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Mary Gay Kearns Oct 2018
The insects and wild flowers
Follow the banks of ‘The Wandle’
Allowing what is hidden and not heard
Behind posted iron railings
To be noted, found on a map, imagined
Its very name conjures up the journey
Drawing one into its currents and flows
A place of beauty where time seems slow
Rippling the edges of thought, living as a space,
Exploration, given  by inclusion and exclusion
Forever to ‘wandle along’ under the sky
Between the gaps in the real
And what finds itself from what
Came before in experience and words.

Love Mary x
The River Wandle is the largest river of the south southwest sector of London, England. Its name is thought to derive from the community around its mouth, Wandsworth. About 9 miles long, it passes through the London Boroughs of Croydon, Sutton, Merton, and Wandsworth to join the River Thames on the Tideway..
Mouth: River Thames
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
Wistful tears melt down my cheeks.
Nostalgic of our time together.
I kept myself together for a year, and now without the pitiful distractions, I have to look at myself, alone.
Debilitating heartache
Bleakening one’s self.
Pining to both relive and forget the past.
Everything is still so crystal clear,
so picturesque in nature.
The smells, the sights, the feelings.
How could I have let it slip away from me like that?
Did he ever speak of me?
Ever talk about me?
Or did he just forget the joyous days we spent together under the heat of moment’s madness?
Am I the only one homesick for not my house, but for the person that broke me?
My lip twitches as sentimental recollections start to overflow and spill, creating a puddle of emptiness, longing, and heartbreak.
Watching the clock tick down seconds I've wasted
waiting for you.
GreenTrees May 2015
Love with its picturesque mountain peaks
one finds oneself opening their hearts to the unending sky of dreams
Down to its deep fertile valleys
where we worked the soil with hardened hands
and perseverance of heart.
At the land's edges where waves of emotion lap against its jagged shores
we find tranquility in the sound of its crashing waves.
In the high deserts where life still abounds and its fragile existence yields to the windswept nature of chance.
In its open fields where our desires roam care free
to it’s densely wooded areas where we frolic in the beauty of its simplicity.
In its grandness we are but the migratory animals who seek it's bounty from season to season.
From it we are born and die but the land remains to remind us that love endures and it's beauty exists to teach us to adapt to all of its wondrous and various forms.


Copyright Karl v. 2015
Gulishta Dec 2018
Black clouds and Pouring rain at midnight.
Blue moon and the empty bed by your side.
Forming music and hypnotic
lullabies.
Essence and memories of mesmerising eyes.
A perfect scenery and a haunting
Heart strike.
The only thing thats missing is
The personal heat source of mine.
Samuel Hoffmann Jul 2018
I'm just a ******* facade;
It's all just ******* facades.

It's just one ******* sheet of plywood,
painted all picturesque,
with smiles and hobbies and future
that's all.
And if you look behind it,
if you ever care enough,
to look through the painted windows,
or turn the drawn handle
on the brown scribbled door
you'd see a note.
All I am is a note.

Just one singular piece of paper,
with one crayon written line:

"Fooled you."
Okay, so I have been trying to be more positive as of lately but this is kinda a step backwards. But its also a relatively old poem, written maybe 6 months back. Enjoy.
Ek Oct 2018
Sprinkling crystals dipped in glass
ray of prisms breeze my eye
sunshine rhythms hide in grass
floating sugar on the pie

Neon lights pass to scroll
while purple midnight breathes
jacket goosebumps stockings stole
four-wheeled lion grumbly seethes

Honey nectar slumbers my eyes
whitewashed lace tangle my face
gentle buzzings of pastel sky
as cotton candy sank with grace

Open heart box standing in the rain
cries diamonds for to call her name
the poetry train caught riding to Spain
set carnival dewdrops on red flames
Grace May 2017
Nimble fingers
Across shoulder blades
Strumming collarbones
The sweetest sound
To touch your ears

Lips made to stitch
Where bumps and bruises
Decorate
Peach thin skin

I bet your body could blush
A deep sunset red
Blanketing my favorite skyline
So picturesque
Even Picasso would hold his breath
Shofi Ahmed Mar 21
Spring upon the rose
live on the flow.
Be wrapped in the fragrance
touch it not.
Let it be without a form
even in the invisible dark
shows up the moon.
And believe it or not
that all perfect sweet spot
planet paradise could be the next stop.
Like the flower thins out into the fragrance
ah, these finest wings know no bound.

The butterfly paradise slips out is on the fly
wafts into the enduring scent of a paint so bold.
Lo, on its picturesque wings it has all the eyeballs
where does it reach out to no one knows.
It's on the other side of the pool
only the Queen Fathima knows that sweet spot!

No one tolerates any pause is deadly on this route
here death is unknown but none is destined to gain a foot!
It’s a Mount Sinai scenario no eyeball
can withstand the dazzling beauty enduring long.
Yet it’s immaculately spotless every soul shines out all in all
that shuffles on these secret alleyways of God!

Pans out to the horizontal spread
and dips into the depth.
Flower in the fire, the sea in a drop of water
Hewn beauty Fathima is the far cry
water nymph amidst the mesmerised burnt-flock.
The resident handsome swan in heaven
on the constantly flowing riverfront  
keeping it on its toe!
ryn Aug 2014
Tired eyes awaken and be at the ready...
For today has come with all of yesterday's debris.
Tired eyes you try but can't successfully conceal.
What the beating heart is dying to reveal.

Tired eyes glaze like you can't take anymore.
Filled to the brim; these sullen windows to my core.
Tired eyes give tears like you do effortlessly.
You seem so lifeless save for the drops you carry.

Tired eyes you say so much but yet the words are unspoken.
I know you quietly wish for a miracle to happen.
Tired eyes you reach but your arms are broken.
I know you scream out silently; all that's been forgotten.

Tired eyes why are you wide open but still you do not see...
See the sun rising, revealing all your wants splendidly.
Tired eyes I know you are but only waiting.
For the picturesque view of your heart's secret painting.

Tired eyes it's time and it's the end of a work day.
Don't anticipate tomorrow's load; just rest as I lay.
Tired eyes I am aware of sweet solace that you truly seek.
Tired eyes rest now so that tomorrow you might speak...
avalon Aug 2017
i look at all of these perilously perfect poems and i want to SCREAM
life, your life, mine is not a dream this is not a picturesque reality
please---can we try for a bit of authenticity? c'mon i mean
we all love roses and the sunset gleam but your life isn't
an oil painting (or a tv screen) so can somebody sit down
and write a few lines about the dull gray sky or how her eyes
looked less like a forest and more like a swamp (with flies)?
might add more to this one
The Arabian Sea
A sprightly sight to behold
The cascading Sunbeams veil the sea in a platinum shimmer
The gusty wind blows
Sparkling diamonds roll up on the ocean waves
The golden Sun unravels the beauty of the bejewelled Sea

The picturesque Mumbai Skyline  
Gloriously, rises up in the evening Sky

The mellowed Sun ,beauteous as an orange Rose
Leisurely dips down at the horizon
The Sky cools down to Prussian blue
The stars glimmer across the sky in the dim lights
It's showtime

Bedazzled
I quietly sit and watch the magical scenes unfold
Thank you all for your support here.

It's IPL (Cricket) time and my sons were extremely happy to meet a few world class cricketers from across the world and country .
Couple of teams stayed in the same hotel as ours.

Had been on a small vacation with family!!
We ambled the streets of Harare
Meandering aimlessly
Fleeting past wide-eyes scanning us enviously
Hand in hand we walked into the restaurant
Leisurely on Second Street
Our hunger awakened
Our appetites heightened
At almost closing time
With no one in overtime mode
A signal that here we could only dine on another day


Joina City was our next stop
Up the lift right to the top
'Closed' it read at the coffee shop
Into the nearest chair I went flop!
Though hungry, we gabbed non-stop
By and by we regarded the clock
It chimed 8 o'clock
And sadly, it was time to go home

Busy and noisy
Were the streets of Harare
Jabbering crowds, kombis hooting
Hawkers, vendors or is it hustlers now -
Calling for buyers or just huddled to pass time
No chill in Harare
Picturesque like a dream
Surreal…
Hand in hand we dawdled
In despair for a hot meal

In the shimmering distance
Like a mirage in the desert
The neon lights read
'Creamy Inn'
Something to calm our rambling bellies
At last…
Nippy evening air hit our souls
'Ice-cream tastes better at night'
I said
'I can't believe I'm having ice-cream'
He said
We frolicked
Hand in hand we danced past faces painted with adoration
'What a handsome lover!'
They probably thought:
My delectable younger brother
Wrote this after one of my visits to Harare, Zimbabwe in 2017.
The seas flaming in waves spree
Rolling out rainbows in picturesque
On the seas billows in emerald
As beauty cascading on golden Mountains in waterfall of  Glory
In a 7-karat gold ethereal splendour!
Blue Orchid Aug 2018
We had a color you and I.
You were a tantalizing white, vibrant yet subtle. You had the power to magnify everything because of that silent manifestation you comprise when a drop of any other shade was splattered on you, making it incredibly vivid. You were what poets used as muse for there was nothing purer than the flawless white of that glorious spirit yet you were neither dumbfounded nor disappointed by it.


I was a disaster-prone black, ill-fated yet beautiful. I made the light seem brighter, more picturesque; a comparison for better accomplishment. I came out at night to walk the terrors of the hours of darkness, untouched because of this gloomy soul. I was what the holly book prohibits to touch, to indulge all sensations because to drink from me was to imbibe a gallon of sin.


Sadly, beauty and unpleasant have a curious way of finding each other. I don’t remember which of us found the other first; if it was I who saw you shine from miles away or if it was you who found me huddled in a corner.


We were gods you and I. we created a love that transversed worlds. We shamed Orpheus and Eurydice. We disgraced Torin and Keelycael. There was nothing more powerful than the passion we twisted and at the same time nothing was more potent. We came from different places, you from the havens and I from the shallow depths of hell; and everything we made became a freak of nature.   


 We created the color gray.


We created the color gray from our undefeated essences. We made an unremarkable and unloved color from our insurmountable selves for the reason that we were too prideful to give up each other and at the same time ourselves. We made an abhorred thing because we were never meant for each other.


I realized when I saw you walk away, that last dreadful night, the white in you was somewhat fazed and I looked in the mirror that same night to see the darkness in me leaking. There was a little bit of gray in both of us. That was when I realized we stole pieces of each other.


Yes, my love, we made a color gray.
atlas voyager Nov 2018
there we were, late for takeoff
and too early for landing.
all bruises and tears,
and ringing in the ears.

there we were, barely standing.
we were clinically, morbidly,
gloriously grotesque,
and **** picturesque,
nonetheless.
heart is heavy today
laurynas-dyma Apr 10
picturesque drawing
of our future
in your eyes
whilst you gaze
into mine.

and it's blurry
and that's exciting,
what it beholds
is unknown.

we guess and imagine
it's colours, size
and the frame.

open to our
interpretation.
ryn Jul 2014
A thousand things that run amok in my mind
Issues of present time that seem unkind
But if closely examined, this whirlwind of thoughts
Glimpses of rainbows, unicorns and gold-filled pots

Embedded within this maelstrom of uncertainty
Promise of niceties, of peace and serenity
Picturesque views of limitless artistry
Bring forth such joy and love and tranquility

Like a book of thoughts offering surrealistic images
A barrage of scenarios as I flip through the pages
Images that spoke of untold alternate endings
That is borne out of the heart's delicate beginnings

Engulfed in a blissful torrent of emotions
Caught submissive, in the riptide of affection
Frame by frame I could play, pause and repeat
Document joy and sadness, victory and defeat

Stories told that could happen in another plane
Series of eventual outcomes that I wish to gain
Wondering the things each other is doing
What is seen and what is heard, in this world you're living

Possibility of walking beside hand in hand
Dancing close, eyes in lock in a strange foreign land
Drive up into town to watch a romantic show
Sharing a milkshake or playing in the snow

Standing at your doorstep, an unannounced surprise
Bearing sunflowers and chocolates, for my beautiful prize
Running through a field, in love with frenzied craze
Lying on a mat, eyes locked in a deep, loving gaze

Two kissing silhouettes with a sunset backdrop
A scene, frozen in time that I don't want to stop
Marooned on an island, all deserted and bare
We bask in the sun and at the stars we stare

Sitting across of each other so close
In a cafe, whispering love and jousting toes
Being in love and intimate in a hot steamy shower
Sharing a Parisian landscape atop a well renowned tower

Snuggling close, sighing in the arms of my lover
Kissing through the night letting the heart take over
Cupping your cheeks, tasting the lips so sweet
Wake up sweet darling, good morning I would greet

Ferry you to work, plant a kiss that'll melt your knees
Be at the bay, together we look out into the seas
Talk on the phone and missing you right after
Texting endlessly, professing eternal love for each other

Such thoughts are brought by dreams and wishful thinking
Ideals that me give hope even when my boat is sinking
But I'll never ever stop wishing it'll all come true
Because my dreams were conjured for it was meant that I find you
Sun light streams through the picturesque windows
   Cut to streaks through white cloth curtains
Birds chirp, cows graze, horses nay
   Fresh cut grass surfs the wind
Flowers bloom and fill the senses
   Breakfast feast a organised chaos
Coffee, tea and toast
   Stained jeans, warm shirts, big boots
Goodmorning
   Country kitchen.
Trying to capture a morning in my house the way I remember it when I was growing up.
The peacocks dance and trees sway to the sweet songs of the birds that playfully fly away,
The woods speckled with the golden,summer blooms.
The fresh green carpet takes away the glooms.
Reminiscing in the beauty of the clear water streams ,
Nature  is at play creating picturesque dreams.

Sweet Nector on the dew dropped poppies,
Buzz of the bees and the charm of the humming birds nesting in style .
Oh! Nature is at play all the while.

Sunray's penetrating through dark clouds,
Colourful little birdies ,chirpy , synchronised , repetative and aloud.
Crispy mornings under clear blue skies , Nature is at play as the time flies.

Basking in the beauty of God's creations, ls a life full of positive aspirations ,
Lo ! behold ! Do we notice the nature's beauty , as we go on in life performing our duty ?
Take a pause !
While you remember your purpose and cause.
Breathe in the fresh air ,
Admire the surroundings,
Sit back ,Relax and smile ,
As nature is at play all the while .
© Mrunalini .D. Nimbalkar
Nature #beauty #environment #birds#play .15.1.2019
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
the irises have passed,
their existence, entirety,
a three week, 21 day, gun salute,
to which I was witness to but four

the Kabbalist among us says Kaddish,
and a-Buddhist so-be-it,
celebrating the brevity cycle
of natural things,
and that death makes room for more

**** yelloe'd and black now,
these irises are now
misfits on a breezy, dancing summer lawn

today, shriveled and misshapen,
they compare and contrast
on a normative, glorious,
June Sunday that
picturesque presents
the living and the deceased,
side by side

all comrades,
all summer sundries
on a dancing grass blanket
half-graveyard battlefield, half-heaven

oft I have writ of the beach detritus,
the shells, the sun burnt *****,
a recycled funeral rectory where
no one utters prayers for the
no longer alive historical artifacts

what has this to do
with that human construct,
artifice of memory,
a string on the finger
of the mind,
a pausation, a man-made creation
to momentarily recall another of nature's cycle -
yours

Have children
Am a father
Had a father in my youthful days

this is a boy scout qualification medal,
marker of me as Expert,
permitting me  to commentary
with gravitas
having becoming a grandfather,
I enjoy superstar freedom
to opine inanely on such matters

of my father have I writ,
of my sons, those remain unseen,

likely neither will mark these day
with a telephone call
or an all-I-got-was-this-lousy-t shirt
gift of gall

I say that's ok for what else is there,
certainly not an unthinking, dismissive
whatever

it saddens me some for sure,
but it makes judge myself as human being
on a gradation of one to none

but more than this internal reflection,
I ponder this hallmark'd day,
as life cycle point notarized,
in verse and rhyme,
for that is what I do best

for before,
many father's day in the priory passed,
most unrecallable,
just another ceremonial checkmark,
habitually acquitted,
but somewhere in a drawer of shirts,
in a home I store stuff in,
I do believe, there are some cards
from decades past, that prove nothing,
other than life goes on,
and we best capture
what we can, as best we can...
with small, objet d'art of sorts

Perhaps one will call after all...
in any event,
to honor the dead,
to mark the existing,
the bannered ship's bell rung,
its sonorous sound,
notable and onerous,
fades as well

but man and animal,
plant and tree,
a living fraternal sorority,
who all look over my shoulder
as I compose on
that chair you see

they know,
for whom the bell tolls this day,
and why as well,
as we all pause and contemplate
where we are on this day,
on our own overlapping cycles
avalon Apr 2018
i stopped thinking about big things a long time ago. i can't tell if i'm any healthier or cooler or if the apathy has improved my complexion. i feel lost, though. lost like a minnow in the wrong body of water, lost like i should be asking "why" instead of "where," like maybe the world is spinning like a top and i'm the fleck of dust it's spinning on. i feel like maybe the security is getting to me, like it's a trap, like maybe everything they told me i was looking for was a lie, was a gold-painted idol placed in my hands when i reached for the sky. the sky doesn't show itself to me anymore and i can't figure out why, can't decipher the patches in my ceiling---why are there patches? if this was supposed to be picturesque where are the cameras?

why do i feel just as incomplete as i did before?
Dark Fjord Dec 2016
I'm going to eat those... words

when living-to-eat them
meant we were dying inside, to them,
as was our famous last ones

     -inside
whose true colors did show everyone
how we could climb very fast to reach them
every day I failed,
I became very hard to have found them;

I spent my last days, choking
just because my mind was shot
drinking-in all the picturesque views
or the abyss of your last cutting remarks;

and because I had nothing better to do
and buying more words
was just to buy you;

and the dictionary was your favorite book
   we were surrounding ourselves, with rebuttles
of your anchor's chair
pointing to the shocking tele-promter, telling us how to tell the news
   they viewed our faces upon the break up
and leaving the audience to decide how it happened;

so by just saying what's the point saying, ... to love
to be living another day with or without you
dying alone, without a word
is my every night.

and
nothing is ever funnier than
whatever words you chose
to be... just as or like your last girlfriend.
pst, get the app
Tommy Randell Dec 2016
So, sat in a field drawing on a feeling of space
Until it’s time for the hordes of tourists to force me back
To the corridors of earth and daub called house
Where cobalt is a rhyme for orange and the things on the wall
Are windows onto embarrassment
Sometimes called 'An Artist’s Work' or 'The Picture Zoo!'

So, sat in the field, though it is still Summer
And I may as well invent pictures from words
As gravity from apples, believing the boat coming through the piers
Hugging the inside line, has Indigo from the Indies
Perspectives from the latitudes - being that distance and space
Are important - As Sir Isaac Newton told us why!

So, now throwing the horizon around, in theory
And on paper testing out such geometries and rhymes
As tourists leave room for in a field beside the sea
Until suddenly the boredom of not caring for it all kicks in
And the Black Hole ******* and stretching out my brain these years
Collapses into Light leaving something picturesque, an aesthetic?

So, the triangle, the circle, and the square become fancies
Of adjectives, nouns, and verbs, at once a metaphor of what I mean
And then a simple sketch of a moment, an impression
That time is passing and the field is where a record of it is made
That a poem of words becomes an artifice of chicanery
An intaglio where the space between the words is what matters!


Tommy Randell - 10th December 2016
Are we artists or poets? Things made by men are an artifice, a deception of reality. The sentences uttered, just so. An Art-Poem then ...
Wrapped in a cloud, I see everything
Below are hard workers, children at play, everyone going about their day
At my side, love, sunshine,
And as if at the perfect time,
Birds.
Flowing, blending with the sky and other clouds
Swooping, catching flies before they reach the crowds
It's a city.
The sun moves more naturally, taking me with
A cabin on a country side.
Trees lining the meadows in which we reside
The air, so sweet and fresh
The sun radiating and carrying droplets of life to the plants around
Night falls, the sun slowly touches down in the mountains, and turns into a goddess
The most picturesque lovely woman I ever laid eyes on,
Now joins me in the plush bed
Untill the next day, to venture out again.
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