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Tyrus Jun 2017
I walk a path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes
Amuse my anecdotes,
I walk with break beats in my blood,
With brain waves pounding bass drums,
I got liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
To spin surges of synergy
Out of bottled up battles,
Even my baby rattles
Used to shake with rhythm.

Wars
Should pause for music.

The power of harmonic symphony
Just pimping me,
Creeping up through cracked sidewalks,
Wrapping shadows around legs,
Up hips to necks
As it grabs,
Just pimping me,
A dance floor ***** with
Peace in and of mind,
In circles of 32
Note by note,
That lump of emotion
In my throat
Could choke,
With neon freedom.

Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
That we could put down the guns
And rave to the drums,
That even silencers will be silent,
And the smell of gunpowder
Will squander for an hour,
That there will be a day with no death,
A day free of neurotic nail biting mothers
Holding their breath,
That their children will walk our land again,
A day that suicide bombs
Won’t detonate,
That cries of loss and sadness
Won’t resonate,
A day that we won’t decimate,
Our own race,
The human race

Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
But that’s my pipe dream.

I’ve spanned seas to see,
That music brings harmony,
I’ve danced along
An African diplomat named Ife,
Which means love,
A Polish carpenter named Sebastian,
Which means dignity,
A Vietnamese banker named Ly,
Which means Lion,
And collectively,
We,
We're individuals,
Smiling to that same pumping beat,
That,
Breakbeat,
That brain wave pounding bass drum,
That strum laced
With a graceful hum,
Making our race numb,
There was no color,
There was no history
Because my history
Won’t dictate me,
Not that it's non-existent,
Not that I’m resistant
To believe that people hate
Because of the past,
But I understand personalities,
And believe
Everyone deserves a fair shot
At being an individual

Everyone deserves that music,
Everyone deserves to have
That path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes,
Amuse their anecdotes,
Everyone deserves to feel
Breakbeats in their blood,
And brain waves pounding bass drums,
Those liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
That spin surges of synergy,
Everyone deserves what we have to offer,
Everyone deserves,
To dance to their own breakbeat
Of peace
I didn't do the things in the 6th stanza, but you know what point i was trying to get across
Irene-Spring

Like
The spring
Thy radiance
Has befallen at sunrise
On all,but pulchritudinous flowers
And in reverence for thy elegance
They spin their colors so brightly
And beguile butterflies from motley races
Together,
Like a choir,
They croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on petals and sepals

Thy
Benign breeze
Prance on all surfaces
Of the earth,

And
At sunshine
It poise on the wild waves
And placidly vault their prowess
To sack ;then obligatory
They croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on the golden sands

At twilight
Even the vehement volcanoes
Clad themselves with serenity
With thy presence
And croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on the hearts of molten rocks

But
When darkness
Finally succumb twilight
Will moonlight invade their shacks
And allow the nightgale
Croon sweet melodies of birthday
Penciled on the slates of branches for thee

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEET HEART


IRENE-SPRING

©HISTORIAN E.LEXANO
Happy Birthday Love
Arfah Afaqi Zia Aug 2015
A few years back,
I used to look like a hag,

Dark circles,
Plain cheeks,

Messy long hair,
No sleek,

Shaggy clothes,
All creased,

Now, penciled eyes,
Powdered face ( not literally ),

Short hair,
Neat ponytail ( I'm almost there ),

Branded clothes,
Gucci, Dior, Chanel and many more,

Red lips,
Ready to glaze,

Trendy clothes in my closet,
Still yearning for more,

Shoes of all kinds,
Heels, sneakers and boots,

How time passes,
Transforming into puberty.
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Flings and wings and rings rejected…
Cupid’s arrows fly deflected…
“It clearly is too late” she signed, “to love, adore or pay me mind”

Penciled lines drew cruel conclusions
mocking mirror’s cracked illusions…
Sometimes, in time, I hang awhile, reflected in her parting smile

Drifting wan, below unheeding
worried, wounded suns a’ bleeding…
Struck dumb by night, no way to say “Let’s sound the stars another way”

Shaking sands frame distant smokestacks,
shanty towns, forsaken oak shacks…
Pursuing dusk, collapsed and dyed, the docile dolphin deftly stride
beyond behind the ebbing tide, towards One-Way Ships of sunken pride


Gypsy dreamer in denial…
Sleep and slumber standing trial…
I never really ever slept inside the cryptic walls she kept

Martian moons provoke the oceans…
Strange enchantments stir the potions…
The mutant molten purple skies ignite subconscious fireflies

Voiceless echoes feigning laughter…
Crushing quiet screaming after…
Vague vagaries pretend to sleep, my conscience crumbles in a heap

Startled stars at dawn are slacking…
Still her tempest sail is tacking…
In fractured dreams sere silhouettes blow foghorns, trumpets, clarinets…
Discarded glowing cigarettes tinge One-Way Ships with pale regrets


Cold cathedral clocks upended…
Frozen second hands suspended…
Beneath the gauze of time I try to while away somewhere nearby

Ticking-tocking time’s a’ tolling…
Cruel eternity’s cajoling…
The future, tattered, calls bereft, with nothing but her shadows left

Brigantines skim gated grottos…
Distant divas voice vibratos…
Though eons pass, then intermix, I’m trapped ’tween time’s untallied ticks

Conquered candles flicker faintly…
Braided tresses quiver quaintly…
Demystified, untamed in time, her face is traced in puppet mime…
Amorphous tongues of jangled rhyme hail One-Way Ships that glide sublime


Bolts of lightning flash unkindly…
******, alone, I huddle blindly…
I drain another dram and bray “she’s far too far too far away”

Twisted waterwheels a’ thirsting…
Flaming flower buds a’ bursting…
Adrift, I stagger far below their unchained magic rainbow glow

White crowned wave crests break unbounded…
Shackled seashore sands lie pounded…
Unleashed, beyond the bridled world, her silver sails, cut loose, unfurled

Captive bluebirds nest in baskets…
Morning glories cover caskets…
Wee ballerinas swirl and spin while giant jokers smirk and grin
and, wasted, I withdraw within carved One-Way Ships in flasks of gin


Hungary hounds harangue the highlands,
howl at skies and desert islands…
Below, unfettered carbon crows conceal the parting path she chose

Lighthouse lamps and lanterns lolling…
Mute abandoned fleets are calling…
The shallow shadowed portholes vaunt dim traces of the past that haunt

Curved magnetic curtained faces
yearn contorted brief embraces…
Her fairy-tale like tattoo touch was serpentine but soft as such

Coffee cups and spoons corroding…
Mystic tea leaves, visions boding…
A cabaret calls, standing bare, beneath a splintered footloose stair,
vain vapors drape her vacant chair in One-Way Ships beyond repair


Splattered days are dripping dreary…
Shattered nights are wearing weary…
Without her footfall at my side I steal away within to hide

Fancies flame, persist to flaunt her…
Wanton whispers hiss I want her…
Hyenas, haggard, held at bay, still gnaw on bones of yesterday

Graveled graveyards grey and ghastly…
Apparitions pacing past me…
The answers to my whys and sighs have veiled her limpid pale blue eyes

Lurid figments storm the valleys
****** the helms of spectral galleys…
The coughing phantoms at the wheel, they make it all seem so unreal…
Rebounding cracks of thunder’s peal, shake One-Way Ships while seagulls squeal


Yesterday’s unsung, unspoken…
Bygone paths fold, draped and broken…
The weary winds of winter cling to voiceless nightingales and sting

Desert blossoms growing colder…
Drifting sand dunes pause, enfold her…
An arctic kiss and blush revealed forbidden pipe dreams flung afield

Weeping willows’ wilting snow drops
drip on tips of tiny toe tops…
Their opal fires bleed and fade while suns explode in icy jade

Jagged hours hangin’ heavy…
Footsteps pace the barren levee…
While pros and cons and kings debate, acclaim and blame and fame equate
the ruin’s remnants left to fate with One-Way Ships that fail to wait


Blazing blades of love surrender…
Memories and thoughts transcend her…
The Persian gazer’s crystal shows I’ve truly lost my ruby rose

Buried deep in evening’s embers
dust forgets what flesh remembers…
The bitter taste of farewell’s haste has laid the ****** skies to waste

Ruffled ravaged ravens ranting…
Churlish ancient churchmen chanting
resounding what she told me true “There’s nothing more that you can do”

Trial adjourned by judge and jury…
Freed, she flees, absolved of worry…
Remaining runes and relics burn to feed the ashes of the urn…
Six seers, wiser, soon discern the One-Way Ships of no return
Anais Vionet Dec 2022
I’m sporting this new lipstick
it won’t fade, smudge or smear
I’ll be lucky if it wears off this year.

I’ve got this new eyeliner that’s like
a luxurious, glittering, penciled tattoo
Leong asked, “How do you get it off you?”

I unpacked these chemical wonders
to see if they’ve lost their luster
by being neglected since last summer.
    
When you study too much, you feel pent-up,
so my compadres and I chose to get dolled-up,
rolling-up to dinner, like beauty queens on parade,
and not just sophomore scrubs trying to make the grade.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: compadre: a close friend or buddy
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2019
I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true



7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle
she’ll ken her authorship by the title
st64 Dec 2013
standing at water's edge
good-bye, momma - I'll always love your straight-face discipline
goodbye, poppa - whose handsomeness I never knew nor saw




nobody'll see me camp out alone on the common
tiny-tent to keep my limbs from cramping morning-mist
maybe some stray-mutt to be (f)ears to intruders
perked-up coffee in tin-***
and baked-beans from a tin, I'll share my bounty
with the dog and bramble-bush




I'm not afraid if the dark
   which waits in timely-blocks
   never overwhelms
I'll meet that sky at midnight and greet the stars in bloom
   their twinkling-smiles will warm my eyes
   and scoop away all lone thoughts
I'll siphon inspiration from the sighs of flora
   inaudible yet felt
I'll huddle not away from any lesson
             *even second-hand





my weapon will be prayer
mouth-***** tests the waters
sends a tentative trill into heightened-silence
      rippling on surface
      embracing the dark
Joe felt that God was there.. the boss
fussing over all his creation
yet, he felt alone on the pier that day
with not one soul..
        to stop the tides from swallowing his tired-life
        to love the gauche-grit inside his gifted-cage
        to hear the silent-scream of fretless-agony
        to sense the dripped-disparity of favour
turning face upwards and smelling fresh sea-salt
he closed his eyes so slowly
and let the wind rip it away from him..




nobody had heard him play Bach on his guitar
finest poignant tone
all the suites and minuets in glory to the one
    yet among the many passing, there was one listener
    a quiet boy whose senses touched celestial-note
most mothers warned their children to stay away from Joe
save this lad to inherit misunderstood genius-scribbles
as Joe's blue book held more than just music of old-siècle
to be legacy in the talent-hand of open-heart apprentice



and my penciled-in landscape grows incisors
from the sharpness of your colour
as I camouflage my strained-song
in seeming-vibrancy of words
merely purloined from the deepest
of
your quiet-sighs



S T - 20 December 2013
so much of brilliance remains undiscovered.. shine on, you crazy-diamond :)
Toria Oct 2014
“Pretty”
You start telling us so young
Not even letting us take time to smell
To sniff of the world we’re in
Before you pull it from our fingertips
Leaving us with “Pretty”
Making us weaker than we really are
Just by saying “Pretty”
Making the poor girl smiling, feel lesser
Making her want or even need to be more
Making her uncomfortable in her own skin
Too uncomfortable to breath
To let out the air
In fear of looking fat
Because you said “Pretty”
But you don’t see it
You don’t see the damage that you’ve done
You won’t see it
Because you don’t take the time to look
Deeper than her flawless skin
Deeper than her penciled-on brows
Deeper than her plastic nose
Deeper than her silicone filled chest
And deep into her heart
Her mind
And her soul
To see that her smile is fake
And it’s only there because you said “Pretty”
When she was so young
Not letting her have the time to smell
To sniff the world she was in
Before you pulled it from her fingertips
Just leaving her with “Pretty”
Malintha Perera Oct 2014
thoughts a festering wound
gathering and multiplying waves
racing from the depths

oblivious
I gaze
through
the crowd.

passing faces all blank outlines
penciled shades quivering
ghostly hums curling my ears

pain
twist
and
i hear.

smashing the misty trance
a distance toll of a temple bell
taps on my glassy clamour.

all
empties
flashing
silence.

© Malintha Perera 2014
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2017
punto / contrappunto (patty m /nat)
(on the why of messaging, on the Underground HP)

none can fly,                          all can fly
except in words,                   in deeds, indeed,
yet others turn                      those who believe turn
lead into gold,                       golden faerie dreams real,
penciled in the salvation     hints inked upon the skin
of the host, the blessing       are the blessings of the host,
of solving great puzzles.      deeds of salvation solutions.

Yet unbeknownst for many.  known to all
its jiggling all the quarks,      the clashing of the neutrons
spinning electrons that          within all of our protein protons
affect many,                             effected upon each,
invisible all is hidden.            where all was hidden, now visible

the message that isn't             let our acts speak ever louder
transmitted,                             realized,
holds no power, yet it             a time for action
remains a black screen            for each message, now an action    
in the catacombs                      in the clarity of daylight
waiting, waiting there,            no longer waiting,
millions of little pieces            each action a deed
when finally viewed                the summation total
                 
                                 grows gargantuan
                               funneling radiation
                                     from the sun.

Climbing roofs,                       to the streets leaping
sliding down drainpipes       knocking to open all doors
to the street,                             filling the stadiums & squares
I'll wait with you,                   no laggards, all in attendence
            
                                         they will come,
                                         poet after poet,
                                    spreading the word,
                              words to deeds, each of us
                           a messenger and a conductor,
                            orchestrating the symphony
                                        of revelation.

              Patty m.                                                       Nat
patty m › The Underground of HP
none can fly, except in words yet others turn lead into gold, penciled in the salvation of the host the blessing of solving great puzzles. Yet unbeknownst for many its jiggling all the quarks, spinning electrons that affect many. Invisible all is hidden
the message that isn't transmitted, holds no power, it remains a black screen in the catacombs waiting, waiting there, millions of little pieces when finally viewed grow gargantuan funneling radiation from the sun. Climbing roofs, then sliding down drainpipes to the street, I'll wait with you, and they will come, poet after poet, spreading the word, while you my friend orchestrate the symphony of revelation. Bravo.!
hugs
Patty

0





Jun 3
Dave Sheehan Dec 2016
There is a penciled poem folded and hiding
Somewhere in the bottom of
Filomena’s new designer handbag.
At least, the ghost of one.

Only, how does she find
Something that isn’t quite yet?
Or anything at all
In that cluttered
Sack of apprehension and mystery?

Beneath a tangle of dead Presidents
and a handful of tissues
For wiping Sailor’s nose,
Between eyeliner, lipgloss, and cell phone
Nestles a small jar of glittery hope.

And a tin full of powdery promise
Tucked in beside breath mints,
fear and danger,
Faith and chewing gum.
Wisdom with an applicator
sealed in a waterproof pouch.

There is a penciled poem hiding
Somewhere in the bottom of
Filomena’s new handbag.
And a passport and a ticket to...

Tomorrow
tomsout001 Mar 2013
Classic style of Born shoes have been known using leather, instead of synthetic man made materials. As you know, leather is a natural moisture wicking agent and helps keep the foot dryer and cooler. Another special feature of Born shoes is the Dryz sock linings that is available in Born shoes sport style.

Most newer laptops have an S-video output built-in. You have probably guessed already that these www.facebook.com toms shoes outlet video outputs send the video signal to your TV. You guessed right. Hours of paddling can be enjoyed in this remote yet easily accessible location surrounded by Prospertown Wildlife Management Area. Neither gas nor electric motors are permitted, but since the lake is not patrolled regularly, a few tend to slip in now and then. Nevertheless, these waters rarely become crowded, even on the hottest summer weekend.

Evening Weddings ?These may be black tie, formal, or informal. But black-tie dress implies that a man is expected to show up in a tuxedo and women should wear a long or short cocktail dress. If the occasion is listed as ormal or informal? the man can wear a dark suit in navy, black, or charcoal grey ?with a beautiful dress shirt, jeweled silk tie, and a pocket square in a color tone to complement the tie.

Reports regarding child labor surface periodically. Children crawling in mines, faces ashen,  body deformed. The agile fingers of famished infants weaving soccer ***** for their more privileged counterparts in the USA. Incredulously, I recognized from a few angled lines at the end of the drive Charlie's ever-present scrap metal pile. Cedar and deciduous trees in the wooded areas were distinguishable from one another in simple, but deftly penciled strokes and swirls. He'd even captured the farm's power sources - tractors with hay wagons, the farm truck, pea-sized draft horses, and two diminutive figures in the front yard..

It should be mentioned that if you move to their playground, you will find there a real criminal wild level. It is the only level where murders happen because a fight for swag is carried there. You try to nap a piece?of property from the jaws, even if it is your own property, but the things for you may be finished badly.

Face and strap color - Another new trend in watch design is with the dials and straps. Watches, both expensive and cheap, are now being made in bold and exciting colors. Just be careful about buying a colored watch if it is going to be your everyday watch.

Having learned under the tutelage of LOSTerminds Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, it's understandable that the talented (babyandyUSA-March-11) twosome that are Horowitz and Kitsis want to do nothing less than shoot for the stars by crafting and equally compelling world filled with good and evil character, not to mention life and death stakes. Unfortunately, the one thing that really seems to have gotten, well lost this season is the fun. In other words, when you're responsible for writing a show about handsome princes, damsels in distress, witches, fairy-godmothers, etc鈥?it would be nice if an episode could go by that doesn't involve a grisly ****** or loss of limbs..  2013-03-14.
Colm Sep 2019
You strengthen me
Stretch me tall in fond pursuit
And call my waking trees to move with subtle hints

Familiar as the folding sound
Between quiet rustling parchment leaves
Becoming new our newest sounds as an inkwell drawn

Like a sunlit jewel your dulcet glow
Is stumbling down a penciled path of painted memory
Colored by every season anew with the hues of you

Don’t cry when I am no more seen, my felicity
It was always and with you in mind
That you made me want to try
Painted Words Between Distant Mailboxes is built around a song, a sketch, a classic story. Separated by time and space no more. These lovers turn now, to face a new fate, having not been left alone in an empty word. "Through the long and lonely night." We persevere until the dawning bright. Shines back at us with joy.

#ICSTMYM
howard brace Apr 2011
The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.

Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.

Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.

Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.

Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.

High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.

With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.

Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**

...   ...   ...
Tori Dec 2012
Sometimes i suspect I only
dreamt you up in my head
so I penciled your words
on my ceiling
Just in case
I wake up
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
i wrote about a boy the night we met, glasses and a polka-dot
shirt i never thought would leave the stars and trees of that early
morning in august. it felt like a lunar eclipse, a moment where i stood
with my face up to the sky, straight on and uninhibited, but never
expecting the moment to stay. moments like these come and go, and
are accepted as fleeting; special dates to mark on the calendar, not
penciled in on every square. i believed that he was fleeting. that my
moons would always be grey. yet, i kept writing about him, a crimson
moon with a recurring theme of crimson feeling—full of passion,
anger, pain. i felt more inclined to write about him when my skin
would crawl, rather than when my heart would flutter. maybe it was
because our hearts were always beating, but never in time with one
another. i was afraid that my poems would become gravestones,
filling a cemetery of our almost love, hurtful reminders of what i’d
never fully had until,

now

my heartstrings are completely entangled with his, a mess of
indistinguishable shades of lavender that hum melodies of both
obsession and safety. when i left him in those early august hours, my
dreams of him faded the next morning. they turned to dust as soon as
the sun touched the horizon, for four hundred and seventy-two days.
i thought i’d lost something i’d never get back. i did. i watched our
mercurial infatuation die, and from its ashes rose a love like nothing
i’d ever known. and now my dreams of him stretch into the abyss of
time, eager and familiar, as if there’s only ever been crimson moons
hanging in the sky.
from my book, 'please don't go before i get better'
read here: http://bit.ly/pdgbigb
Virginia Nicholson

How To Build A House In N-Dimensions

1. Begin with lines, pencil to paper (if they could exist) drawing graphite arrangements, N-space reduced to one, a structure viewed in slices. Imagine the bathroom off the foyer, the den off the dining room, viewable only as inked lines, dit-dit-dah, a contractor’s Morse Code.

2. Progress to carpet squares, linoleum tiles, the coral paint pairs well with the eggshell trim.  Dit-dah-dit becomes something useful to the non-contractor, “door” or “Master Bedroom” or “x hundred feet of pipe.” Envision the imagined patterns hidden in the bathroom floor, the kitchen hardwood.

3. Move to volumes, solids, conic sections, height. One story, two stories, a basement, an attic?, take advantage of the introduction of 3D. Upgrade the closet to walk-in, needs more carpet squares. A snapshot of a family barbeque, Charlie’s height 1D penciled in to the 3D door, marring 2D eggshell paint.

4. Adding time, the house is built, ages, gets sold to new families with little Charlies of their own, new markings on the cupboard door, 3-foot-2, 3-foot-5, 4-foot-9. Grass fades from Kelly to sand to Kelly, saturation a cosine function with respect to time. The Zoysia starts in one, breaking ground in two, growing in three, a well-manicured 4D experience.

5-11.    Include the things invisible to us, objects on the order of 1 meter, orders of 10E-2 to 10E9 seconds. Five to eleven drip through leaky pipes, seep through porous flooring, get lost in iron-rich soil and oxygenated exhalations. Five to eleven stay hidden, wrapped up in Calabi-Yao manifolds smaller than graphite hills and valleys marking little Charlie’s height, stronger than the 2-by-4s and stone foundation keeping strong in 4D. Five to eleven circulate undetected, seven dimensions shrunk to sub-pinpoint size, keeping seven dimensions of unexplainables covered until their traces are seen in the blades of Zoysia.
JoJo Nguyen Aug 2013
I'm not religious.
I'm not even spiritual.
I'm just a cold, soft Vulcan.

The system of the down
has isolated me here
to think, which is what a Vulcan
does all the time.
It's really pointless.

It is desert, hot and cold
served in deprivation,
meditation, and
solitude.

The system has been doing
this for eons.
It's called increasing
systemic risk when stressed.

I make a cognitive chunk
for you to cogitate
over coffee.

Picture this.

Wandering Boy Scouts (BS)
in their pickup trucks,
helpful, strong,
vicious when aimless,
efficiently cruel,
mechanized abattoir makers
mass pit diggers,
merit badge takers.

Smell the BS.

It all goes into baking
gooey brownie BS,
repugnantly pungent,
and redolent of sweet
burning flesh.

Stressed, the down system
spits BS out
randomly to nucleate,
and procreate if possible.

Breeding a new Brand,
with Cult leader Classes
and all the -isms.

Visionaries with their caries;
Pushers with agendas hidden;
Leaders steadfast in conviction,
taking a nation, against
all odds, in Battling Bulges,
****** lines hidden
within clean, pleated
leather skirts
that still reveal penciled
seams up straight
shaved bare legs.

This is how the system
shakes itself; auto  
****** asphyxiation.

Vulcan's never shake
the bars of their cells
because there's no barring
except Great Walls
forbidding, with a wink,
killing each other.

To be thy Greek brother's keeper,
is to cut not that brother man,
but the other brother man
down with BS fervor and ***;
madness, before bondaging
his wounds in mummified
State, taped shut  
with a healing kiss.

To have dominion
over the animals
means a bludgeoned
pleasure, or
transplanted
desire.

Dominion to exploit
blunted, unconditional,
emotional resources,
until the system
gels again, vaginally
or astrolly whole.
The vagaries of a boyish heart
penciled her squiggly name
onto this warped white sill;
they can also reduce it
to the cryptic black crumbs
his soft-puff of a sigh will
spill into a gulping down
by the floor's shy crevices.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Fittingly meticulous, finicky
Precisely mitigating routine
Tracing excessively
Over cornered mezzanine

Stray penciled lines
Candidly contrived
Archaic dossier
Balanced centers
Unavoidably erase

Guiltily lost the way
Confused compass oscillates
Irregularly unanticipated
Perpetually transitory

Tender heart insecurity
Ego sensitivities in vain glory
Sacrificed arrogance dignity
On the day of defeat
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
•••

"on some days, I love you more than others,"
an early morning uh oh
IROLO
(instantly regretted out loud observation),
of the potentially ruinous kind,
spoken with malice towards none,
and obviously,
no forethought,

firmly but modestly muttered
over the modestly rumpled
courtroom battlefield
of sheets, newsprint, mugs
and Bocelli on low

smockingly,
(a slow spreading smile of mock),
she turns her gaze upon
the presumed guilty, querulous,
soon-to-be-ruined ruminator (me),
and asks with
disdainful derisive decisiveness

is your first cuppa too hot darling?
has your uncommon sense of non-sense been burnt?

t'is true I reply,
I feel the burn!

for am I not sworn
to tell the whole heated truth
and nothing but?

my love for you is simply
a mathematical additive,
progression series

every new day I love you
is forever
a mighty mite more
than the prior,
a smudged smidge of a penciled line,
taller than the
higher higher notated
upon ancient yesterday's doorpost

ergo,
ip so factoid,
and therefore,
by definition

on some days I love you more than others
    •••


p.s. never have conversations like this in the presence of within-reach newspapers,
for they be
easy rolled and revised
into fearsome weaponry,
suitably for handy smacking"
two six sixteen
eight fifty one am
Wolf Feb 2013
His form a shadowy sketch, thin and gaunt
Leaning up against a wall.
At the right place, at the right time – as always,
A touch fancy, a bit dressed up
Ready to take on the world;
armed with the freedom to fail.

His occupation?
The consuming of miles of white paper,
His inspiration provided by
A lonely view off of Devil’s Highway
Where Pico blvd. meets the sea.

Seeking the inner root of expression
Through tall red wine bottles and nightly wanderings
In places beautiful yet dangerous,
Packed with life’s complex geometry
– the city breathes, the streets are alive.

Visualizing in delicate penciled lines and thick brush strokes
Vibration, sound and light manifest in brilliant colors,
Depth, shadow, color / the void – all merging together.
Pushing abstract boundaries;
Inter-dimensional windows
Through the intricate layering of transparencies.

Experience of self-discovery.
No mistakes, no traps, just childlike experiments.
Experiments and initiations;
A fusion of universal laws and ethereal dreams.
Kinetic value, composition,
Balance.

Creations – sealed in time like amber.
I did this for a creative writing class in Feb. of 2012.
brianna of space May 2017
You are an enigma -
Kind, generous, selfless,
But still a mystery I want to solve.
I scan your penned notes in the books I borrow -
You have literally given me your thoughts in the pages.
I add my own,
As if my penciled remarks could connect me to you,
But it isn’t enough.
There is still something about you I don’t know,
Something about you I don’t know but I think I can find,
I think I can find through this, searching.
The solution to every worldly problem
Can be found in a book -
Because asking is for the weak,
Discovery, for the stubborn.
My favorite note of hers so far is "narrative as a coping mechanism in a chaotic world," which seems appropriate.
Chani Goldstein Jan 2021
People leave shadows
of themselves
where ever they go,
where ever they've been
in your life.
Sometimes
it's a bad presence
you have to clean.
Sometimes
it's a good presence
you want to keep.
The good is pleasant
to treasure
where ever you go.
The bad is a bad
you need to sever
so you can go.
For some people
there's a lot of
happiness
for others
a lot of grief,
even between children
of the same family.
What you had
they'll want to ignore
so don't go about
measuring yourself
by that penciled
height chart on the door.
Never measure yourself
in anyway
by them,
because
all those sisters or brothers
you had
never woke up
in your skin.
mk Jun 2013
trigger warning*

as a child, i looked at myself, all i saw was thin, spindly limbs paler than a sheet of printer's paper and dull, monotonous feature slipping down into a pool of other mundane looking girls, all the same with their tiresome talk of boys and clothes; all with their vapid and closed minded gossip. i wondered if i would be dragged down in the same way. i didn't and wasn't able to fathom that i was no different from any of the other insipid adolescents. it's wearisome and rather heartbreaking for a child to conceive that he or she is not unique and it is assuredly more frustrating for a parent or another type of bystander to witness. they try on most occasions. to make it clear that they understand what the innocent is going through; obvious that they've discerned the child's deepest thoughts and yet... yet they do nothing. it is simply a part of life, a predicament everyone finds themselves out. it occurs in everyone's own childhood. a chapter of a story that will promptly be closed, as hastily and early as it was opened. and then you go on.

i was never the type of child to simply leave a chapter after it was finished, finding it profoundly hard to not bask in the event and stay there. i wasn't sure that i wanted to know what came next. even now, i bookmark pages and wrinkle their carefully smooth skin with folds and scribbled and 'why?'s penciled in on the margins. i'll be halfway through i book i've read a time before and i can't find where i left off among the multitude of meticulously placed dog ears. i suppose that that is what i have done with my childhood. i placed too many bookmarks too precisely, unable to just move on from that line or verse of pretty prose, painting itself onto the too-warm surface of my aching heart, where it stayed sheltered until i felt like bringing it out again.

needless to say, it was very hard for me to admit to myself that i was not a unique individual, no matter how much i tried, and when i had convinced myself, though wrongly convinced myself, a little piece of me froze rather violently. i continued my entire young life assuming and believing that everyone is the same, that you are no different from the girls whose words bite and rip and tear at you. it is repeated repeated repeated that we are all the same inside. and sometimes you understand it another way than what was intended. or maybe you are told flat out. it is to be at the peak of despair and cynicism to trust that you are not special and be content with it. some lucky beings are born and raised being told that there is no one else that could fill their shoes, but even then, i have very rarely heard of someone simply skipping over a chapter when they feel like it. and this way, you will fail to learn things that could help you or teach you throughout your life, as hollow and inconsequential as it is. if you are always told that you are one of a kind, it is going to hit so much harder when that niggling doubt takes over and suddenly. you are not.

but that is wrong as well. no matter what you have been informed, no matter what you have gleaned and observed from everything around you, your parents and guardians, your role models and friends, the internet and the media, you are unique. you are so ******* special and different and perfect in your own way. you are strong and there is no reason to blame yourself. you do not, have not, and never will deserve all of the hatred and accusation you establish towards yourself. and it's really hard. it's really really hard. but there is a way for someone as wonderful as you and i think you can find it.

-i would find it funny how easily i weave back in and out of such a state of insanity if it were not so dangerous.
er this was a diary entry i wrote the day before i attempted suicide last year. yep.
I do love Saturdays,
for crafting in mastery a Sunday
that's a master at breaking promises,

a S(hu)unday when she breaks her promises
I invariably break mine
and soon Sunday fades like a penciled line
leaving the Mon(strous)day to glare at you!

I do love Saturdays
with the prospect of a Sunday
with no prospect of ever keeping the commitments
and let the day speed by!

I do love Saturdays
the day I can freely lie
and realize why
I do need a Sunday!

I do love Saturdays
for we pair up well,

*commit all and fail!
onlylovepoetry Dec 2016
all her nails, freshly painted,
the smoothed shaved legs,
seasonally and saintly nick free,
the eyeliner,
A+ student penciled in,
eye shade applied with lightest of touch sensual,
threaded eyebrows, 
curvaceously straight,
streaks of red,
the appliqué upon her head,
parfume strategically dabbed in spots near where any
body's  lips might invade,

and yet,
not one primped place upon her
was safe!


all turned awry,
when knocked I
upon bedroom door,
bursting to read a poem freshly made,
the oven's writing warmth,
still faint discernible,
giving off the aroma of heated ink,
upon a skin-smooth page,
a bakery smell irresistible

presented her with my best,
a man's rawest essence
refined, honed, then, honored, favored by her
she, overcome!
weeping pleasure at the pleasuring
of my words so gentling,
all by my soft speaking tongue applied,
that  engendered this response

she,
in a slow pouring, half turning,
presented me with an act of counter-balancing,
no embrace, no equality of caressing,
nonetheless,
a weighty visible estimation of
her physical esteem and appreciation

presented me a bill for repair,
a body's bodyshop estimate,
undoing the undoing damage done,
by my careless, thoughtless,
ecstatic reading of
only love poetry

she added a weary, seasonal, lyrical
claus(e) of some folk familiarity,
by way of apology

*"that's what you get for loving me"
any message you send can and will be turned into a poem

for the one who messaged me.

"That's what you get for loving me
That's what you get for loving me
Everything we had is gone, you can see
That's what you get for loving me…"
JC Lucas Feb 2014
It’s not a question of
who
but a question of
where
I am.

I am the median between the street and the sidewalk
I am the threshold of every waiting room
I am the space between spaces
I am shadows looming
and fumes pooling above puddles
of spilt kerosene

neither seen
nor heard,
but felt
in the vignette of a dated photograph
the border between
fine
penciled lines

I am the mist after rain
I am scars
and streaks where tears have stained the shells
of crustacean people
I am crushing hangovers
and embers glowing

Who am I?

I am the
    spaces
       between
spaces

Stairwells and parking lots
unmarked graves
        condensation on a whispered word
     floating up into
     frigid twilight

          under an off-white
half-
                               moon.
Ashley R Prince Sep 2012
I'll throw up if I don't write this poem.
I'll lose my keys again over and over
until I throw up some more.
If there's anything left, you can have it,
but right now if I don't tell someone
about the 6 foot 5 woman with the
blue penciled eyebrows my brother
saw at work today, I'll toss my cookies
I really will.
I I I I I I I I, she bellowed.
me, she answered back.
Selfish *****, I repeat
focus on glasses,
focus on anyone but yourself,
Mrs. Maneatin' Butler.
Fuji Bear Apr 2014
Deaths are like tally marks on your mind.
They are charcoal black tick marks
that build on your subconscious,
never fading to scars.
Some are merely penciled in,
like the death of an aunt you never knew.
However the death of someone close cuts deep into you;
a constantly fresh wound.
Never scarring, never healing, it only festers.
But watching someone die burns a dark wound into your brain,
a permanent scorched mark,
the insignia of a life taken forever,
branded onto your thoughts.
We can never remove our tallies and
they only build over time,
our mind growing darker from past sufferings.
But when all that remains is what caused it in the beginning: death.
you become just another tally on those you loved.
I uploaded this poem on behalf of a friend who wrote it.
All credit to them.  (There were minor adjustments)
Phil Lindsey Apr 2015
A poet, an artist, (with little restraint)
Penciled words on his canvas, saw no use for paint,
Crafted words into pictures; Visions out loud.
Of most of his work, was exceedingly proud.
Unfettered, unbounded, his huge canvas at wait
He brandished his pencil and began to create.
Desiring a masterpiece, appealing to all
Pride prompted his excess, preceded his fall
Trapped in a vortex, surrounded by words,
Shared them with others to see if they heard.

The public was skeptic, and reflected the same
His confidence shattered; His ability shamed
He had written with passion, as if possessed
But the silence of critics left him redressed.
“Who is it says everyone cannot be pleased?
Off with their heads!  Get them down on their knees!”
He drew a sharp sword, surrendered a laugh,
Sliced his canvas to shreds, cut his pencil in half.
“I’ve heard your silence, the first version *****”
Sharpened his pencil, wrote ‘Surrounded Redux. ’

PwL 4/20/15
Thank you Arlo, Joe, Puds and LittleFreeBird for liking the original!  :-)  But even my girlfriend said it "rambled".   think I'll post the Haiku and the Limerick separately and see what  happens!
I do really like writing, so thank you ALL who read my poems!  I love the HP group!!
Nat Lipstadt Aug 4
My First Anniversary…
(August 3, 2024)

This title, this poem, a wholly unexpected,
never thinking this path,  
this particular tango existential
would/was needed,
to be added to
my dance card

an early exit, a poem unplanned,
second chance was not a poem in my long
list of titles awaiting a turn to be written

a year ago,
they sent me to the surgeon,
who had prepared, with no hesitancy declared,
informed that we needed to start
all over again,
my poor heart
was waxing and waning,
and I was currently stuck on
the dark side of the moon,
with no jitney making stops theron

by the way,
the accumulation of damage had attained
a level where heart was
nearly exhausted,
( I believe he mentioned 98%)
that attention must be made,
how about
tomorrow we asked,
he laughed no can do,
but the day after would be ok,
and was I an earlier riser,
a coveted 600am slot available,
my name could be penciled in…

One tear ago, 
 wheeled me in, cracking jokes,
thinking what’s the big deal,
laughing hardest
was me,
for my motto was always leave them
(oops, poor choice of words) laughing…
fear was not in my lexicon, nor in my heart,
nor was
a ferry cross the
Rubicon

so many changes, so many poems 365 days later,
the life marked by many a Cain scar,
the big one, a pencil thin ****  hesty reminder,
plus assorted scars scattershot all over, where the “borrowed” veins and arteries, like pieces of twine, mighty fine,
(no, I never slashed a wrist, though it looks like it)
moved to different places,
repurposed, for I was now a used car
but with an extended warranty…

do not think on it much, but as markers come and go,
you think:

oh! I’ll never forget this trip, event, celebration,
and a week later your mind has nearly deleted it from the
critical events memory synapses, just another
day in the blah blah blasphemy
of a insignificant man’s unremarkable life…

but when I shower, the scars rise to the surface,
all over my body’s map, they come out shouting,
“look what I did for you,” from places weird,
they tingle, insuring my never ending surprise,
at that Olympic trial,
they raced, earning a piece & place
on my gold, overall medley team medaling,
or meddling
(when I tease them…)

so, let us bring this to a close, one man’s life,
ain’t making much a difference to most everybody else,
but the question that needyfor asking,
have you changed, how have you changed?

Less than you think, still write you poems with head and heart,
with humor and wit, sweet revelations, reverent with feeling, somehow a
bit original, leaving you laughing,
or maybe even better, smiling…

my mistakes all shared, and my burdens, some shared,
some too dark to be ever revealed, and I’m guessing I’m pretty
((much😉))
the same as I was before, older, not much wiser,

but these days, I surprise myself, for I sit outside
overlooking the wide waters surrounding,
embrace the sun at its earliest morn appearance,
love me the whipping snap of the
sound of great continuous wind gusts,
all the while surveying the world,
while winds are flowing all over me
like vibrant caresses, excavating my creases,
the ancient and recent
lineage
upon my face,
and sit in utter peace
thinking about everything,
and never tire,
staying for longer than a man has a right to do nothing
but to
reassess,
evaluate,
judge,
convey…
and
always
refresh
and confront
today’s

tally…
music
“Blue” by Joni Mitchell
“Older” sung by Ben Platt
Audrey Howitt Oct 2011
Penciled moments
Brief
Carved out of the time between
Ancillary shadows of forgotten emotions
Etched in the marks on the score before me
Rendered helpless
I am pinned by the eye of the composer.
Who decides what emotion creeps now beneath this line?
Conductor
Composer
Singer?
Disparate thoughts.
Where is the common ground?




Copyright/All rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2011
Yael Zivan Feb 2015
If time is a tube,
my life is a spiral,
A snail shell,
Sea creature,
Peculiar and Viral

and I work hard and move fast and time gets quicker,
slicker, with the blink of an eye and the tapping of a finger.

The day off that i was supposed to have
but you cancelled it out
and penciled in other plans.

My time is meaningless, it belongs to someone else, but the faster i go, the smaller it gets, the inside out feeling,
of living without rest.

Time continues without me, i know this is true
yet the fact that I'm lonesome doesn't account for the glue,
that keeps me to my shoes and my shoes to the ground
and the world that keeps turning, with its ups and its downs.

But it's getting smaller, not the world but my life,

horizons are shrinking, cut away with my knife.
That cuts cake for my customer, and slices my bread,
till one day it cuts me to my bones till its said;

She sleeps with the fishes,
he muttered that to a girl
So the poem made sense, but all in a whirl
my poem is splotchy and dusty with time,

that keeps shrinking and shrinking,
until the last rhyme.

— The End —