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King Panda Feb 2016
I was flying home from Denver
and the man next to me ordered 3 double vodkas
slipping the stewardess a hundred bucks
by the end of the flight he was asking me
to come home with him
he had a sheepskin bed throw
that would keep us perfectly warm
this chill winter night
I refused
called him a drunk freak
and giggled when he stumbled down the escalator
and split a **** in his forehead
that cracked like
like Easter
smothered in chocolate frosting
Nat Lipstadt Mar 24
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~


having already deduced that:

“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^

the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem  

I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral

no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next

has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
spontaneously born at 7:57am on
Sunday, March 24, 2019
^ https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3021583/being-a-poet-is-not-planned/

read her poems. https://hellopoetry.com/Zig1/
elle jaxsun Jul 2018
to be honest with you,
i didn't plan on making it this far.

i didn't plan anything at all.

and i'm always baffled by my lack of motivation,
but i forget i've already made my biggest accomplishment by

being here today.
06102018
revised: 11112018
Lilly frost Oct 2017
If only things were as easy as 1,2,3
A,B,C
Like elementary
Arithmetic and spelling
Simple science
Gym was always stunning
Recess was revered
The swings were sacred
Writing on the jungle gym
Laughing
Running off with friends to play
Being enchanted by the smell of coffee and trees
Magic every second you breathe
Simply because you were somewhere you weren't supposed to be
Close your eyes
Now what do you see?
Darkness?
Dots of color?
Phantoms of light?
Remember when you saw dragons
Wizards
Whole worlds enchanting
When you walked people said it seemed like you were dancing
Remember when you were happy?
There was no worry about what to do
What are you going to be?
You had your whole life
Figure out what to do
Well what now?
What's your plan?
Too bad
Too late
It's not elementary
None of your dreams can come true
You're completely *******
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
jas Jun 17
this narrative has had its wear and tear
down to the last page that slips effortlessly off the book
pulling back strings to fit the ending
live action marionette

indulging in countless ways to flee
how could I ever?
eyes like a hawk vigourously watching over me
planning to escape is mind altering

hearts injecting blood a million miles per second
hold my breath as the goosebumps trickle under my spine
fingers twitching with rage
it's time to break out of this cage

sweat seeps off my face
leaving a line of dirt
momentarily, battle scars

I knew this day would come
just sooner than expected
but what did I expect?

existing, just barely
imprisoned in this jest of reality
caught between the societies realm of a fantasy
or breaking the barriers and taking a leap

numerous routes that divide into alternating states
yet the predominant remains
intimidation haunts me
crowding my thoughts

I always thought hell existed deep in my mentality
these dark memories combating to come to the surface
until one day I blinked and realized
hell is neighboring me

hell is leisures from the past that overstays their welcome
hell is energy deteriorating in souls you've attached to
hell is being starved of communication
hell is the strings penetrating your every move
hell is receiving no feedback from the energy you put out
hell is taking your last breath every day just to wake up to the same old *******
hell is repeating "go f### yourself", and its never going to stop

left for dead
in dire need of an escape
this is me sending a signal
sos, ... save me

planning this scheme for too long takes a toll on my soul
confusing reality with a dream
is this authentic or a figment of my imagination
am I hallucinating?

waited ages for an escape
overwhelmed over things I have no command over
will this justify the end?
and leave no cliffhangers to deal with repercussions
that is my chaotic life

an arrogant scenario to arise from
L May 2018
I wrote you something. Im so angry. No idea why. The paint peels, the fruit rot, and I am still here. The world spins, the birds chirp, and I am still here. And people ***** and people moan, and they run and they laugh and they cry and they sing and they mourn and they **** and they die. And I am still here. sitting in the dark lit only by candlelight writing in a tiny notebook. writing about how I feel. And I wasnt planning on writing a poem.
sometimes i still feel like a teenager. and i have no idea why
PC classic Mar 2017
Love arrives red then turns grey
black and blue.
Once, a handwriting misconstrued
Now, our torment arrives astride wireless wavelengths
Once, a young man dreamt of his future
in the 80's
and later I grow up to become just like my father

"We are circled dates on yellowing calendars" said.......someone
"No we are pages of an old diary"
said another.......someone?
"Pages with the top right corner folded" said he or she correcting himself or herself.

Yes. We are that.



I am your soft hand on my face
You are my neuroses split 50-50
We were 18 and  we were talking on the phone at 11 pm on a
School night
planning to disappear
arm in arm into a silvery dream...........


and Sometimes you get all that you wanted
and then it's too much

and I don't know why



"how was your day?"
"did you ever get through college?"
"I have been busy since a while"
Left Foot Poet May 2015
~

spontaneous men,

they say, are hard to find,
but me,
not in 100% agree
men-t
~
we, the early risers,
i.e. before she bestirs,

eyes still closed we shave,
with magic mouth wash green,
breathe dragon flames pepper-minty

go deep into planning-surprise mode,
so soon to be proving
ourselves in plenty
possession of

spontaneity

which, shockingly is just
the way she likes it...

~


P.S. Oh, what webs we weave when first we need
to get
laid...
Tea Dec 2013
He is that high, dazed and alive
When you spend hours stealing
Glimpses at the stars
Like keys wrapped around a promise
To free you from these bars
Limitations placed so certainly
On top of you on top of me
I seek my way out
Like a star gazer seeks understanding
I’m planning on playing my hand just right
Putting you next to me
King of hearts at my side
Or maybe you are a joker,
Either way put on your poker face
We have life and space, set no pace
Like untimed steps under
A fall to far

Sing to me a jazzy song
From a time that’s far,
Dance with me
Dance along, move your feet
Make no promise you can’t keep
Just feel it
It’s like freedom but on fire
Like trust without certainty
Acrobat without a wire
Like letting go
A grand release
Like fearlessness
A found voice to speak
Passions pushed blood to cheek
Blushing past shades of pink
Pull you in, close to me
Fearless in you and me
Just fearless
Dennis Willis Oct 21
Blundering in some direction
is scheduled for tomorrow
whether i admit now
my complete huh-ness
not to mention duh-ness
an' enlightening wuh-ness
or not these prime skills
will gracefully guide
my lurching about panic'd
smiling folly of a poem/day
walking a confused beat
that dubiously ends here
Amanda Noel Jun 29
Day after day,
it's the same ol' thing.
Oh to be a bird,
to fly and sing.
Not stuck here,
feasting on grass,
I wish to zip through the clouds,
and watch ground dwellers pass.

Night after night,
to the breeze I'm bound.
Oh to be a cow,
feet on the ground.
Not stuck here,
Planning pursuits,
I wish to roam through the fields,
And sleep tranquil on tree roots.
The Grass is greener in the sky.
The cow thought about being the birds seen flying in the sky. The owl wished to be more grounded.
Jasmine Aug 2017
I am the shadow of trayvon martin
Lying on the ground just as he did
I'm black just as he was
I wasn't planning to die that day either
I wasn't threatning nobody either
that day
The gunshots echoed
just as loud
when I was shot down as Mike Brown
yet his name echoes through the streets years later still
mine followed me to the grave
They don't care about me it seems
If I cried "what about me"
Who would ever see?
because my hashtag has even been drowned so deep in the depths of R.I.P's that I can't barely breathe anymore
When we think black brutality
Why do the names of trayvon
Mike
Tamir
Sandra
Rush to our heads just as fast as blood once rushed to theirs?
Does my black life, too, matter?
I can't blame you
That there have been so many deaths due to oppression and police brutality that they all seem to sound the same
No matter how loud we scream Black lives matter
We will never be seen as the living
But the potentially dead
We cry for justice to a system that's no longer built to accept us
A president that tries to forget us
A black voice will always be too loud to a world who never intended on listening
Who am I?
Besides a hashtag and a t-shirt with my face on it?
A black lives matter sign and a melanin fist?
A statistic?
I am black excellence
Regardless of how much sin you may see in my kin
A piece from the perspective of Black oppression victims unheard
ottaross Aug 2015
When a rain-storm surprised the city
Passers-by looked down with pity
At a large group of nutters
Inspecting the gutters
An unfortunate planning committee.

They decided today was good timing
Below-streets they soon were climbing
Where the gutters connect
To the sewers they checked
And all got a very good sliming.
Who can resist a little limerick action?
These are not,  "possibilities,"
decisions are already made.
You do not live in a democracy.
War is coming; Iran and Syria.

Nuclear Supremacy is not an,
"ideal," or notion, it is a fact.
They are stating a fact.
Not opinion, -they intend to do it.

I used To think that if you readE,
read enough, studied, you'D see?
Brighter minds would stop it!
"Fool;" those minds are planning it!

Policy Papers are not policy at all,
they are cushions, a softening pillory.
Designed to lay a foundation.
Where you play sucker for war.

N.W.A
-New World Apocalypse-
w m Jul 2016
4
You have no right to dry my tears if you are not planning to put a smile on my face again
Nat Lipstadt Feb 27
being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

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

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

was he thinking?

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

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

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

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

knowing well and full
now

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


~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
palladia May 2014
[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]

(Winter-export), the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling now, spine-shiver-esque, but we do it nonetheless, because, we’re together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears in pith, irradiance, I breathe again, deeply. (Thick lips; quick still-hunt.) I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised you I’d throw back. You, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, lasping onto crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice, over the thought of losing you. (Glimmering isle); my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm is chthonically, sent. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of your heights. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. (Parsecs quaking.) You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me…  Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping me, suffocating in abyssal warmth-ribbons: without you. Alone on the ecliptic. In the spring-sinking, you order me an argent-laden sword: to remind me of you. I know you still appear, a guardian behind the sun, but until you fling the tiny ice-hot rocks at the zenith (freighting gemstones), I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you slip from night to day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.

[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]
KiraLili Apr 2016
A life spent
Planning all...
Notepads
And daily reminders
Full calendars
Clocks to punch
Projects to finish
Details analyzed
Steps written down
Interviews and questions
Where do you
See yourself
In five years...
What is your
Plan for us..
Do you picture you
Here...
The more plans
You make
The more lists compiled
The more flip flopping you see
You begin realize we are all
Just ******* winging it...
Which is perfect on a Sunday ...
Today no plans...
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2013
I am searching for someone
who will make me complete.
I call for the one
and my heart skips a beat.

The one who is out there
will fill me with joy.
He will show me he cares,
lives our lives to enjoy.

Doesn't act like a boy,
but a man and a friend,
and whose heart does enjoy
a love that lasts 'til the end.

Are you out there my darling,
my loved one, the one?
Can I live my life planning
that some day you'll come?

I will build a tomorrow
with more than just me.
I am ready to find you,
now you have the key.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Bri Aug 2017
The obsession you have with the size of your hips.
They should be smaller,
Don't you think?
Oh, and be sure to do whatever it takes to have that thigh gap.
It's so worth it.
That thigh gap.
The more space the better.
The emptiness of your body.
The jutting collar bones.
Feeling dizzy.
Feeling depressed.
Worth every inch lost off your waist.
It is worth your once full and lushious hair now falling out like dead leaves.
Because you're dying.
You are killing yourself.
But it's all fine.
You're obsessed with telling yourself that it's all under control.
Isn't it?
Theres no sleep at night.
Not when your anxiety is this intense.
Not when your up planning how to skip the rest of the weeks meals.
Use that time to be productive.
Like right now.
Lying awake... obsessing.
Obsessing.
Obsessing.
But it's s all fine, right?
Because that thigh gap.
And bony fingers.
You're deliriously falling over every **** time you stand, and you think it's all still fine now?
You think it's still worth it?
Isn't it?
Luz Hanaii Sep 2016
I woke up this morning to these words "Don't you know often the world will give most, to those who least give."
I looked at the time and it was 4:49 A.M.  I was planning to sleep a little longer, but now I'm wide awake.
Making me at first wonder what this all meant? really who or what is waking me up so early to give me such a message.
But know I realize, most of us get so much from life and and give little back.  And those that give much often don't even get appreciation or a thank you back.
I do feel that life gives me back so much on my little investments.  I've had my moments of hard testing where I felt I could hardly bear another day, but at the end those hard times made me a better person and left me wiser.
Well after all this is Labor Day, a holiday here in the United States, for most people.  A day to rest and enjoy with family and friends.  For others just a day away from work.  If you're retired like me it may seem like just another day.  But I was reminded this early morning that it is a day to take account and give thanks for the great rewards to our little investments.
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