year’s hurricanes,
have raged on southern shores,
in Florida and eastern coasts,
all shook us to the core.

The caravan of people fled,
from countries to the south,
have braved too much already,
for a wall to shut them out.

Our country, now divided,
on beliefs we hold too close,
while people spew their hatred at,
those who challenge them the most.

And those who are in power,
cannot see beyond their nose,
to what tomorrow wants from us,
and what our world needs most.

But still, I see the kindness,
and the love in passersby,
when someone gives a hand to those,
who need it more than I.

I see the hope in children’s eyes,
where love and truth prevail,
when treated as tomorrow’s hope,
when peace on earth has failed.

So let us focus on the grace,
so often overlooked,
and make our resolution be,
to share our love on earth!
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Gods1son Sep 2018
I was on a journey to being perfect
On this road, the landmarks were my defects
The walls were painted with my mistakes
Passersby constantly hailed my weakness

The path was dark and lonely
Felt so ****, those comments really bruised me
Was eager to fight like I was Bruce Lee
My thoughts said everybody ******* me

Definitely, my saddest venture ever
I thought I was very clever
Gladly, I found an escape through the sewer

Oh, What an awful adventure
Welcomed myself back to reality
Learnt to appreciate my inner treasure
Helped me live above mediocrity.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018

the objects
in his pocket

have lost
their identity

their significance
to anyone but him

a hairy comb
photo of an unknown

who can she be

a torn-in-two
train ticket

chewing gum
much masticated

yet put back
in his blazer's breast pocket

small change
a penny and a sixpence and

a button
from the cuff

no clue as to who
he had been

before the water claimed him
as its own

the disgust and fascination
of those

passersby who continue
to pass by

it such
a sunny day

for death to
intrude this way

the miscellany of objects
ownerless now

the waters of the Liffey
calm and unmoved
ryn Feb 9
This day is just a day.

A day that shines bright
outside my window.

I could see the unburdened footfalls
of passersby -
with their voiceless chattters,
and spring-loaded gait.

I could feel the warm breeze,
greeting my face as I stood
by the window, enjoying
its play round my hair and ears.

I could smell and taste
the crisp air - laden with chances
and opportunities.
Available, accessible and within reach.
Only if one so desires
to grab at them.

This is just a day.
One amongst many
that I had failed
to be a part of.
Ash Slade Jul 2018
Coming down, it all falls down.
let yourself fly away like free bird.
slow up your pace losing full speed,
lend your ears to things heard.
all gathered 'round please take heed.

Coming down, it all falls down.
trading this nightmare for a dream.
down on my knees eyes to sky,
carvings I read what do they mean?
I stare at the faces of passersby.

Coming down, it all falls down.
I'll move on to a place for only bards.
pushed 'n shoved idiots don't budge,
bang their gavels loud and hard.
people acting like a judge.

Coming down, it all falls down.
one day grins will turn to frowns.
hecklers claim seeds sowed,
in this clean shaven town.
no "X's" mark the spot or roads.

Coming down, it all falls down.
won't anybody put'em in place?
misplaced doubt and fear,
crooked smirk on face.
people stop and sneer.

Coming down, it all falls down.
you see won't rearrange?
that what you think
it never changes,
how can it be?
Carey Dec 2018
The twisted, weathered maple in my front yard doesn't care what the passersby may say
about his missing branches and hanging limbs

He drinks sweetly the nutrients he needs
He breaths unweighted without thought
He absorbs the warm rays that fall around him
He grows in all directions, without restriction, hugging the wires as if to welcome them into his space
He sleeps when it is dark and wakes up when the dew starts to glisten

That strong, grounded maple in my front yard
I didn't know
I had so much to learn
MARIO Sep 2018
The white billowing funnels of purely antiquated fluff rolled by like wind in a lazy sail. The syrupy cirrus disasters dripped heaven unto passersby. Everyone watched and waited, but not a wretch took even an instant to notice that a malevolent tempest brewed south. Mortals went on with their days, ****'s revenants. Constructing sin and suchwhat. All was lost before it had begun. God's master plan. Flaming meteorites launched spectacular displays of warfare and catastrophe in the firmament. Corpses showered the celestial Terra for years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. Only when hot hate ran through the streets of humanity was it finally forgotten. Over and done with. Then a new day began, a purplish-pinkish day, complete with stiff greens, cool blues, posh reds, and the occasional stygian black. A conclusion before there was even a conception. There was a sky.

And suddenly, the sky made love.
Butch Decatoria Nov 2018
There are stories that are written down, carved in stone, others are told  out loud or made for song, and some still linger--painted on walls of mountains, caves. Wallpaper tapestries, depictions of a good day's successful hunt. While the communal fires and bones have turn to dust, a good day stands still in that ****** snap shot.

From wars of old and origin tales, there are those narratives passed down as legacy, heritage of families, the wealth of lessons through time, reminders and warnings, and glories of victories against enemies faded away in defeat. How sometimes those tribal memories' recollection instill or motivate into action--change, or rites of passage (whether successfully or doomed) the undulation of life carries on, and finds a way.

Yet the stories that keep and hold our passions' interests, retold many times to quench our hearts, these are the ones more profound and rich of moral l grounds, full of fertile meaning. Poetry of feelings spoken word of theater, out in the wide howling wilderness, while the wind becomes the wolf at the moon. We are moved by and by, as well as the soaring soul within. We learn to love those ancestral ghosts of yore, resurrected in the beat of drum, the pantomime of sons as their fathers, the rising embers and shadows running from the flames. Still, not all can carry the past or the details that fog while our rivers rush the seasons.

In many languages and lives  of every breathing passersby, there are also sparks of moments brief as an evening sky's meteor shower, rainfall of quicksilver streaks of light. Once and awhile there is awe and wonder, if witnessed by mindful eyes and held still in the same place where dreams awake in our sleep, has no need of script or reasons why, it is simple and beloved. The great and grandest of One story is gleaned, witnessed and recognized. The constellations brighten and seem to coalesce, the Universe opens its infinite arms, its vast lungs, and with one sigh within this witness, breathing, in recognizing a connection with breath and firmament, the miracles of Life...

If only briefly like a flash of light from a meteorite in death-fall, the Infinite and Absolute now borne of proof -- without a word to convince or purchase. Words and like Texas Tea pollutes so heavily the kind and flight, thickly darkly removes what thine eyes doth and must see.

And as an avid lover of poetic justice & epics & heroes from mystic times, I keep close my heart's affection, since all love stories continue ever after to shine...

I see you
in all the dots and lines
diamonds and geometry
alive cosmic symmetry
I want to be
a speck of one letter in
your vast alphabet,
just to be exhaled
in the breadth of your true story
the shrapnel casualty or
**** sacrificed for your glory
I want only you
to remember by...
And a No One like me
made alive even in death
in all your divine skies
full of Story...
Oh Goddess, my goddess,
what magnificence and wonder
are in mine eyes....

Then there are stories in silence and unrequitedly replied inside:
One kiss : begins : Big Bang!! --The story the theory of Everything...
Love begets white lightning... Electric veins alive... Glowing tapestries of every life...  Story...
“Dream song”

Sing me a dream, dream me a song
Don't make it too short, don't make it too long
Don't make it too happy, don't make it too sad
Right in the middle, is where I'll be had

Stories of mountains, tales of the west
Antidotes retold, by strangers, the best
A kiss in the moonlight, I'll never forget
These are the songs, that long to hear yet

Journeys on train tracks, that rumble through time
Back and forth life scripts, that turn on a dime
A vision of happiness, lost but content
Tearful eyed memories, of love letters sent

The dark senorita who called out your name
The shot of tequila's romantic refrain
Then next, the siesta that memory denies
A lost, lonely cowboy with stars in his eyes

The hot summer day, mescal, por favor
Bar room bravado, courage assured
A harsh word, a look, machismo commands
The next move, the next slight, a line in the sand

Battles with savages, outside the door
A march in formation to find the next war
The promised reward that can never come true
History's legacy, painfully true

Battlefield monuments lost in the woods
Where lines were once drawn and heroes once stood
Where blood was once spilled and questions remain
Hidden in shadows of yesterday's shame

A quivering peace that can never stand still
A new generation to march up that hill
With hope for salvation, foundationally true
A new culmination who's interest's accrued

Then one more recovery long overdue
The colors of sacrifice, red, white and blue
The stories of history, tinted and hued
The song that our grandfather sang me and you

A search for a gold mine, the dutchman's remains
The promise of new life, fortune and fame
The optimist's song, the pessimist's tune
Off where the rattlesnakes sleep before noon

One more Matilda, a shovel and pick
A search through the canyon where fools gold's the trick
Where water's the treasure and darkness the cure
And the road back leads empty, to adventure once

Explosions of springtime, a park bench called home
The birds and the squirrels and the church bells of
The mothers and children and promise of youth
A new day brings new ways, a new search for truth

School buses roll, people commute
Businessmen tow the line 'til rebuke
The homeless and destitute scrounge for their fare
Passersby glance on, unwilling to share

Here's one more season come 'round the bend
Some start anew, some find their end
Some take their orders from voices on high
Some walk this earthly path, never to fly

Some take the train their father's once rode
Some walk the city streets, lost and alone
Some gain the riches of power and gold
Some keep their hearts, some lose their soul

So here lie the stories, the songs and the dreams
Of one among many, of all, so it seems
Unique and unusual, we all ring the bell
Then set off in search of our heaven or ****

These are the songs that I'll hear once again
These are the dreams that I'll send you, my friend
So sing me a dream, dream me a song
Through ages, these pages are where I belong

So sing me a dream, dream me a song
Don't make it too short, don't make it too long
Don't make it too happy, don't make it too sad
Right in the middle is where I'll be had
Somewhere in the middle is where I'll be glad
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