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Logan Robertson Apr 2017
every year
grandpa tells
the same story
over and over
like he's saying
it for the first time
he loves walking
in his own puddles
it would be
at the dinner table
Christmas and Thanksgiving
there's a candle lit table
waiting for good cheer
not ours
we stood sentry
to grandpa's story
as our faces glowed in horror
grandpa had that effect
he would begin
by looking at grandma
at the other end of the table
a nervousness in hers
and with a gleam in his eye
and a broken record inside
he began
there once was bag of marbles
... ha, ha
he would actually say that
and inside
all the shiny marbles cling and clung together
... ha, ha
your grandma and I
... get this
we were a red and yellow marble
and the exception
as his voice raced faster
his eyes bigger
his face a sweet melody
and he's so kid like, and he's eighty
..." we banged"
..." we banged"
the words coming out juvenile
perhaps from a drunk,
but he doesn't drink
on cue
he prompts us to say
you what?
"we banged"
"we banged"
..."your grandma
was in my back pocket"
his face lighting up in a smile
his eyes and ears peeking, waiting
for applause
and we did ... we did
her face beet red
she would look around the table
her eyes looking at the turkey
back at him, back at the turkey
we could read her mind
every year the same story
that's grandpa
grandma, for her part
would always
bask in grandpa's puddles

JA Perkins May 2019
I waited for you -
down by the Woodbine
house on Kendrick Avenue.
I must've told myself 
a thousand times
that, when you arrive,
I'd be just fine -
sitting on the stoop
collecting thoughts
like puddles of rain.

Occassionally, a car
would pass, thrashing
through the puddles
slashed interrupting my
hopeful mind with violent

I waited for you -
denying every reasonable
thought and holding on
to my childish dreams.

I'm still waiting for you -
Though hope has long
become desperate denial.

I'll wait for you..
A poem for perseverance
Ricki T Sep 2019
If I were a steaming cup of tea-
Fresh from the kettle-
And you were a solid cube of ice
I’d melt you like a puddle, and we’d be one.

If I were a hot blacktop pavement-
Searing from the sun-
And you were a sticky piece of gum
I’d melt you like a puddle, and we’d be one.

If I were a pocket to a pair of overalls-
Tumbling from the dryer-
And you were a waxy type of crayon
I’d melt you like a puddle, and we’d be one.

If I were myself-
Sizzling from your love-
And you were yourself-
Going in for a hug-
You’d melt me like a puddle, and we’d be one.
This was my first semi-serious attempt doing a freeverse poem. I made this for my creative writing class, and I thought it was too cute to not share :)
Ken Voltaire Mar 2019
It was dark,
And there was rain.
I could barely see the reflection of the lifeless city sky,
In the shallow puddles,
I was passing over.
The pavement,
It took the form of a rough-backed beast,
That wanted nothing but to devour all,
All except me.

I felt lonely.

The world passes on,
And I remain.
Drops of water tap me gently.
I wish it would rain down, hard.
I wish it would rain tears,
So that I knew I wasn't alone.
Ripples, small ripples,
Shake me,
And I feel like I don't matter.
This is kind of a mix of ideas that I want to dedicate to individual pieces, but I thought it might be interesting. Here is a little piece of my brain.
annh Aug 2019
rain spattered
pavements teeming;
one thousand prismatic shades of meaning

graffiti-laden puddles splish, splosh, splash;
as midnight turns
to blue, and
dawn to

‘I walked up, and I walked down, and I walked straight into a delicately dying sky, and finally the sequence of observed and observant things brought me, at my usual eating time, to a street so distant from my usual eating place that I decided to try a restaurant which stood on the fringe of the town. Night had fallen without sound or ceremony when I came out again.’
- Vladimir Nabokov, The Vane Sisters
Allyssa Mar 2019
I watched the world spin from the windshield of this old car.
I felt the slip of the bald tires,
My hands tighten around the wheel,
And I screamed.
I screamed but somewhere in all of that mess,
That chaos,
I knew I was going to be okay.
I knew I was going to live,
Despite totaling my car.
I clash into my fabric,
Like it's the waters of a bath.
Behold the ripples from my fingers,
Before I walked upon their path.
Pills are skipping stones,
That land at unsteady feet.
I'm falling, or I'm drowning,
Sleeping with torture underneath.
With Carnations at the bedside,
The yellow won't change my hue.
For their inexplicit meanings,
Are wrapped in dripping blue.
And the taps rung through my head,
Were the bath; now forming puddles.
You asked how I had left,
But you didn't notice the bubbles
This poem is about how people don't notice when others are hurt. They could feel like they're drowning, struggling to breathe, even if they're in bed, doing nothing.
(Btw yallow carnations symbolize disappointment; rejection, just if it's confusing)
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!:):)
Wolf Oct 2018
Listen to the pitter patter
Paws of black padded pink
Hear the raindrops spray once again
To rest on silky fur
Taste the honey on a spiked tongue
Coating paws in bittersweet
Smell the dry sunlight whisk away sour memories
As the cat carries on
Watch the puddles catch every step
Paces always constant
Feel the blood pool beneath
The cat leaps off the path
King Panda Oct 2015
we had too much to drink and
you saw your mom crouched in
the corner smoking a
cigarette through her
neck hole

you missed with the marble
ashtray and shattered the mirror
with the hand-carved gold-leafed

Melissa screamed

I followed as you tore through
puddles of sunken sidewalk
until you sat
at the bus stop and buried your

I put my hand on yours and
felt your raining pulse

we got on the bus with the
red and green stripes
hopped off at Wong’s and
bought 3 dozen eggs
to throw at the

patty m Mar 2016
Dropping flower petals into the water
voices merge, lifting in song and prayer,
I wish that I could join them,
instead I whisper my prayer
very quietly, hoping that God
might hear me.

Brief deceptive gleam of sun on water
that catches the eye,
now hollow as dried driftwood, light as foam,
everything conspires against me even the weather;
Tumultuous sky, the squally wind squeals through wires, rattling flags.
The sea is glaucous with strange phosphorescence;
I sit watching rabbit tail grass flicker and bob palely in the wind,
the insects hum and the grass whispers.
Adrift in tides the
sand beneath my feet
spills centuries of debris,
shells, bones, pieces of fossilized matter,
fragments of unimaginable time.
Fire flies often dance here and the crickets sing in
warm grassy hollows

Somehow we co-exist, men exerting surly independence
trying to climb above the wretchedness.  
I take a loving look backwards
at this seaside town, and the boatloads of wood
brought in to fuel our fires.  
Now the rain pummels in endless drops
forming ever bigger puddles,  
flooding dreams gone to seed.  

Perspectives collide,
this is my way of life
even when it becomes bland and unsettling.  
All the icing on the cake has washed away;
why cling to memories with their warm persuasive kisses
in the poetry of moonlight?  
Now the fire has burned out, leaving me cold
with only the ghosts who slide through end of day.
Johannah Jeanty Jan 2018
Drip drap drop my blood on these white tiles
I feel the pain but it would be for a short while
Another person who cut of their life line
Nobody can say that I would live for a lifetime

Hahaha! I wonder if I'll finally die. Every single time I ever tried I failed and did it miserably. Is it wrong to have suicidal tendencies? NOPE!!! My family says that there is nothing wrong with me. To believe or not to believe who cares? Well certainly not me. It is said that thinking that you have a mental disorder when you don't is a mental disorder. How can it be? Humans are very peculiar; they are not understandable.

Red river coming out of my body
I guess I'm just another person to bury
If there was anyone who really cared about me
They would suffer bad when me they'd see

Already seeing the white light.
I never thought that it would be so bright.
I never thought that's so much it would shine.
Numbness now coming from my wound site.

Hope it was my destined time to die.
Can't really breathe, on my knees, clutching to my side.
The red streams are so dark; they make me start to cry.
Is there another way other than suicide?

***** blood on the toilet seat
Wish somebody would come here and rescue me
That somebody would most likely not be real
My fingers and toes I cannot feel.

Gurgle, gurgle
My life I just burgled
Wish people wouldn't say that I looked like a gerbil
I wouldn't have to face the fact that I am in trouble

Blarh, blarh!
A black crow at me cawed
I barely see I'm encircled by blurry vultures
My eyes closed, my last breath I draw.
Take this literally or not, your choice, my story.
Xallan Mar 2019
My head is encased in a vise unseen
My scalp prickles where my hairline laughs
My ears ring with the sound, all of her

She whispers kind needles into a doll.
I shake like a sphere behind my facade
Every weak muscle shaking off fiber

Like a cat in a bath--- I screech, but silent.
My throat is stuck to my jaw, and so
My voice is garbled through a crystal tube

It is a high frequency, all disregarded.
I do not know where the pain is coming from
I do NOT know where the pain is coming from

I DO NOT KNOW where the pain is coming from


I am my own doll, I've washed away fortune.
I've taken my toe to my mouth in lieu
Of a tongue slippery and swollen

Brittle, brittle thoughts and empty dreams.
I do not know where my voice went
I lost it in a rainstorm, while I was singing

I dreamt I was a puddle evaporating.
And maybe it's just pain, maybe it's just life
But my thoughts are coded in a bad way

I don't understand, and my pride is broken.
Is that what makes a man? To stay whole?
Lovers break girls.

It Is one train to be unique, another to be alone.
It is not good to be alone in the universe
In my bubble it is good, it is peace

But I am greater than a bubble.
But still I am empty and frail, and alone
I am without blood or kin or kind

I am with pain
JustJune Sep 2018
"What do you really want?"

I was embarrassed to respond emptily

"What does your soul pray for?"

To finally admit I'm of air

It's all show and no well

You cant dive in me

Im ankle deep
ryn Nov 2014
In solitude...
There's constant talk of the moon
And incessant wishes upon stars
Each word is cast unto paper
Unsure if they'd stretch that far

In solitude...
I embody pelts of droplets from the sky
As thunder mark the seconds that would elapse
Stagnant puddles of liquid dreams
Ever flowing in endless traps

In solitude...*
I feel the urge to lose all balance
Aloneness beckons like a long lost friend
Always strange but familiar
To see and be at the bitter end
laura Oct 2018
sitting in your corvette
bass boosted songs
and friday sunlight reflecting
off crisp puddles from yesterday
you hit the gas
and my hair goes straight
to the roof
feels like i’m trapped in
a fish bowl, sports cars
easy to get in
but impossible to get out
maybe that’s your plan
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
The night is closing in as the rain is drumming on the drain outside.
Long streaks on the window run like tears down my cheeks
reminding me of you.

The oneness of being alone is swallowing me alive,  
eating me from the inside out,
from my heart to the arms that once held a love.

I am struggling to make it through the puddles
and the moat that has wrapped itself around my heart;
afraid of getting wet again, afraid to get hurt.

The cold and damp have camped out in my soul,
without the warmth of the fire of love
to keep me warm.

You moved me to take a chance and make a change
scaring the hell out of me along the way.
I should have listened to the voice inside  
and stayed away.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Antino Art Aug 2018
maybe the buildings are hollow,
occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts

maybe this whole town is a hologram
of neon against puddles
on the pavement.

maybe the citizens are ghosts
floating by
in circles, or squares of city blocks,
around a routine,
or droning through on electric scooters
as if on muted theme park rides
to the next sensory diversion;
to the nearest gastronomical pleasure;
toward the weekend and its next party
celebrating the loss of time,
I see their tired faces

staring out from the glass
of coffeeshop windows
on every block.
I see their piles of beer cans
beside the trash chute.
I hear them singing
on *****-cruises to nowhere

What part of this cycle
that turns days into dust
moves us closer to heaven?

What feast from what new restaurant downtown
will feed our souls?

From which lonely night do we finally emerge
beside the one
whose presence fills
these hollow buildings
to the top-most floors?

Which of the empty lots
between us do we fill
with a conversation
about how this is all a dream,
or how we'll keep each other awake
on a bench
beneath a street lamp before dawn
waiting for the first bus to take us home.
Aleena May 2019
In the early morning sun
Just barely after the rise
The birds chirp
The wind blows
So the grass shivers
And the trees dance
In the breeze
While the robins sings
To find a mate
The rays trickles down
On every living thing
Through the leaves
And through the trees
The dew smells fresh
From last nights rain
The water puddles
Glisten in the sun
Whilst the morning glows
The world was awoken
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