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Sam Hawkins Apr 2013
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.

What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.

What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.

Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.

And what is this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture--
a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say  
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?

Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.

That morning, with the very last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in open quadrilaterals,
held its position.
written and posted a few hours before the Boston Marathon Bombing, Monday April 15th, 2013
jee Dec 2018
the way the water flew through our lungs
and bled through the cracks in our skin.

bubbling, brimming

the sea touched my eyes and you were white
with effervescent foam, curdling between lashes,
phosphorescent silvers pooling over stark blues
on fingertips.

sinuous, submissive.

the shaded cold mixed with the rainbowed salt
over baptized shells.

we breathed out our abtruse mist to cry over esoteric crashes of thunder.

enigmatic, flowing.

you are an acrobat, my prideful tide.  

your steel waters cleanse the melancholy mud
through my eyes
and glassy waves wash, twisting and curling,
releasing through our petrichor.
I sought your ocean, and it washed me away.
Jessica Dec 2018
Hold your head high!
The hoard discards their virtue
Like the thunderous roar of a fools laughter.
Hold back your painful sign, because you-
You are beautiful!
Looking forward with prideful shining eyes
As they glare at you
Their jealous hatred undisguised.
You, Woman, always taking that high road
So steep and arduous,
You're never daunted by its awesome heights!
A Hero is made by her daily choices
To rise above the common evil-
Poisonous contempt,
The hero derides.
Keep your pearls of wisdom
Close to your side,
Because your worth is greater
For the lovely heart inside.
More syrupy than I intended but, it is a poem about dealing with aggressive bullies.
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
Trying to tread water in a tsunami.
Being swept under with the furious currents.
So deep down in a neverending trench.
I take a deep breath.
Inhaling the salty waters.
Letting it fill and
draw blood to my
lungs.
Drowning in my own pride, and hope.
The sloshing of water becoming a gentle whisper as the lights fade out.
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.
Mya Nov 2016
Her eyes are heavy
And her tears are tired
She can sleep
Oh no, not yet
If she sleeps now, she wont wake
with the rising of the mourning sun
Tonight she lives to suffer
Her heart to be ripped away in agony
Only the shell will be left
What is left of her liquid insides
will be refilled into her
like a frozen tetanus shot cutting thought her blood
but not just though her arm
All over her body

But the moonlight seeps in
She looks but she wont take the Horseman's hand
She'll flirt with the idea of him
The clock on the wall tells her to go
To sleep with the rising moon
dance with the shadows in her head
Memories of light are the only images
like a romance movie she watches for help
Only a few more moments before the Sun returns
He rises to save her soul only for a
fleeting moment after another
Until the prideful pain returns with the moon
Each night
Hillary Magee May 2018
i’d rather suffer
silent
than ring you
awake
To my prideful
situation
of missing the hell
out of your
heavenly presence
wrapped in mine
with nothing to say
TMReed Nov 12
Gasping in your western shadow, sweet one,
I scribble to you a testimony
for catacombs unfurling at your feet,
where bodies dream of you—my only.

One fallen egg, swept up by the wind,
upon you now confers a splattered pearl,
once nestled kindly ‘fore the setting sun
‘**** your arms, my fast n’ skyward girl.

One cherry hornet, stripped of prideful airs
by such unyielding singularity,
begs his broken limbs and shattered wings
to snap an unrequited symphony.

Calm in clay but shake-n spirit, one boy
wilts in waiting for your leaden lips
to part and welcome ‘nother fool’s parade,
to swoon lovelorn with every breath you strip.

They’re mad, those fools! Oh, to imagine you would!
But you might temper the thought—won’t you?
Only fools fall for your charming architecture.
Akira Chinen Jul 28
who are we without are ****** egos
without are overindulgent narcissism
without are overinflated *****
in our own mouths
swallowing our own pride

how many selfies will it take
before we know our selfs
how much self pride will it take
before we realize we have nothing
to be prideful for

nothing more than civilized savages
of casual cruelty

so quick to anger
so willing to hate
so willful to ignorance

so blind to love

love

the only thing that makes
our miserable existence worthwhile
the only thing that makes our suffering
worth breathing through

yet we sit blind gazing
at our brief moments of eternity

trusting the lust of our eyes
over the truth of our hearts

giving into the desire
of instant gratification
to avoid the fear of being alone
the desperation of feeling lonely

pretending to know love
as we sit side by side
while drifting miles apart
strangers speaking different languages

smiling through the pain
******* away the time
as our flesh erodes
as our bones weaken
as our hearts fade away
from what we could become

how hollow is the echo
of what was once the song
of our hearts
how shallow of a river bed
have we made of our blood
is there anything but oxygen
filling our empty lungs and

if we let go of our egos
if we threw away our vulgarity

what would we find
what would we become

if we closed our eyes
and saw with our hearts
would we feel then
that we could be beautiful
without the cruelty of our narcissism
He has coffee in his blood,
He dances with brown camels.
White wide paths of knives
Are curved deep among the mountain passes
Of ribs wrapped in soft desert of skin.

A tongue athlet and a sound alchemist,
A reluctant nomad with wheat hair,
Who's driven by his crazy-grooving heart
So rarely though so far.

Sometimes a train, sometimes a net,
Sometimes a piece of paper
Will take him.
But most often he is joining with genies
In their bottles. And spirits take him
To the caves, the deep blood-vessels.

He's silent mostly and his back is bent
Though he is tall.
He walks all cloaked in weary clothes
And idle anger both.
As it dictates him his prideful eagle's nose.

He bears also marks of roots,
Of runes, of flame, of anchors,
Dancers.
His bones look at you in their clutches
From beneath the skin
Of his thin fingers.

He builds the towers shaky,
Weak. And so, they're almost living,
Breathing.
He've found a cat in a banana
And lets it live inside his elbow.

The grey in northern sky is his.
He reached his fine hands
And left it there. He touched the sun
And then again. He put it in his lighter
With his fingertips.
So he occasionally has a light from the sun.

He prays to metal and walks two roads at once.
He tolls the tree from which he hails.
He hangs from a branch.
Or does he just stand
Downwords and his back is lying on
The branch on which he stands?

He buried his gold and digs it out only
For fire and jokes, for bitter and smoke.
A cow of three eyes and a bee on his blazen
Are joing in drawing.
Ylzm May 11
lies ****

educated to be anything and everything
struggled for real to be only nothing
encouraged to keep believing and fighting
only losers quit and winners strong

fear

fear to know
fear to see
fear of rejection
fear of fear

rejects instead own true crying self
renews empty prideful boasts
life, always fighting, winning's everything
lose or die

so death is the light
life not marred by failures
soul silenced into meaninglessness
suicide a most welcomed relief

one slit ..

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