Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Crinoline filaments
Rolling over and over
Mid-flight the ochre velvet ribbons sailed to the left
Instead of to the right
Two feet retreating
But with one shoe on

Memory returns
For a few seconds of
the calamity
At that private house in Paris
She’d tumbled down the central staircase
Sailing with legs overhead
until she stopped miraculously with her ***
at the shining leather toes of the footman.
He kept his head up.
She wore a beautiful dress.
Her hair was quite precise and she hoped that that would be a sufficient enough apology towards an empty silence.

But this isn’t that.
I shoved her.
And she went willingly. They all do.
We’re roughly a group of fifty-three.

Gathering in the last few years
Whispering over drinks
of tumors
And vascular difficulties
Of pills and appointments and forgetfulness
They never mentioned that
In those climate controlled rooms with
Blackboards covered in Latin and Trigonometry
Of the body’s failure.
Now there’s no longer any mention made of the kids
or whether or not that husband was worth the bother

Did we notice atop
The balance beam not a peep was mentioned
About the moment when you can no longer walk or stand?
That the brain asks please but the body will not comply?
How cool the marbled floor feels against your cheek while you lay for hours in your own feces?
One can rest comfortably knowing at long last that that wallpaper was the right choice.
Kept one really engaged while waiting and waiting for someone.
And that is just the beginning, right?

Perhaps some assumed that the end would come with a daily circle reviewing the contents of their chamber ***
Grimacing and worn
While they recline in white nightclothes
Something akin to what they saw on the BBC

Perhaps a startled disquiet at the rebuke of their intent and gamely stares from a premiere specialist in Switzerland
an expert in alternative therapies
for what someone dared call
terminal
Anyway, this is quicker.

So we’ve come together
As sisters
And when the time is right I get the call
We go onto the roof
There’s an elevator now because
Otherwise that wouldn’t work
And one by one
In small batches
They are dispatched
It doesn’t take as long as you would think
We are confident and have agency
We were taught that we could do anything
And they are right.

The ones with a lot of metal can be a bit tricky
They have balance issues
But are always chic and always polite
There was a time when we were forced to be together when we clearly did not want to.
We never thought as one.
Some families are better than others.
But everything is different now

One day it will be my turn and
I wonder who will deliver me?
And what shall I wear?
Will I try to see where I’m going or will I rest comfortably in my finale.

I adore the way the wind catches the cloth.
How the crystalline beads are removed around the neck and handed over
so as not to add to any distraction
Or delay
The pinky coral mouthed “Thank you” and
And the sweet eyes that once were bright and shining say their
Goodbyes
Rippling
twirling
looping
interweaving
cascading
Down.
In Nero’s private stage,
Disaster was
His audience. Rome mimics fallen Troy in play.
What was reflected in Nero’s eyes
when he sang of the swirling patterns
of fire? When Rome was caught burning;
When conspiring led to its fall.

Fire engulfed Rome with fiery teeth.
The clouds hide or faint into black smoke.
The skies bleed heavily with rust
Its brassy color mixing with the
*** of burning seas, like oceans melting

Could you not feel the sun’s weight?
Now it is incomparable to
Molten seas and softened lead!

Blood spilt from sea-point, waves wallow the cries
Of the fallen. Like a bellowing sound marching
Against caverns of ears, Copper soldiers
Melt into clouds oozing with emotion,
Shattering their now empty metal hearts,
Hollow hearts that outlive the muteness.

It is awakened when
Spark and light is absent.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 26, 2009 - Alabang)
2nd Prize Winner - POETRY CATEGORY - Cesar S. Tiangco Literary Awards 2010
i can't believe i have to ******* leave you
i wanna cancel all my plans and stick to you like a fly on the wall
listening for words that mean you'll miss me as much as i know i'll miss you
so i make private playlists and cry on sundays and just hope that i make you fall in love with me before september comes
Stella Feb 25
Letters placed in hollowing order
Targeting those apart from their origin
Summoning the souls of those that surround them
Life torn from limbs, placed at what cost into pages
In a screaming effort to reunite sense with brutality
thoughts after seeing the film
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
MY OWN PRIVATE PRESIDENT TRUMP

Oh the lies lies and ****
statistics of you!

You tell a better lie
than I can tell the honest truth.

"I didn't say that...I never
said that!"

The Trump...the whole Trump and
nothing but the Trump.

So - help me God!

The outright lies of you
the half-truths...evasions...obfuscations

the lie so
see-through

the Russians have a word
for it - VRANYO.

That is to tell a lie that you do not
expect anyone to believe

the totally transparent
told purely to save face.

Although you do do - LOZH
the straightforward lie.

Or  MASKIROVKA
the "little masquerade."

The Salisbury Cathedral
Spire of you.

The fake news
of you.

Well listen Buddy
I can't spare a mind.

And I've just quit
this friendship.
ryn Jan 2015
Backdrop of hues from heaven's palette
Two silhouettes stood hand in hand
A pair so in love on their deserted islet
Only witnesses were the sky and the sand

Two silhouettes with roles of lovers
Frolicked forever in the setting, evening sun
Only they'd know what laid under covers
Secrets of pure passion in their blood did run

Their merriment presented bare in a playful dance
Two silhouettes engulfed in their own private universe
Kisses and embraces offered in a reciprocative trance
Dark lips matched the other's voiceless whispers

Two silhouettes then dissolved with the set of sun
Strained my eyes to unravel this sweet shadow clad mystery
Last few moments pierced through like a shot from a gun
Because I realised that one was you while the other wasn't...

                            me...
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”

Jackson *******


my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum,
signed by you, truthfully, forever,
as first viewer,
and thus as,
co-creator


Nat Lipstadt
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson_Pollock
ryn Mar 2015
I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.

I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.

I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.

I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.

I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.

I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.

I don't mean to cramp your style...*
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.
.
This is a peaceful community, almost sacred to many. All bearing a heart (hale or ailing) are welcome to spill their ink... Regardless of writing experience or poetic prowess.

Bear in mind that people write for various reasons. Some are really good at it, some are just barely starting. Some ask for feedback, some just want an outlet.

So... Be nice. Use the private messaging feature if you really need to offload your thoughts on another's text offering.

Respect and be respected.
.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath


Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.  

Tinkered with June 22, 2013
With a push from Bala,
A serial peeper, thank God!
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
'Private Messages'
are now called
'Direct Messages'.

Maybe it's because
They're not quite so
'Private', anymore.
That's mildly worrying.
(Not my idea but still worth writing about.)
Elise Jackson Jan 20
since when has a stranger's life been yours
something for you to emotionally invest in
what are you looking for
where do you think this will lead you

are you praying for a negative outcome
are you wishing for something to make you right
why are you trying so hard to prove this
what kind of merit will this bestow onto you

i just want to know
why you think this is any of your life
why do you think you're entitled to its' knowledge
and why is it so detrimental that you disagree with it


maybe i should know better than to ask these questions
Tears ran down the medics cheeks as he read the words the wounded soldier wrote.
The medic sat on the ground with a lump in his throat,

The letter was stained with blood mixed with sand.
It was written by a Private Lawnhill in a far off land.

‘Dear Mother I feel the pain so badly It makes me scream and cry.
I know I will not see you,
I know that I will die.

So I just wanted to say that I won’t be coming home.
Don't worry about me anymore cause I am not alone.

I know that there will be days when you both sit and cry.
I know there will be days when you wonder why.

The reason is Mother,
this is what I signed up to do,
so that our country can stay free and true.

Well, I will go now things are starting to fade.
No, I am not alone Mother nor am I afraid.

But before I die there is something I must say,
I thought of you all each and every day,
Corp Blackbraes our medic,
he is trying to keep me alive and ease my pain.

But I must go now so I love you all and miss you.
this is the last letter,
the last one I will write.’
Knit Personality Mar 2016
Please, take my hand, and, hand in hand, let’s take a walk together.
    Let’s wander with a springtide wind and wend a private way.
Another green world with waters blue where blows the fairest weather
    Let’s seek and find and claim as ours and visit every day.
Now since I advised you this Sentiment
Try to apply your Fares with her Mother
And if you win, which is one Compliment
That you use to connect with her Brother
This is just some Counsel from Ben Nevis' View
Hassled to ensure you did the Right Thing
For justly understand this ardent Crew
Is no excuse for Procrastinating
In private this Agent is unaware
For him to barrage out of Deep Respect
Yet keep watch for Feathers dancing in the Air
They turn to Anvils; And hit your Retrospect.
Listen you Two. This is why you will Learn
That Family's knots tied is Best you earn.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
zebra Sep 2018
have you ever seen beauty in a silky nightmare
have you  ever seen the monster of deprivation in heavens promise?

we speak of private things
we should never talk about
about vailed women
and their terrible secrets
and about myself who remains no longer a secret to myself

somewhere i went off the track
like a  daisy chain saw of honesty
to ensure you knew i was sick
a sick **** with a trick
as if i ate some ****** up hallucinogenic' s
making me spill my obsessions all over you
like some weird perfumed *****
down a swirling rainbow toilet
that turns out to be only jelly and whipped cream
wrapped in colored ribbons on cellophane tampons

i feel like  having *** or going to the toilet in public
while waving my hands up in the air
screaming yahoo i'm free
to blow to kingdom come
the temple of normalcy
you know
the church of rose gardens, cemeteries and deprivations
except of course for the sneers, smears
and self loathing vanilla demons
who wear long see through dresses and crosses
like dash board plastic virgins
with bobbing heads
that make hissing sounds about sin

i confess
i'm attracted to the darkest women
strange *******
and  ******
the stranger the better
who shake their butts
like hoodoo enchanted show girls
doing what they shouldn't do
crying and scrying like cooing moons calling
"drink me like ****** Mary
daddy **** lollypop"
all inky tats and razorblade ouchies

or
you can join those
covered in white collared black as death habits
begging the invisible *** cake in paradise
waiting for mercy and a little ****
that never comes
stuck in an empty
loveless bar of crucifixes that only serves up theology

oh baby
***** dreams do come true
pink ****** ***** gladly widen their haunches
like **** without boots
not caring if they go to hell
playin
like a joy ride of fiddle **** sticks
all freaky tongues and tingling licks
thick saliva multi lingual blow jobs
lathering flashing lipped saliva for the squirt  
with fiery wet hypodermic kisses
that make screams
like creamed upleaping lava and ash
for a million hungry sexed up twisting tongues
in occult ecstasy
fecundating shrouds of steamy clouds
in stained red black lighted rooms
with cherub crowned *****
and their drooling snatches buttered ****

eat quivering
like fowl mouthed piranhas
crying more raw meat please
while you drag your perfect person visage
into hollow caves of despair
cold and lonely

so you forlorn love struck weeping
horney pathetic scarecrow
socially engineered robots
if you want love
like heated buttery waffles with sweet jam
just give your self away like slutty putty
to lust criminals and *** addicted pervs  
until
you feel someone swallow you whole
soul and all
and lick their lips
like your their cherry pie

then look passed your
rats nest of pride and exhaustive approval list
and love them back
like free beer
bang their brains out
be their slave and make them yours
in the mad house of love
of warped shimmering mirrors, straight jackets, and squeezy insertions

and if one day they don't appreciate your imperfect perfection
if they weaponize like critic's
teach them respect
shove it where they breathe
lick your wounds
be brave
throw them in the trash bin of history
and move on

Eros and Venus
take a million forms

look around
your swimming in a giant bowl of broken hearts
hungry mouths, drenched ***** and hard *****

you whimpering little beasts
dress to ****
undress to live

its a movable feast
advice to the lovelorn young
thank you to Lora Lee for the line
" swirling toilet rainbows"
Cné Jul 2017
HIM
Hello love, ya I just got into town
Well I just thought, you know
If you were going to be round....


HER
The lover of my dark desire just calls.
He beckons with a smile.
"Come hither." whispers husky voice
alluring me with guile.
My heart compels me to comply.
My brain says "This is wrong."
And yet, I find my feet move toward
the magnet of his song.

HIM
Did he ever wonder, about that one time
Does he know that those were mine
You know she would surely die
If I ever left her high and dry...


HER
Shhh ... a finger on his urgent lips,
"the rest let's just forget"
I'm aroused by heated passion
igniting lust within ... I'm wet

HIM
No one can know what tomorrow will bring
But for tonight my love, it's you for me
Behind the gas station I just couldn't wait
I put her up against wall in trance like state


HER
Penned against the wall with parted lips
A kiss to potent to breathe
Not nearly private enough, still
my legs part, spread with his knee

HIM
So willing as I pulled up her dress
Gasping for lust with erratic breaths
No need to be bashful when freaking at night
Three moons were shining vividly bright


HER
I surrender. I give up.
Release me from the spell.
No recourse now exists for me
but succumbing to ecstasy, as well.

HIM
Such passion for life
Breeds a hunger for lust
Fulfilling and satisfying
Yet I can't get enough
Her smell on my fingers
As I take to the road
Another memory
Worn into flesh and bone


HER
{CODA}
A chill descends upon my heart
as I watch him drive away.
And as I've done so oft' before,
I wish for him to stay
And though I know he must go
back to his life there.
I close my eyes and smell his scent
dreaming of all we shared.

by
Traveler Tim
&
Cné
We just can't help ourselves...
Just for fun
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...
Next page