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island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
city of flips Jul 2018
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^
  

that ain't me babe.
fearfulpoet Jul 2018
“only” the lonely know (my special sign)

{=}

an incurable silence

the meaningless, wasted touch of a hand,
attached, directed by them from them
to them
a failed reassurance

a classroom, a stadium, cornfield or grove,
so many nutted fallen solitaries fallen to rot
midst a globe of trillions never noticed,
never missed

the silly conceptual that the lonely,
special unique, blessed with a curse,
a specialist status, “only” they afflicted;
with a ken that isolates and yet feels elevated -
oh! I am special

show me one, just one, human who doesn’t truly believe,
they are the onliest loneliest and you will vision
each and every
lonely person who
secret sighs and whose first thoughts are only:

god spare me one more day of being,
fearful of achieving
my very own knowing,
in the invisible place,
the incurable silence award,
reward of another purple heart,
“only” the lonely service ribbon,
my Cain marker

~my special sign~
WOW

what a wonderful reception to my first poem!

thank you,
less fearful!
Hg Jun 2018
i fear my spider hands
and the words
they spin to webs

they twist and twine
injecting rhymes
in every word that’s said

they type and type
and type biting venom
from in my head

i stay awake all night
writing till sunrise
stings my bed

i feel arachnophobic
of these fangs
that can’t be fed

but everytime you grip them
you squash them
till their dead

with you holding my hands
I drop my pens and
my distress

with you holding my hands
my spider eyes can
get some rest
©Hg
~

I am
Unpoetic, for
Isolation built from self-paved
Solitude has wilted my writing's
Possibility for sweetness
And sugar-faked beauty,
But poetry is crazed
For a taste of
Vast feelings,
So here
I am-


~
All feedback is welcome
Erica May 2018
never trust a poet's words
they sound sweet at first
but you'll notice the emotion in their words
it all sounds too...
fake
"i love you like the sea loves the shore"
becomes too scripted
you hear the small tinge of love actually left in their voice
hoping
hoping it could mean something
but it doesn't
it never does
it's just the way they say it
one day, after they have left
you will find their poems, and they will be the exact words that they had said to you
once long ago
please understand this poem is in a way just me talking to myself, reminding me to not trust a man who i once loved, thank you
Seanathon Apr 2018
The universe puts her headphones on
And plays her favorite track
The raindrops in the meadow burst
And soak the earth
And with her feet up on the world
She smiles from ear to ear
And plays it back
Random I know. No words. BUT WOW! Poem of the day (for 05/18/18) is an honor for me. Thank you so much! And to show my appreciation, you can now listen to me read this poem live on SoundCloud. Just follow the link and have an awesome day!!!

https://soundcloud.com/user-433755196/her-favorite-song-1
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2017
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal

the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir

Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide

His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst

needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time

Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding

The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being

A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.

~

The Twist

This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.

Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.

I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.

For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.

It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers


by Nat Lipstadt
one of us, his tongue Moses-stung, with a hot coal of language's divinity
~
this would-be poet,
weighty troubled by misdirected words
of a musing troubadour,
for if ever a reflecting pool ought be
a two-way mirror reconfigured,
this poem is deservedly reversed
and of him homaged

by time, well weathered the poem above,
it's simple elegance tips and tilts the scales,
double blinding the justices supremely,
binding them for honesty for the subject,
is the auteur, one who sees too well
and yet l!
cannot perceive himself in his own words,
when now needs the judgement of their verdict
and your worthy recognition

now I ken better distance 'tween artist and art,
I, a workingman's daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in the waterfalling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue
and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
not I,
one of us, his tongue, like Moses-stung
with a hot coal of language's divinity

blessings, the keenest of nature,
where they divide and how they intersect
his brimful heart in our eyes fulfills the passerby's thirst
for revelations, small shards of shared sensibilities

my voids filled by the words of his quill

"to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees"

This was written April 15, 2017
for Harlon Rivers
by Nat Lipstadt

behind the poems,  travels another world…
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
On the molded plastic black keys
Tip- tap tipping away  
Smiling wickedly
With self-satisfaction
Words deliberately in a sociopathic array

Crazed Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling across the planets
In and out of reality
Both far and away

Each letter vibrates with its own life
The deranged wordsmith's release
So the clicking and typing
Systemic vacant sounds
Never seem to cease

To the mad poet
The combinations of descriptive words
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Beguiling
Calling in a sweet voice
To the mad poet
In letters A to Z


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),

Tammy M Darby
Shane Leigh Jan 2018
This is not poetry,
and this is not heartstrings
playing sad lullabies
in the deep spaces of your mind.

This is not poetic;
this is not reading
stanza after stanza
wanting to know what's at the end.

This is not rhythmic,
nor sensual or smooth,
nor is it flowing like words should
from the tongues of those
that know which words to use.

This is simple.
These are words
that make sense
without peaking around corners
or hiding behind luscious similes
or over-used metaphors
and out of touch symbolism.

If this is not poetry,
then
I refuse to dub myself
a poet
and will continue on,
but write prose instead.
© Shane Leigh
Enjoy (:
sara Jun 2018
Oh, to be a poet
one must be so emotional.
Well, no. Not necessarily.
We're only really capable
of understanding feeling,
investigating our emotions.
It doesn't mean we cry all day,
or pass nights in dark rooms moping.

We have lives; come home from work
or get in on a night bus back;
it's from all this experience
that we can draw out fact.
From mundane to extraordinary
we will become inspired.
Our strength is versatility
and life ignights our fires.

So, we do not all have to be
constricted to intensity
-to ponder oh-so seriously
on what it simply means 'to be'.
We can be strong, flirty, or mean
or to the brim with confidence.
For, what does 'to be a poet' mean,
if you cannot explore yourself?
'Our strength is versatility' is something I feel is very important and sometimes forgotten among stereotypes of what poetry should be about
Daniel Ruiz Aug 2018
I'm here sitting
alone,
the smell of coffee runs through
my veins,
some music i probably will forget
in a few years arguing with
the thought of you,

But I'm here,
I'm here,
writing about what's happening

pretty boring huh?

i call myself a poet
but i can't use high metaphors,

i call myself a poet
but i can't describe fully
how you make me feel

i call myself a poet

but what am i?

I'm just a kid
scared of life
finding new ways to cope
searching for someone to love,
desperate,
not holding unto my dreams
how can i choose with my mind
what's right for the heart to choose.

and you see?
don't you see?

don't worry i can't either

i can't see how great i am
i can't see how other people see me
i wish i could.

i want to believe this was a dream
or
a nightmare at that.

But at last.
I'm here wishing that in another life
i could be with you,
or
maybe in other deaths,

i crave your touch,
i crave you..
with coffee waking up my senses
like a kid in summer waking up early
to go play with his friends.

i wish things were different,
so i wouldn't have to wish.
harlon rivers Jan 2017
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter

invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near

the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence

from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart

now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed  

an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within,  lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes

a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul

there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,

squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years

invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet

for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...

befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...

a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...


© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
it is an enigma how poetry evolves in meaning over time
― like a self-fulfilled prophecy, some become transformational, some become new beginnings or some become a finality of a metamorphosis of peaceful endings or deleted attempts at understanding the misunderstood...

... all to be determined and allowed to let be

― THE END ―
Jeff Stier Nov 2016
She captures autumn
in a jar
reads the moon's straying
through leaf and branch

Always in love
with love
and always reeling
from the loss

What wave tossed this refugee
ashore?
What alignment
of stars and planets
of uncountable galaxies
brought this woman
to this world and not another?

A simple truth will tell.
The moon at high tide
hides beneath her skirts.
A slight disturbance
in the silken fabric
of space and time
and all is lost
all is born.

I hold my hands out
palms up
in prayer and thanks
every day
to mark the blessing
to place a peg
in the whole.

Given to all
denied to none
and mysterious to most

Life pours out of
a hole in the sea
leaves nothing
and everything
to chance.

This blessed world.
#h
w y n n e Feb 2017
42
nothing's wrong with this world
something wrong with humans
Tommy Randell Oct 2016
I am the Poet Refugee
Now living in a world of Prose
Accepted yes to some degree
But never quite sure of my role.

Should I be the way I was made
Speaking in metaphor and rhyme
Or must I give in to the page
Ruled by its adherence to lines?

May I speak out in an attempt
To urge us to be reconciled?
We Poets offer no dissent
To justify being so defiled

Always to be read with a sneer
Not given the due we are owed
That whenever a Poet is near
Truth will be camouflaged with code.

Ever to be judged out of turn
An object of pity and fun
Looked down at with frequent concern
Poems may be suicide bombs.

You want Poets locked up in books
Kept in churches not out of doors
But that is where logic gets stuck
In the fight of rhythm and words.

We're the same Poets and Writers
We both say what needs to be said
Both to ourselves and to others
Without us meaning would be dead

Without us there would be no songs
Graffiti to make Peace not War
And it really wouldn't take long
To wonder what Language was for.
I wanted to write about refugees and immigrants, although I am not one. I wanted to write about being a poet who isn't mainstream or modern, on the outside? Why is poetry still a novelty in this world?
Audrey Sep 2018
A poet is no more than a person
A mother
A daughter
A lover  
Someone needing release
Or someone needing to recover


It’s the art they create when that ball of ink or stick of led dances on the canvas they so perfectly prepared.
And when the end result and their purpose become perfectly paired.
Left Foot Poet Jul 2015
~~~
for our boys
~~~

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.

it is because

the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...
~~~

July 26 2015
alexa Jul 2018
you say you’re not a poet but
with a girl like that,
how could you speak
anything less than
the stars?
-a.c.b
Pyrrha Jul 2018
Out of all these poems I've written of love and longing,
Out of all these years searching in the sea of people,
I still yet to understand how it's possible to have words without a muse

I often wonder what it would be like to have a muse without words
I believe it would feel suffocating
As you choke on all the words you long to exhale within your next breath
For a poet to be trapped by words is to be trapped by passion

Sometimes my heart swells up so big it walks across a sea of words and sinks into the deepness of the waters
Lost among the clearer beats on land
An abnormality pushed away from love like an ancient curse buried in my skin
One day i'll make it learn to swim rather than let it sink and bathe in sin

The question still remains
Would it be better to have a muse and feel like drowning,
Or to have the the words to accompany the lonely?
ryn Oct 2014
Accuracy of your acrostic arrows,
Ride the wind with utmost ease.
Claiming each bulleye with poetic precision,
Hands steady, unswayed by the errant breeze.
Endowed with talent, unsurpassed finesse,
R**egarded by peers as the wise-worded wiz.
First attempt at an acrostic! Harder than it looks!!!
Inspired by a friend.
sir humbug Jun 2018
wear gloves on your hands,
leaving your eyes free to speculate
and your mind to record
the life of the plant;
and the life of the one who nurtures and tends

follow-from the fallow soil
to my edible plated consumption,
from the baby bud nipping
to sharp crack shot at picking,
to my tongue licking
both your produce and you

you may feed me poems
when the real harvesting is done,
grown in your own private plot,
from you, my good fellow,
follow with love delivered to
my expecting fallow-soul,
awaiting your seeding me,
and I,  
you...
elizabeth Mar 2018
i've wanted to be a mystery for as long as i can remember. my whole life, i ached for someone to wonder about me, to need to know more, to write pages of poetry for me, to feel love songs in their body when they saw me. i desired words of love and lust and wonder to describe me. i never understood what i was doing wrong, why i wasn't receiving bundles of pink, heart-shaped valentines full of adoration, why i couldn't seem to make anyone curious about who i was. i'd watch others only share small pieces of themselves to capture the hearts of random lovers, and i so wished to do the same. i know that, deep in my core, that's not who i am. my heart is tattooed on my sleeve, and every emotion that goes through my mind appears right across my face. i feel too much, there's no way around it. no one will ever wonder about a girl if you can easily see what she's feeling. i've tried to crush that part of myself, tried to drain my body of all the excess feelings. it refills though, like a river after a drought. the water always returns, most often in storms. the feelings rush into me and make it impossible to mute them. i've come to the conclusion that i will never be a person that a stranger on the bus sees from across the aisles and thinks about for the rest of the day. that those who want to be wanted rarely get that. that i will forever be the one who writes poetry about someone, and it will never be the other way around. it hurts, but i've realized now that no blurry, rushed words about a love for me will ever grace a page in a diary, even if that's the only thing i need.
Tammy M Darby Nov 2013
Hunched over the worn desk
In the ***** yellow light
Trying to arrange thoughts in array
A  small mad woman with a pen in hand
On the paper drops of life did lay

The mind soared to the golden heavens  
Dove blindly into the gates of hell
Using her favorite metaphors wildly
Dark poetry from a ghost-filled well

Eyes shining with frightening excitement
The feather pen moved on its own
Stories of a thousand lost years
Through legends of Troy, Atlantis, and fairyland, she would roam

Weary now of endless imagination
The ink dried the words would keep
Impish smile of triumph on her face  
Rest her mind in an enchanted sleep


All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby
All Material Stored in Author Base.
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