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Tanay Sengupta Sep 2018
As the moon shines
And the stars decorate the sky,
A lonely owl hymns
While the bats fly.
Lightning bugs scatter around
Like will-o'-the-wisps at night,
Without any sound
Oh, what a delight!
The neighbour's hound is on guard
She will not allow anyone to pass,
No one is allowed in her yard
At this hour, only a fool will walk on her grass.
Her howl pierces the air
Bringing an end to the silence,
She announces she won't share
She will not tolerate any form of violence.
Across the street, few floors above
Two players are taking their turns,
In the famous game of push and shove
While a tiny candle burns.













Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
As usual, I will not explain this poem. I think it is evident by now that I won't explain any of my poems to you. I want you to perceive it the way you want to. Happy reading!
Pooja Jajoo Jul 29
She wasn’t wrong
But
He wasn’t wrong too..

Destiny, Time, Ego, Attitude,
All played their roles.

-Pooja Jajoo✍
Pooja Jajoo Aug 12
She thought, "why did he do so?"
He thought, "why did she do so?"

Finally,
Spark gap,
Truth value gap &
Communication gap...played well.

-Pooja Jajoo✍️
Go and tell him/her what's hidden in your heart.
Don't befool ..that you have TIME.

Never let your inner spark fade.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Life has run away from me as I play this game of chance.
One at a time you have fallen before me, you fabled soulmates.
The scars run deep, my heart crusted over with the soles of those
who have so carelessly trod on my lifeblood.

You who have made me, could you not have shown me the danger of a love untrue?
I have been chained to the players of hearts throughout all time.
You have been quiet for too long.  Can you not hear my call?
Why do you keep silent in my time of need? Why do I not hear your comfort, your voice?

My soul calls out to find a love that binds with more than a gilded ring,
created from a spirit so true, intertwining with mine and becoming my own.
I’ve searched my whole life through for such a love;
one who is drawn to the life and soul of the me within.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
ryn Dec 2014

       you
               secretly
                       wishing, for
                              your writes to be
                                noticed•simple sign
                             that they have not been
                          missed•with every view
                     and every like•your popu-
               larity does spike•somewhat
          places your art on the poetry
      map•between major players,     
  you close the gap•constantly      
checking to see  who's been              
reading•you're always deli-               
ghted to see the 'yellow                      
lightning'
•a wish...                            
    for those who                             
     are writ-                    
ing      

secretly hope not only for your words to be
reaching far and wide, but also... trending
* the above does not apply to everyone here.
talkshows and the yellow press
get excited in excess
over his shenanigans
that delight his faithful fans

rumors of these *** affairs
strong words for all macho players
     in the game of social thrones
texts with threatening undertones
     for minorities and women
     treating immigrants like demons

neither fans nor his opponents 
seem to notice the components
of the white house strategy

     throw them bones
     fodder for the yellow press

and while  they fight
clandestinely out of sight
works the Trumpian policy
 
money laundering   blatant lies
scolding allies   breaking ties
adoring foes   praising those
     usurpers of democracies
     experts in atrocities
slowly yet persistently
     undermine  civility  
     with foul language 

court the aristocracies 
         of oil sheikdoms in the East
praising communist dictators
who have helped him build his towers

step by step he‘s leading US
from the groups of international powers
to an isolation desert
at the margins of the world
slogans we have rarely heard
over decades  
      now re-nourished
twittered with presidential flourish
make America small again

warning voices call in vain

no wonder the statue of liberty
is hiding her face in misery (*)
(*) This at the moment still is 'fake news' - but I would not be surprised if she did...!
Andrew Nov 2017
I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin

We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously

The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning

We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever
By seeing this Show of Nature's Great Players
You muse at their Songs and lay your Best Arm
First around her Neck, then towards the Breakers
Praising her Legs for your own Private Art
Best indeed, was your Snickering Advance,
Thinking such Act would be overlooked in-Call
One Classic Method, Man! This Begging Romance
Elders as such know when your Heart takes the Fall
Goodness, Lover-Boy! Wrap those Curtains around
If you both need to perform your own Script
Some of us are Touchy when hearing those Sounds
Of Slips and Slurps which pump your Nerves one Bit.
Check your Programme. There is Something you missed
Those Thespians above also deserve a Kiss.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Cindra Carr Jun 2011
Night filled glittering skies
Cloud bright trimmed in lines
Sloe-eyed music pops and fades
Drones straight edged across the lies
Drugged up players in a lit up world
Smooth cries fill the ears of hardhearted rituals
Flashbulb strobes beat the pace
Fist raised groups of hazed out praise
Rushed up feints in the days of the lost
Last light shines as sloe-eyed music pops and fades

cc2011
Never have I seen such an Avid Score
Then draw your Players back to your Credit
Once Clocks have wrung your Springs tight before
Now ring Best Conclusions to your Debit
So your Tendons ripe and joined Model Bro
Each with Burned Spectacles for Thigh's attract
And he taught you well; A Flame burning so
**** Timbers do kiss your Tongue's Good Act
The Green Elf was right. If you could agree
That Advanced Levels only stunt your Mane
But just Read the Play; And Scripts follow free
Your Lion-Born Instinct is one and the same.
Chelsea has Won. And wore Arsenal's Shirt
The Meaning of which, Tie's Variance still hurts.
#will_daley
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.

bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way

Your body pixilates in an ******* focus, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.

All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment  
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter

body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away

The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you

my arc, my carnal ******,
any other epilogue is dystopian

cdh
Khoi-San Aug 2018
Hippin and hop insync
Dub'n on a slip disc......
inc
Boyz on a spliffdrift blink

Neighbours heard a sound
Da beat of  a town
Running on gold and bling

Players on a pound
of bullets

One man down  
Millimetre round

DEAF in a sound of
bullets

Sherrif''s no clown
Laying it down
The law''s gonna beat you
Pound  for  pound

Players on a round of
Bullets

One man down
Millimetre sound

DEAD in a pound of
Bullets
Guns and bullets ****
01/08/2018
Andrew Jul 2017
There are players in the penalty box that don't belong
Because the refs start tripping
When people skate on thin ice
But they're not fighting
Or slashing
The winning team keeps them down by charging them
Until some go to the box just for boarding
And that's only the icing

It's difficult to not misconduct yourself during this game
When the score is ran up
By a team with a wall for a goalie
And a rifle for a stick
They score when we hit the post
Yet we're penalized for trying to achieve our goals
Forcing us to defend
As they shoot at us
For being on a different team

We need to make a power play
And **** some penalties
Don't fear too many men on the ice
The gloves come off but it's futile
The refs never wore gloves to begin with
And apparently don't need them the way I do
I sit on the bench in defeat
Praying they have a ****** overtime
Because right now
In the time of regulation
We're stuck on ice
As the scoreboard hangs out of reach above us
patty m Jul 19
Fragile normalcy carefully tended
while my off kilter mind
finds a cat and befriends it.
Railroad track thoughts
turn ever grayer as they wind through the past
and peel back the layers
Behind dull facades
and stately mansions
Do You Want to Touch Me
or is that out of fashion?
Blind-sided heart
torn to Bits and Pieces
brings death to romance
and the hate it releases
Trusted friends
turn out to be players
cutting me open
to peel back the layers.
Hallucinations
of a tatooed star
things slightly odd
soon become quite bizarre.
Trips to places I've never been
incriminations whisper again and again.
My lineage soon turns quite exclusive
and I, it seems too reclusive.
FATE pecks at glass, it's shiny frame
it all becomes a silly game,
as life that cruel rapacious slayer
rips out my heart and peels back the layers.
karin naude Mar 2013
mum married her love
rose covered eyes
ended serving an ungrateful master
finding fault with fault finding
inglorious *******, his mother should have strangled him at birth

it cost her, her life
she loved him to her dieing breath
she fulfilled her duty to the T

now you want me to forget and grand you a 2nd marriage
oh my God repeat of the 1st grant performance
a new opera will be build
new players and costumes to make you scream and cry at once
you will be deliriant with joy and pain
equal amount competing for your soul
all to serve the god if status and money
no. i do not grant thee anything
you owe me a childhood of love
              teenage years of caring
              grown up years of leading
instead you work as fault finder
all day, all night, over consuming
Alyssa Underwood May 2016
Feelings, and feelings, and feelings. Let me try thinking instead. From the rational point of view, what new factor has H.’s death introduced into the problem of the universe? What grounds has it given me for doubting all that I believe? I knew already that these things, and worse, happened daily. I would have said that I had taken them into account. I had been warned—I had warned myself—not to reckon on worldly happiness. We were even promised sufferings. They were part of the program. We were even told, ‘Blessed are they that mourn,’ and I accepted it. I’ve got nothing that I hadn’t bargained for. Of course it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not in imagination. Yes; but should it, for a sane man, make quite such a difference as this? No. And it wouldn’t for a man whose faith had been real faith and whose concern for other people’s sorrows had been real concern. The case is too plain. If my house has collapsed at one blow, that is because it was a house of cards. The faith which ‘took these things into account’ was not faith but imagination. The taking them into account was not real sympathy. If I had really cared, as I thought I did, about the sorrows of the world, I should not have been so overwhelmed when my own sorrow came. It has been an imaginary faith playing with innocuous counters labelled ‘Illness,’ ‘Pain,’ ‘Death,’ and ‘Loneliness.’ I thought I trusted the rope until it mattered to me whether it would bear me. Now it matters, and I find I didn’t.

Bridge-players tell me that there must be some money on the game ‘or else people won’t take it seriously.’ Apparently it’s like that. Your bid—for God or no God, for a good God or the Cosmic Sadist, for eternal life or nonentity—will not be serious if nothing much is staked on it. And you will never discover how serious it was until the stakes are raised horribly high, until you find that you are playing not for counters or for sixpences but for every penny you have in the world. Nothing less will shake a man—or at any rate a man like me—out of his merely verbal thinking and his merely notional beliefs. He has to be knocked silly before he comes to his senses. Only torture will bring out the truth. Only under torture does he discover it himself.

And I must surely admit—H. would have forced me to admit in a few passes—that, if my house was a house of cards, the sooner it was knocked down the better. And only suffering could do it...

                                                          ­                  ~ C.S. Lewis
Leonard Green Feb 2017
Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity

Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach

Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.
Dedicated to the lovers on Valentine's Day
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