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Caitlin Ellis Dec 2018
It is both a beautiful instance when;
the sound of rains' beginning patters
softly on the roof
and the silence afterwards
in rains' demise
nosipho khanyile Jul 2018
if life is a perception
let my eyes be
the illusion
that pitter patters
on your skin
all over your body
into your mind
then soul
opening the door
to your reality
Shane Leigh Feb 2018
If there is anything better than rain -
crisp as each drop patters, tat tat tat,
so softly against my window -
pain - it would be kissing you in it;
still the rain would continue to patter -
tat tat tat it does in vain -
and I am none the wiser
of the crisp
cold drops of rain.
© Shane Leigh
Hello!!  Enjoy (:
The Oran rain patters against my home,
The wind breaks upon the house
and I lie in bed
feeling comfortably alone.

I need to sort my life, move on from this town,
Need to stop being on my own, want to give myself
away, want someone to take me
far away. I'd willingly lose myself
to another, a city or a person; the other,
Me. Is this narcissism? Can I just be happy,
Or must I change so radically
in order to escape?

The real work must begin,
This aimlessness must end before it becomes
ceaseless in its expansion. All I have are words
and melodies, moments in experience that will be lost to all
time. I might as well craft an album, and nod to all I've felt
and've left to feel. Music keeps me alive, 's the only thing
How shall I tell my story,
Why shouldn't I be true to my potential?
What's stopping me?
Stu Harley Apr 20
what makes
sound of
lighthearted rain
through me
once more
the brain
lighthearted rain
window panes
once more
am still sure
want more
Seanathon May 16
With hair falling before quiet ears
And mind bent steadily on pages of ink
Resting softly above the earth
Her chest rises and falls
In steady unison
Her pulse patters faintly like little feet
And with quiet eyes, she looks up suddenly at me
And winks
My past and I had this really subtle language we used. When one was annoyed, appalled or feeling a certain positive thing. It only took the slightest sliver of a look to communicate things. But as awesome as that was, it's in the past. And I'm alright with that. A memory this is.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 23
The Deepest Twist

for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections

you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes

take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility

how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away

even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil

now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap

supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score

wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes

the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted

once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of  constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,

give other poets a chance at parenthood!

the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun*

though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is ******* hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness

how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining

the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down

when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:

what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem

only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,

appearing nataurally,

without a formal
“He says, "Son, can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright”
misha Mar 15
how can my own home feel like jail?

the windows are always open but i
can see the bars that trap me inside
my own mind, hold my lungs tight
to stop me breathing,
there's always fresh air entering
but when it comes near me it becomes
rancid and putrid, choking me
and tearing me up but i will always
end up inhaling the matter or else
i won't survive

the rooms are filled with ornaments
from different countries,
little souvenirs that we were there
but even with the furniture
i feel secluded, my bed is not
only my resting place, but it
sobs as i rest my tired eyes,
hoping that even in this darkness
of my room, where i can hear the
shallow breaths fill the air,
perhaps the light that escapes
between these walls could
guide me and send me a halo

the clothes that hang solitary
waiting to be reached towards,
they only cover me from this
world that i live in,
these clothes do not liberate me
but they protect me from
anything worse than this jail
in which i know i shall rot
ever so slowly but until then
i shall pray that it won't be
due to my sadness or the fact
that i can't stop worrying and
stressing about the future

if only these walls, this jail,
stopped my mind from wandering
into a state of freedom,
aching to be heard,
screaming at whatever chance they have
but this voice will never escape
as i am made of steel,
my bones are my cage and
this body is half-alive

hold-me, could i dare to ask?
hold-me, in this jail as i
fall into deep sleep,
pray that i won't wake up
hold-me as i soften my breath,
i'd finally feel the rain
as it patters onto my face
but i'd look up and see no sky,
no clouds and no heaven
imagining another life isn't that bad
Rai Aug 10
It’s long past midnight
The wind howls around the feet of trees
that stand tall, but bend awkwardly
Into positions they were never fashioned  to reach
the rain starts slowly but increasingly patters like small footprints upon my window pane.
Smoothing and unnerving all rolled into one strange moment of sleeplessness
Insomnia beckons for company
I gave in what can I say I’ll sleep through breakfast now so no harm done
And anyhow I am my own master
So do as I please
And now I wandered here
If your listening I’ll never know
I don’t care for strange relationships across blank screens anymore
I don’t slow my breathing down to accommodate yours
I don’t talk for hours
Delving deep yet dusted with a surface shallowness I could never recognise before
Eyes open
Heart closed
That’s the way to survive I guess
Lawren Jun 29
I am the glass in your window.
Your eye struggles to see me,
Not through me.
Unless I am cracked, soiled or ajar,
Spewing air that makes you uncomfortable.
You keep me for protection
And because my appearance makes
Your house look good, inviting.

Every once in a while,
Your eyes catch a glimpse of your reflection
In me.
So you cover me up,
Hide me from the light
And shield your eyes from seeing
Your true nature.

If I shatter under attack,
You scold me for being too fragile,
Sensitive to the hurt thrown at me.
If the sun shines too bright,
You blame me for being too transparent.
If the rain patters too loudly against me,
You chastise me for being to resonant.

But you knew what I was when you chose me,
Picked me to be here.
I couldn't hide even if I wanted to.

Over time,
The forces pulling me down
Leave me uneven.
Because though still I may seem,
Inside, I am just
A collection of millions of atoms
Constantly moving, vibrating, changing.

Care for me you could,
But instead you choose to ignore.
Eventually replacing me with something newer,
And more like the others.
What it feels like to be ignored.
Sam Hammond Aug 2018
The weight of life is reduced to a cloud
As raindrops of lysergic acid run free.
Their pitters and patters equally loud
As all of the colours that melt around me.
The womb of the universe beating its drum
And setting a pace for the flowers to bloom.
A force with such strength that all nature succumbs
As peacefulness floats in kaleidoscope flumes.

Empathy blossoms, arousing a smile,
That creeps from my lips to the end of the room,
Searing itself on a cosmic denial
That beauty like this shouldn’t gestate from gloom.
Floating, not unlike a dandelions seed,
Thoughts of anxiety flee to the Earth.
They carry but vapidness with the sweet breeze.
In nebulous nebulas they are dispersed.

Now what remains as a warm neon cloud
Is beauty profound and purpose pristine.
Unwanted, the ego is left disavowed
Dancing in memories of amphetamines.
Left in its place was the beauty and I.
Climbing like vines as it forces the walls.
Pushing them down with an ******* sigh,
Revealing a cosmos that rhythmically calls:

‘Freedom is such a deplorable word.
It offers ambitions too fruitful to take.
Though comfort or not,
As with fictitious plot,
It’s only as real as it’s fake.’

— The End —