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Sobbingsoul Jan 30
You are my Raising Fire
You Resurrected
My Dead ,Sleeping Desire
Making this flame
Igniting  Burning & Rising
Higher, Higher
Now you are Afraid
Of your Own fire of Desire


©️Sobbingsoul
Familial the ties siblings we are
Brought up with love care discipline and protection
Values inculcated deep
Respect and love we all each other
Hold it strong in the heart
Hurt we can never bring to each other
Stand together in testing times forever
Raising high the baton of love today
Passing it on to the generation next
To relay it in the timeless tomorrow
Raksha Bandhan - the festival of the bond of love and protection, shared by brothers and sisters .
The sister ties a sacred thread / amulet on the brother’s wrist , and prays for the well being and protection of her brother.
The brother promises the same and showers the sister with gifts .

https://youtu.be/oapzWU3ttqg

Dear all , owing to the festive occasion I have not been able to read much here , should do so in a couple of days , stay blessed all of you !

Thank you  all, for the love and support for this poem( 3rd May 2019), this was made the daily!

Will soon respond to all your lovely comments, thanks and love to all ♥️
King Panda Apr 2016
I’m sorry
I was devouring you
with my eyes
your liturgical eighty-eight
your curves and robes
raising my alter
to this pinnacle of
worship
something holy
to take slowly
into my body
love, I wished
sibling love
not to be mistaken
for religion
for surgical jazz
for something else
love, sister
and my promise—
I won’t go to the pyre
without
you
CK Baker Jan 2017
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago

You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen

There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the *****” Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif

But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey

There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death

But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:

he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Tyler Atherton Jul 2018
its 4:30 am...
im awake thinking, living, and breathing...
but somethings different..

my heart... its breaking,aching and shaking...
all because of a guy..

my minds racing, chasing, and raising..
all the problems of my life..

and im slowly fading, wasting, and breaking..
because i dont know who i am..

not anymore...



© Copyright Tyler Atherton
The swarming bullet ant
Learned the subtle of not giving a ****
But, they sting like bees, and can't fly
Like freaking grammar nazis
I’m a soldier
in a war
sold to the highest bidder
Biding my time
getting high
but not getting
anything out of
life

A lifer
a loser
lost his way
was on his way
on a journey
was earning
a living
was living
a life
in spite of
spitting in the face
of all I was faced with
Couldn’t face up
to the need
I was feeding
A hole
from which
my soul
was bleeding
Unknown reason
harboring this treason
give it time
it will season
Belief system
the Devil
finds pleasing

No matter
how much I tried
and from everyone hide,
including myself,
what was
deep inside
If I went
and made
an attempt
a fool I'd be,
wasted time spent
A lament
at controlling
the tide
And each day
from the next
more and more
of me died

There was a time
when all my efforts
went unheeded
and instead
succeeded
But these courtships
did not breed
or plant the seed
Instead was seething
to be
leaving
Escaping from me
with each breath
I’m breathing

A horrible time
indeed
Unfamiliar,
making me ill
Not having free will
Undeserving
and not for me
to get
Must get angry
and upset
Breaking steps
So many
missteps
I’m falling
more than I’m standing

Steps I’ve climbed
mostly blind
by my blindfold
Its knots
I bind
the moment
I ‘rise-and-shine’
so that
in time
when rising
like yeast,
the hiding
inner self
self-defeats

Every hand folding
as I’m
raising the bets,
doesn't make sense
From where
did I get
this invisible pet
Originally set
and previously molded
in the early stages
of the morning
in a story
that’s boring
and been told
time and time again
with
lost love ones
and friends

A friendly reminder
that a
“stitch-in-time”
is not
a time saver
if the referenced ‘stitch’
relied upon
was built upon
lies
Consumed
from others
that we
self tie
but mostly
force fed
by the very hand
controlled
by my head

It’s a numbing thought;
reasons sought
Elusive?
‘yes’
but pieces
caught
My peace disturbed
by actions
brought
from a desire
to numb
so that these thoughts
will be
forgotten

Decayed
and rotten
left for days
in a
wrought iron cage
Anyone
with sage
too afraid
to consume
but 'In-Doom'
I trust
and with full ******
my smile
displayed;
Forward I go
for sins
I pay
and lie within
this bed
I've made

Not night;
thick of day
No difference displayed
Skewed indifference
to the
different
paths
that have been
laid
like the path
of destruction
from this day
back
in my wake
Bindings
can't brake
A life's mistake
Lay me down
my soul
to take
Lying in state,
a viewing,
my wake
My mind
now awake
-
Cruelty's laugh
makes me
an ***
A crass reminder
of a life
that's past
Written: July 14, 2018

All rights reserved.
If the sun is the crown of the earth,
Happily raising life,
From the comfort stillness of sleep,
Then I am a second born moon-
No heir to the throne.

I sneak by the day sky like jealousy,
To only move oceans as teardrops,
Aching for a dream.
Written July 9th, 2016. Read a
notebook of mine and fell in love with a few oldies.
july hearne Oct 2018
i like to listen to bobby womack
singing "fly me to the moon"
and think of jeff's blue origin rocketship
exploding in the air

all his pride
crashing down in pieces
recorded for the whole world to see

because i have walked
unhappily down the streets
of soulless south lake union
where clueless people walk by
dumbly raising rents
congesting traffic
thinking they are off to change the world

crying about peter dinklage
yellowfacing herve villechaize,

their stupidity knows no bounds
always hard at work in south lake union
producing nothing that won't be obsolete
the second it is completed
purposely designed to make our lives unaffordable

**** jeff and all his tech bro henchmen
who do nothing but steal the sun from the poor
a white european actor
a white european actor
CK Baker Oct 2017
a slow walk up centennial
and i still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the turkish blend and dust pack

a novice mixed duet plays
brahms on broken strings
an erhu and overcoat
veiling the blue heeler and sphinx

maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home bedford falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
Cindra Carr Oct 2010
The dread of consciousness fills me.
The numbness fades away
As I reach out for the space beside me.
The fire lights the blood
Illuminating it for all to see
No one will though.
I am alone again.
The blood pounds through my head
Beating itself against my skull
‘Out!’ It wails at me.
I cannot.
‘Alain…’
My voice cracks
Like the ancient creaks of a tomb.
Forever I am tormented.
Forever she will be out of reach.
‘No,’ the fire hisses at me.
‘No!’ It cries building itself up.
‘I cannot!’ I cry raising my arms
Shielding against the wall of blood and fire
I am lost.

cc2010
I know a bit about
learning to dance in the rain
like nobody is watching

but...

I know way more about
dancing like a *****
in the kitchen

despite the warden
standing aghast
eating up his own
billowy firebreath
soliloquy reprimands

I earbud block
shimmy, pivot and pop
raising vibration tornado
toss it a flippant middle
and cheeky smile
without breaking stride

devil dismayed
lips keep on syncing
as if I can hear demeaning
demonic procession

but I already know
what he’s saying

stop dancing like that
in front of our son


you mean…

to the beat of my own pulse
shaking divine creation
diffusing rainbow throes
undulating radiant orbitals
all for my own blissing?

one day that boy
will be a man
who knows

better

than to ever
call a goddess

a ***** in the kitchen
I don't know If I’m Having a Feeling
I don't have any emotions anymore
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?
Is my mind exploring my feelings?

While seeking happiness in this 18 degree weather?
Baking a melodrama cake,
Pounding away my headaches,
Clearing the path, making way for better
Eggs, butter, flour, sugar and raisins

Raising the bar, with the baking powder
Of transferring my feeling into logic,
As it blend into a smooth non stanza
Poetic form of puppy love, clinching

and all that rises, rise in due degree
And is in everything we see and do.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2013
Waking up to the first morning light,
silently making my way to the beach.
Walking along as I skirt the waves,
and waiting for us to meet.

The raising sun glints on the crest of the waves,
as I wait for you to come.
I remember last night as you kissed me goodbye,
and how I almost came undone.

The shells and the creatures left by the tides,
are now nipping at my feet.
And I stopped to inspect them for a time,
while I wait for us to meet.

Suddenly you appeared from behind,
which gave me quite a start.
as I buried my face inside your shirt,
and prayed that we'd never part.

We kissed each other in the morning light
and promised a love 'til we died.
And with that we kissed our last kiss,
and said our last goodbyes.

I am but a wave on the crest of the seas,
tossed along with the ocean tides.
My love he seemed to be snatched away,
and all I could do was abide.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
Ganges, dawn, a luminous haze
over the water. The bathing ghats
are busy with the faithful. (But India
is inconceivable without faith.)  
The robed bathers, raising river water
to the sun, pouring it back
to mother Ganges, are they worshipping
the sun or the river?
For them God is everywhere
and everything.  Water, sun,
the river and the twinkling lamps floating on it
are part of one consciousness.

The burning ghats too (such quantities of wood
stacked ready) are beginning their day.
The funeral party approaching in respectful haste
have a job to do. They build their pile,
move the body to the wood,
start the fire. I watch, but not for long.
This moment, so intimate, so public, reminds me
I am an intruder here. The ashes
will return to Ganga unwitnessed by me.

Away from the river, the vendors of tea
do their trade among the stalls. Monkeys,
cheerfully pilfering, are chased away
half-heartedly, for they are Hanuman’s representatives,
and they, with the sacred, garbage-clearing cows,
are part of the one consciousness. In this land
all are “the faithful”, everything is God’s creation.
In this poverty is richness.
Varanasi is the Hindu holy city formerly called Benares. The "ghats" are a series of steps leading down to the river, and are divided into areas for various purposes. Hanuman is the Hindu monkey-god.
Carter Ginter Jun 2018
White steam from green tea
Old school rap echoing across the walls
I ordered my own food and drink
What I wanted instead of a rushed decision
I feel free
Starting conversations with strangers
Holding good ones with my partner's partner
Raising my hand in class and
Actually sharing my opinion
Without the fear of judgement
Holding me back at all
karin naude Oct 2013
society has cruel notions
sparring the sexes against each other
giving birth and raising ******* generation after generation
crippling them and selling there freedom before they are even born
adam blaming eve
eve blaming the snake
the snake blaming ?
blame is easier than beating once own chest for answers
recognise the demon
recognise the demon is inside our houses
taring the specie apart
no more family unit
no more church units
money and status driven
we lead our children to be slaughters for the love of media
media has trapped our minds in fantasy land
a distraction we allow to ignore reality
had i only known this in my teen

man or woman
inside we are both the same
the packaging is different
but that is all it is packaging
we both crave love, affection, loyalty ect.
yet we toy with each others feelings
like the other *** is a complete different specie
then we should call it what it is animal cruelty
we call it different thinking
still masking the truth
we are the same, born from one body
we cannot live without each other
adam always seeking his missing rib
eve always looking for the ribcage missing the rib
adam and eve complete each other
Robert C Howard Jul 2013
It wasn’t really John’s saw
that carved the branch into logs -
its blade severing rings of time.
The saw was mine but just like his.

Resting for a spell, I thought of John:
clearing his spread by the Williamson Road,
building fences, raising his barn,
or, like me, cutting wood for the hearth.

But perhaps I didn’t “think” of John at all
since he lives in each cell that I am.
He may have just stirred a little within
to recall pioneer paths we once had walked.

The long branch shortened
as John and I pistoned our arms
in unison across centuries
slicing through time and space -
stacking fuel to warm a cold winter’s night.

May, 2006
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
onlylovepoetry Jul 2017
she returns from her classes,
ballet, yoga, core something and Zumba for flavoring,
her hair, an upward, toe pointing cannon of mop mess,
her face glowing flushed,
one look and I know she is both,
morphing high,
wipeout exhausted

a little ritual she performs somewhere between
"it was great and she (the instructor) killed us,"
auto sub conscious,
she looks herself over,
twisting elegantly like the
Argentine tango dancer she is,
in the mirrored closet doors

raising both arms to see (show off)
the sums of her endeavors,
the exoskeletal musculature
she has earned,
a life long effort,
like a prize fighter as he
macho enters the ring,
an alpha male gesture
if ever there was one,
made over to say,
hey boy, look at me!

and the boy looks her over,
always thinking, but never revealing,
that it is her muscles of mindfulness and mercy,
that take his breath away, the ones that are worked out daily,
the ones that surround and work the heart beating,
the lung inhaler of humans in need,
exhaling the richest
oxygen for others to breathe

and the boy does his service,
providing a "wow" or "very impressive,"
only you and he know his real thinking,
and his muscle memories secret,
you to keep, just between us,
and his secret identity, only love poetry...


8:52pm 7/20/17
Sarah Isma Jul 2018
i would like to thank my parents,
for raising the best liar,
for teaching me to not give in to my desires,
for showing me that this world is an open fire,
that i am just walking through the shooting grounds,
that i am just trying to make it past the bounds,
that for some reason i showed you my accomplishments,
but in the end you ask if that’s ever going to be enough
they say strict parents raise the best liars, and for once i realize that it’s true. It’s become a thing, a sort of addiction, that lies easily flow through, and deceit seems to be my best personality. I’ll change, i’ll try, and i hope someday i’m able to tell them the little truth hidden behind this huge lie.
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