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kevin hamilton May 2018
broadview hotel breathing
in the trick mirror
of sunday moonlight
lethe, my dear absolver
you tell me glass only breaks
and never flows

and the river vanishes, too
before my eyes
like ghosts in the morning
all cursed wine
plucking mental pictures
from the jaws of drink
worked 36 hours straight and wrote this. not sure if it makes sense, too tired.
It's Funny how such Energy persist
When the Fourth Great Angel told me to Prud,
Staking Green Papers for her to insist
And see whether I behave or becrud
Even when the Situation intensed
By the Fallen One a Coward-for-Words
She took the Shield; And gave a Good Defense,
Plucking Feathers dearly in Screams they heard
You are the Heroine mostly Admire
In Duty latest Feelings compensate
Seven Wings drop by, waiting for Desire,
The Good Kind which all Good Women must take.
Wait for the other Four whilst keeping Knots
As the Boy in Blue Trunks took his Time forgot.
#daleysangels #hola_itsbecky
Are you out there my Friend.? ? Somewhere The Wind is blowing..? Where your footprints are gone as soon as left. No one to know. No one Knowing.?
       Are you in the Wind? ? A voice, distant, lost in the swirl of snow and Autumn leaves.? Your way Home...unknown.
       The next step taken, but down what path.? Will it lead through this wood, or wander Forever this Dismal forest of Bramble and Thorn?
    Crows with eyes bright. No shelter in sight. No sheltering insight.
Plucking at your at your sleeves and dress. Catching your skin, bleeding you like a priest with a fleem. Leaving you wounded and hurt., weary and wary.
       If you stand still but a moment., cease your struggling, stumbling and listen. you'll hear my voice.
On the Wind
Calling you Home.
Safe within the walls and warmth of my arms.
zebra Jul 2018
come sit on my words
dear reader
like outdoor furniture
for thin hips

while spooky poets peer up under gaudy umbrellas
nervous about making a good impression

all of your hosts
snuffed candles burning-out
for metaphors and alliterations

begging
one poem at a time
for a light
that we will never see

go ahead
antagonize me
you, who live in an idealized passed
fear the future
and ignore the present
while i hide like a little girl  
behind the bare legs of poetry

that will show you!

my head a hanging web
that feels words like cosmic storms
tumbling stone heads
onto boulders of terracotta shards

my ink smells like stinky saliva
a dragging wet tongue of ambiguity
a kabuki fight to the death
unwinding paper machete viscera
and plucking out make-believe hearts
while gobbling fortune cookies containing  
jokes, platitudes, and fortunes
that never come true
in a dreamland of *******'s

i'm trying to break something in you!
Lizzy Nov 2014
don't tell me this is love
because all i ever am is dead
don't tell me this is perfect
when i can barely breathe

i'm sick
but that's no surprise
i have no safety
from crippling disease

i stand outside to see if i get cold
to see if the wind hurts my bones
sitting in the snow
plucking petals
asking if he loves me
ughhhhhhhhhhhh
You are the almost-silent
of my coffee-stained summer.
You are the clear and tender
plucking of guitar strings
on a lazy afternoon;

With sunlight streaming through
the painted window,
just bright enough to fill the room
but gentle enough to fall asleep to;

with the smell of everything we love—
caffeine and chocolate and banana muffins—
seemingly coursing through our veins
with every breath we take;

with the daydream of
what-could-be lingering
in the haze, in the silence
it sits,
it waits.

I proceed to the only thing
I know how to do
at this hour of day:
I stare at the cars passing by,
all the while wishing
I was staring at you instead.
Are you that Stone-Edged as to *******
Which even Donkey's Ears refuse to sound?
And on that Bed, that White Sheet's Cry debate
Useless Tears as your Ring boasts your Account
Which of these Ways, Sir, must you Stark-Rebel
And addle yourself carelessly to Sin?
Your Canaan - burnt - to Red District's Level
Selling yourself in Circles for a Fin
Unthinkable, your Role upturned thereof
Though many Blinded Eyes considered Cool
All to solicit Pink Ducklings whereof
Plucking Wily Snails their Poison to Fool.
No-One has asked you for this Flipped Request
Save to drink this Tonic and do your Best.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
harlee kae Mar 2015
I've come
to the realization
that I will never love
Micky the way that I loved you.
But, I also know that maybe that is fine.
Sure, some days I spend my free time plucking out
eyelashes and trying to get a free wish or two. (or three)
But for the most part, I know that maybe I'm not
meant to love him like I loved you.
No two people are the same,
so how can I give any
two people the
same love?

I'll never love anyone the way that I loved you,
but that doesn't mean I'll never love again.
Sean Devlin Aug 2015
Love should not be possessive. Love like you would a flower, growing in a field.
If you were to pluck that flower, take it inside, to place in a vase or between the pages of a book, it will wither and it will die. Suffocated, cut off from that place which it is meant to be.

Instead, lay next to your love. Let your breath be the wind that brushes against its petals. In a storm, build a fortress to protect it, to shade it from the sun. Sing songs to it until you fall asleep, where you dream beside it.

If you part, have no fear. Relish the moments in which that Love is beside you. Do not entertain thoughts of another coming and plucking that flower, you have no control over such things. Live beside that which you Love, possession will only bring death. No one can take your love. If in the morning that flower is no longer there, fear nothing, as you too will one day be gone.

The more we love, the more we want to hold on. Let go of the idea of permanence. Everything is ever changing. The seasons, the tides, they come and they go. Move within them. Hold that Love deep inside, like a heartbeat.

Fear of loss is ever gnawing. Let go of fear by letting go of the idea of possession. All that you own is that which beats within you, silent and voluminous. All else is an illusion.

When you look across the room at her, do so as you would a flower. Appreciate and enjoy, do not let the tendrils of fear wrap themselves around you. Do not reach out and take what is not yours, do not ask for anything in return. Open up your heart, let the sunshine pour from your eyes. Before you know it, these moments will be memories. This life will be another grain of sand on an endless beach. your story will be lost on the winds of spring.
Purcy Flaherty Dec 2018
Mining for nose goo;  digging in deep,
plucking, pinching, scraping the meat.

Busily forming sweet salty clumps.
squidging, rolling and flicking off lumps.

Piggies, bogeys, snot and green crows,
I'm mining sweet nose goo;
right under your nose.

I'll hide behind a book, a hanky or a rag, slip my belongings in a nose bag.

Piggies, bogeys, snot and green crows,
I'll be mining sweet nose goo;
right under your nose.
posey, hanky, rag, Piggies, bogeys, snot, crows, nose, goo
r May 28
I learned the blues
too soon
and the pain
I gained
singing on dark nights
to the rain our plight
those who know loss
is just another cross
to bear for the dark guitar
strings piercing hearts
the cross spreading her legs
like a pair of pliers to make us beg
plucking nails from ****** fingers
picking scabs that seem to linger
through the calloused evil seasons
of high cotton and boll weevils.
Sister and I loved to play, to run and twirl and roll in grass all day. Momma gets mad when we go too far but our yard is massive we live on a farm! Running on rolling fields of prairie, singing and laughing and acting merry, shot right through the tree line that marks our abode, slid across the rocks on Old Joser Road, saw an old lady who walked with crumpled toes and spoke too and listened too a pack of crows, plucking weeds and picking a thorny flower she called out to us that fateful hour;

  “Oh my and how lovely, two twins so cute! I had thought no one lived so far out here, away from the town and its charming cheer? Why don’t you come over and meet my pet crows and I’ll show you two a trick that nobody knows!”

  I leaned down to consult with sister you see, she being younger she’s littler than me, I told her to stay close while we watched the show, then we’d be off and away we’d go;

  “Okay old lady my name is Tim and this here’s Tam and this place you’re in, is our family farm and that guy in the field, well that’s our Dad, and if you mess with us he gets real mad, so no funny business in this game and we’ll be nice to you just the same.”

  “Agreed indeed you little man and I can’t wait to see you in my pan!”

  Now I had to think on this real hard. Did that mean something about being able to see or was she talking about eating me? No matter, no problems and boy those crows, did they sure put on some funny shows and acted like they had lots of smarts and seemed just like pets and warmed our hearts;

  “Thanks old lady we gotta go we’re almost late for dinner you know?”

  She moved too fast and came right up and pulled out an odd-looking wooden cup;

“Wait there dearies, not so quick, about that dinner and my sweet shtick, you see you owe me a trick too, two coins I’m asking there of you, you bring them up to my cabin on that hill and I’ll teach you some magic and give you a thrill!”

  “Okay lady!”

  I agreed as we ran, if we don’t get home soon it’s gonna be my can! ‘Cause I know my pops he’ll beat my **** and I’ll be sent upstairs with nothing to eat, so I told little sister to move those feet!

caesura

  Whisk you down the road of boiled toad, and singeing hair, of whispered things and fires' flare, of evil looks from open books, pigeon’s toes and a chicken gizzard, while around your legs it crawls and creeps, my hungry lizard that never sleeps! You gawk! You stare! My wrinkly-face, the dank rank air in my dingy place, the dusty shelves a-lined in books and creepy crawlies in every nook, cobwebs and spiders at every corner, piggies run squealing while the chickens banterer, ravens caw at strange green light from lantern but back to all those shadow corners where little bad things spy and salivate, thinking on what they had last ate, and there you are shaking, nervous, trembling; a porky little piece of meat and something we all want to eat!

  “Oh don’t be scared my little one, I’m kidding, teasing, just having fun. Hand me the coins I asked for earlier, when we crossed paths along Old Joser, draw near to me, come here, come a bit closer!”

  Be careful will I not to bare my teeth, or lick my lips or stare too deep, for one is easy, two a dangerous feat and I so want to have my little porky piece of meat! I stood on a ladder with little Tam on my shoulder, so she could see the *** as it smoked and it smoldered, I directed little Tim over there to a seat and he saw me lick my lips as I thought about their meat.

  “Aha ha ha ha ha!”

  I laughed out loud as I cast in the dust and the billows changed color and kiddies made a fuss, but then the sparkly things popped and shimmered in their eyes, while both of them let out marvelous sighs, bewildered, bemused and tricked by my lie, I threw Tammy in to my cauldron to die!

  “Nooooooo!”

  Little Tim, little Tim did he let me in and punished will he be for that little sin, I whispered a spell and took up my broom and zapped a hole in the floor out in the room, where Tim was running and dropped him in a hole, down a tunnel he went that saved his soul, for out he shot back on Old Joser Road, no wiser no worse for the trick I showed!

Now listen up children or this is your lot,

For I’m out there always lurking with my ***,

I’m always hungry and so are my crows,

We’ll eat you up all the way to your toes,

“Jimson and sassafras, morning glory, woodrose seed,”

“A ***** of my finger, lock of my hair, a thimble and tweed,”

“Two coins, a cauldron, my cunning and your breed,”

“Whenever I’m hungry that’s all that I need!”
(Joser: Joe-Sir) rhymed with (Closer)
This is a retelling of the Sumerian story of Tim-Tam which is the origin of Hansel and Gretel. This entire piece came to me in a dream and I wrote it down in one sitting over ten minutes. Grimm's Fairy Tales are about warnings to small children...warnings that not ALL adults are good people and sometimes starving old people in the woods use trickery to eat kids. The phrase 'two twins' is a reference to the dual nature of myth as both actual events and cosmic. Gemini and the two earthly children.

Two coins to pay the boatman who takes your soul across the river Styx.
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
After the storm,
the spider fine tunes its web-
spiraling inward,
plucking at strands
strung lyre-like
between the apple branches.
   Shrinking fingers of light
slip from the underbellies
of  low slung clouds
that stream by
nearly snagging the tree tops.
   The wind fills the web
like a jib stretched out
before the slapping bow of a ship.
   Meanwhile, our small planet
hurtles forward, circling
on strands of patient gravity
spun by God knows who or what.
   Satisfied with her spinning,
the spider finally
settles into place
at the center of a billowing universe,
waiting for some small
something to come sailing by.


Tom Spencer © 2017
Terry O'Leary Aug 2014
The darkness, now descending, floods the city as it dies
while shadows lurk in legions 'neath the looming Evil Eye.
Its frozen stare envelops all, it penetrates and pries,
denouncing loathed dissenters to the keepers in the sky.

One’s inner thoughts are well descried before they’ve passed one’s lips
and cruelly crushed with grim contempt twixt despots’ fingertips;
but if no taboo-idea’s found, with which to come to grips,
the stymied Eye dispenses pus as fabrication drips.

The Eye peers down upon us now, to conquer and control,
and mark our every movement, whether hiding in a hole
or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole.
Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly not the goal.

While phantoms fade, then reappear within the urban sprawl,
the gloom (adorned with Evil Eyes which pierce the livid pall)
pervades the ache and agony that poets sometimes scrawl
of plenitude to penury, how life endures the fall.

And should the herd dare whisper words of freedom's fragrant bloom
or murmur sighs of worriment at earth's impending doom,
the Evil Eye will squint a bit at those who so presume,
condemning nascent unchained thoughts to wither in the womb.

The Evil Eye bores everywhere, a tattletale to Kings,
who scrutinize their puppet people, strumming on their strings,
extracting secrets of their souls like spiders plucking wings
that flutter with the hangman’s knot as the corpse of freedom swings.

Yes, Princes rule with tungsten fists wherever they may roam
and sip from golden goblets, nectar, sweet as honeycomb
while peons (stripped of mind and soul) stray never far from home,
with faces 'neath the iron boot, ****** deep below the loam.

And peasants pass, parading by to fill the golden urn
with pennies for the afterlife wherefore the faithful yearn,
though screams of babes with empty eyes are never of concern
to those who covet silver coins, eyes cold and taciturn.

To hide the pains of purgatory, far-flung distant shores
(on islands of containment) cache the dingy dungeon doors
and inquisition water-boards that buoy their holy wars,
while sandmen drape our eyes with dust, with rainbow metaphors.

We’ll know the party's over when there's little left to eat
and all the learned scholars, lean, stay silent when they meet -
the Eye, withal, will spawn distrust on matters indiscreet.
The signs are all around us - even sheep no longer bleat.

                        Epilogue
One sightless seer scans the skies and mourns the heretofore.
Nine limbless men descend the stairs to find there is no floor.
Eight tongueless women babble, telling tales of nevermore.
Four earless children drown within the ocean's muted roar.

When hope becomes defiance, ask: Will bedlam soon arrive?
Will doves appear above us all? Or drones to guard the hive
while fed with milk and honey by the Queen and kept alive
to gut the gale below them? Will we let the Eye survive?
Arianna Feb 23
I.

The rainbow erupts,
Spilling the decadence of Seasons
In colors and curves
Over crystalline cloth

Banquet hall turns to vineyard
Grapevines spiraling up the pillars

In the finest brush strokes
Of fingers teasing the air

Touching

Crushing

Sun-ripened flesh

Of rose-petal nails
Peeling through layers
Digging fossilized sediment
From beneath amber-painted faces:

Brushing the leaves from your brow,
I gaze into the Earth,
Feeling down the vines
To the roots of your tree.

Gently, peeling away the dead bark,
Biting your sunset-colored heart

Rising, filling, falling

Lapping at the nectar welling up
From your veins.



II.

Salt turns to sweetness
Where les fruits de la mer merge
Avec ceux de la terre:

Mango skins and dolphin fins,
Mermaid tails and lion shins
Tangle with emerald vines,

Somersaulting in the tides

Our forms brush
Between Land and Sea,

Our lines cross
'Twixt shadow-dappled waves
Where the murmuring forest°
Harbors cherry blossom glades
Behind nettle screens and nectarine trees.


My heart quickens,
Listening
As the breath swells into a roar
Reverberating from your core:

"How does the forest whisper?"

Wine runs red
From the pomegranates at my breast...


III.

Inhaling pear blossoms from your chest,
Fingers caper down your spine
Caressing sunflowers and blueberries,

Knees nestled
Among the lavender in your thighs.

Exploring the crevices of your roots,
Plucking wild grapes and olives
And avocados
From your hollows,
You ripple with Life
Flowing from below
The surface,
Feasting on your Essence
Butterflies kiss you with your sweetness:

"Do you not taste the Sunshine
coursing through you,

shivering in the warmth
of Turquoise?

I'm surprised
you never noticed
the flecks of Springtime
in your eyes...
"


IV.

Tearing figs from hips, I

C  R  U  S  H

Roses in my fists

Dripping perfume
Over your neck

My teeth become fangs

Ripping
every          
last  
            thorn


Out

Where they've pricked your skin,
Scattering ravished

P
                 E
                               T    
                   A
                           L
                              S

In the dark spaces
Between your ribs

Listening, listening...

Licking clovers and honey
Over your raspberry-scarred wrists.


V.

Seafoam champagne
Glistens in the trail of my tongue
Tracing rivers over the desert
Spilling its golden embrace
From the mystery of your smile

Wreathed in laurel, hazelnut, acorn, and ivy

Winding vines
Tighter and
Tighter

Borders vanish behind starry mists,
they slip...


Elemental perfection
Of Earth and Sea
Made gentle by moonlight:

"Enough, enough,
I am enough!
"

We drift
On the edge of two worlds;
No sound pierces
The rush of water and schism of land.

We tumble,
We drown,

Our colors bleed together...


VI.

... gushing brilliant bordeaux
Over the tattered tablecloth.

"Drink deeply, for the cup
Runneth over!
"

Starving muscles
Revive at the sensation
Of violet plums
Bursting with the sound of a kiss
Between blackberry-stained lips

Planting almonds and strawberries
On pollinating tongue-tips —

Quoth the Bee to the Hummingbird:

"Open your heart!"


Quoth She to He:

"I will unfold my wings
That you may kiss every inch of me...
"
A collaboration with Crown Shyness. :-) You can read Part I here:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3014184/banquet-i-sushi/

Haha, my segment trailed away into space, following no cohesive thread whatsoever, but perhaps you can imagine the words trickling down your chin like the juice of your favorite fruit.

° = ;-)
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Lexie Aug 2018
The Liar
He whispers
Through the seams of my pillow
With his rasping voice
Like taught threads

The anxiousness
Beads on my forehead
And prayers
Slip through my teeth
Like water
Through a clenched fist

The Liar
He says to my dreams
That he will be with me
Like a woman
Who lays beside you
While the sun passes
On into tomorrow's light

His whispers
Are crystals
Of salt and sand
It fills my mind
Such as hollow spaces
Are meant to hold
Like a mother her child
In the days of its youth

Clutch as I could
To days that stretch
Into weeks and wonder
Rather than these moments
A fleeting feather
Falling, fallen, lost in fields

My soul a sunflower
Wilted in time
The Liar
He comes to me
Plucks a petal
pick away
He picks again
Dry and husky
Like a voice worn
By years of smoke
And tobacco kisses
Plucking still
Am I a field?

The Liar
He wraps
His hands around my throat
The Liar
He walks
Between worlds
Fingers hooked
In the heel of my shoe
He is my shadow
Though not the same
Petals and promises

The Liar he takes
What cannot be given
Thoughts never spoken
Before they are plucked
From my tongue
Still curled behind my teeth
sandra wyllie Mar 28
I want to be a blind melon
and have the bumble bee girl as my daughter
I want to laugh at the rain
lay face down in the puddles and drink the water

I want to be the red wheel barrel
glazed with rain water beside the white chickens
that way the world could be mine
I am ripe for the plucking and all the pickings
Em MacKenzie May 12
Stem to bloom pulsing vibrant green,
striving life to groom, Jack’s stock without it’s bean.
Hoping for rain but begging for the sun,
showing signs of strain and the season’s just begun.

The commitment and dependency,
doesn’t cause resentment, nurturing comes naturally.
But no matter the effort I lack a green thumb,
I try to work and assert but I’m just feeling too numb.

Decorate the home and grave,
hint: they’re both the same place.
Dig and plant, my hands; a slave,
decorative dirt smudge on my face.
Seconds to minutes, and minutes to hours,
I play “she loves me, she loves me not” while plucking dead flowers.

Soil embraces the seed but nothing tends to grow,
I cry, sweat and bleed, maybe I dug an inch too low.
Hoping for rain but begging for the sun,
attempt to ignore the pain but the agony has won.

Wiping off stomped and crushed
four leaf clovers off the bottom of my shoe.
Walking through the field I felt I was rushed,
but I just knew I had to get through.
Crisping leaves with light and drowning in strong showers,
I play “she loves me, she loves me not” while plucking dead flowers.

Seasons will come and go,
the sun will rise and will set.
What dies eventually will one day grow,
what we remember we will forget.
Well when you’re sitting back
in your rose pink Cadillac,
making bets on Kentucky Derby Day.
I’ll be in my basement room,
with a needle, and a spoon,
and another girl to take the pain away.
ymmiJ Apr 18
plucking grapes for me
basking in deep pools waiting
patience, snorting, snout ajar
no young cub pretenders yet
another silver missile caught
WA West Oct 2018
Hideous static,
dreams orbiting,
a dark planet,
granular daydreams,
gasps of conversation,
footfall drowns out conscience,
layered chatter to infinity,
that which is not man
......bleeps.............
a regret rimmed thought,
............afternoon's perpetual zombies.........
plucking at a keyboard's harp strings,
evaluated,
numerical data streams
no contemplation will set you free,
from 8 hours dragging on,
Ilunga Mutombo Jul 2018
I feel 2 week to be too strong
How long did I hold on? 2 long
She played my heart like a violin
Twisting and plucking 2 strings
2 many feelings for me 2 just leave
I tried and I tried, I kept coming back 2 her
My heart wouldn’t let me go far
Now here I stand hoping she wouldn’t keep me waiting for 2 long
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