Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dark Fjord Dec 2016
Hand me a  pillow, to listen
not as burnt, if you can still get
a grip or suckle.
take to the ***
Tomorrow never comes
Today is always yesterday
Time is forever on the run
Becoming lost; Wasting away

Surrounded by the void
But darkness not why I am rattled
From this question, can't avoid
Do I belong amongst the shadows?

Back and forward I will peer
While staying blind to what's ahead
I am engulfed and filled with fear
Unsure what's real or in my head
Written: June 10, 2018

All rights reserved.
Purcy Flaherty Feb 2018
'Twas all so beautiful a sight,
A long summers night; The sacred stars were burning bright about our mother moon.

The wind filled the sails above the waves that sped us through the sailors tales and brought us to a deep lagoon.

We cast our nets out far and wide, then watched them sink below the tide, which rattled out a tune for me and you.

We hauled aboard the silver fish, to fill our bellies and our fists, then set off home like seagulls chirping tunes.

The wooden boat now tied about the key,
its tattered sail and rusty cleat,
tugs and tugs the rope upon the swell and gently whispers come to sea!
come to sea!
come to sea!
A little well used boat ried about a key
L B May 2018
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
___

It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
__

Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
___

Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
___

It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
___

Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”

Yellow  _
__
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life  
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites  
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –

the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines

Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside  
reflecting beauty –

“Take your sister's hand.”

Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
For my daughter, Phoebe and my mother.
ryn Feb 2015
He almost let out a sigh of dismay,
Knowing this stint would be short lived.
The common sense in his head seemed to say,
"No one could be this lucky, don't have yourself deceived".

His wheels wobbled and shook; squeaked and wailed,
Under the collective weight of the two.
Screaming threats from worn bearings that ailed,
He did not want to appear weak so his legs pummelled on through.

The ease of cycling was only temporary
He pedalled harder to gain more speed.
Then the ground began to ***** gently
His lungs felt like bursting as he pounded his iron steed.

The journey uphill had been more laborious than he had expected.
All the while, the beauty hadn't uttered a single word.
His mind had drifted off even though he was worn and ragged,
The thought of emerging as a couple seemed less than absurd.

The crest of the hill was a cool, long anticipated welcome.
He could finally ease up on the pedalling.
The view from there was nothing short of handsome,
The downhill would take charge and he could catch up on his breathing.

The wind met his face and whistled itself tuneless.
The bicycle rattled as it rolled down the uneven trail.
He felt a sense of flight, there was an air of calmness,
Almost had forgotten about the quiet guest on his tail.

At the bottom he thought he should check on his passenger,
He looked ahead as he addressed the lady.
When he had expected an almost immediate answer,
No response came, despite his calls for her repeatedly.

He pedalled with little effort as if there wasn't added weight
The bicycle slowed down to a clearing where it was dim.
Fatigue was setting in as the night stretched late
His curiosity won the battle and got the better of him.

He stopped his bicycle and maintained balance with his feet,
He twisted his torso so he could speak to his fare.
The moment he did so, his heart had almost ceased to beat,
To his horror, he found that the lady was no longer there...
Based on a story I heard
Onoma Oct 2018
there's this purple

gala at the end of time...

which never seems

to begin.

the moon goes thru

all her phases in the

blink of an eye.

which makes the floor

feel like it's ebbing and

flowing.

attendees break out into

soul-stirring croons about

shedding lifetimes of

loved ones.

water goes to wine, wine

goes to water...and desire

is a food continually served.

though one night my nerve

stuck to me, and rattled.

i began overturning and smashing

everything in sight.

everyone smiled...and the damage

was cleaned.
Ayan Roy May 18
The smell of burnt eggs and cigarettes
Drifted across the room
As I lay, head over heels
On the couch.

Staring across a broken window
Counting the stars in the sky.
One, two, three...
They appeared to distance each other away
As I went past five.

The neighbours were up all night
Empty bottles rattled across the floor
The sound of their laughter
Entered my dreams.

Woke up the next morning with the sun
Dancing through the curtains.
And my stomach groaning from it's emptiness

As I went to the kitchen
To throw away the burned.
The smell of fried eggs
Greeted me instead.

I turned around, her eyes
Gazed at me.
Her face mellowed through the minutes
How did you get in
I say,
I still have your keys, you dumb head.

I leaned closer and whispered
Thanks for the eggs.
Fired it, desired it,
Put you in your place
Riot, don’t fight it,
A punch to the face
Movement, you blew it,
Your mind in outer space
Write it, defy it,
Rattled in cage
Flaunt it, report it,
On the front page
Deny it, provide it,
With minimum wage
Correct it, deflect it,
An outpour of rage
Plan it, contain it,
My life’s rearranged
Confront it, restore it,
The best way to gage
Mask it, enhance it,
Act out on stage
Collect it, pretend it,
Coming of age
Own it, disown it,
Become disengaged
Force it, explore it,
In need of some change.
Mend it, ignore it,
That’s not how I was raised
The Serpent squeezes the mundane egg, for a moment in time,
…to begin the ages, turn the wheel, and so begin the rhyme,

The circus has commenced, a dancing, swirling motion,
…a pit of ghastly horrors, seen as a vast deep ocean,
…or celestial or cosmic, as some would have the notion.

Some of them were large, although some were also small,
…and grotesquely figured or disfigured, a scary monster’s ball,
…and trudging, stampeding, stomping or slithering down the hall.

There they danced, sang or prattled, where giants fought and where they battled, …thunder unto heroes rattled, with awful screams so frightening, and terrifying lightning!

Scaly, hairy or feathered, wet and fiery or weathered,
…conjoined, twisted or tethered, slithery writhing together,

Kingu and his wife, some say it was t’was his mother,
…his plan was war and strife, pitting brother against brother,

A ******* existence and so morally depraved,
…a state of sickly persistence, they found themselves enslaved.

Then abounding voice of heaven, that divided night by day,
…brought forth a princely king of Luke; the warrior Marduk.

Fourteen engaged in combat, the one against thirteen,
…and thus aligned with the ecliptic, at night they can be seen,  

Sloshing in the Apsu, beaten with the club,
…slain and torn to pieces, cutting channels of their blood,

A north wind sent them to their places, fixed on Tiamat’s wheel,
…and the starry constellations, did Marduk bring to heel.
The Sumerian story of creation is the source of St. John's Apocalypse and it is the story of the Dragon Tiamat and her unholy son, Kingu, who go to war with the earth and are defeated by the son of god, the son of the Sun itself(Marduk). "Marduk," means, "High Prince," but signifies west, shining and high as-in the heavens. West was used as a moniker or symbol for the sun since it rested each day in it's kingdom in the west.

The, "one against thirteen," means the Sun versus the twelve signs of the Zodiac and space itself or the Dragon. It is an ancient term.
Al Oct 2018
The rain rattled
upon the rusted
wheelbarrow.

Her old skipping rope begins to spin.  Lyrics taste sweet, soaking up youth, dancing with imagination, agile once again, she is the grass that sways.
zebra Dec 2018
just because your dead
doesnt mean we aren't dating anymore
like you would have dated me
dead or alive
yet i am haunted

you humming
so we must have chemistry
or am i interminably obsessed
like a ghostly house

your poems
had there way with me
like a strip tease
and soft slipping fingers squeezing
making little red veins hemorrhage
like a thick **** intravenous drip
rumbling down a phantom ****

warm breath
on the lay away plan
infernal lips
**** face
a lit match
immortal burning
holes in my stomach

bits of my heart like skin *****
nailed to a wooden plank
by the tormented photograph of you
tender aged thirty year old
with your head in the oven
languishing gracefully

your generosity in death
a carnival ride of fascination
like a dropped bird

nerved up cat
to tormented to pet
to love
to be well
to smile
to calm
better hors d’oeuvres of rat poison

i like to think
you where inviting me
like a necrophiliac
to love your slender corpse

please baby one more verse
for the thin air road
your poem
a dark crime
behind the big white door
your so pretty in penny loafers
bare legs dangling
a gassed ***
a moveless flower
head in ovens grave
corridor of rabies
finally vacant
honking at my face for a last kiss
to brush my wet mouth
smooth against your goddess buttocks

frothy
smudge face
sunken skin
and that stupid stare
like a half filled ashtray
tongue out and cunty fingers

eyes
"dead ball gods"
your weight no longer measured in grief

you turned the gas up
deep breaths now darling
common you can do it
so steep baby
feel the caress

i was born to late
to die with you
to save you
pretty nymph in a downward spiral
ravens clutch

still crying,
horney for you
and your black light
lanterns
to busy being dead
to give a ****

i'm fixated on your suicide pose
beauty and horror tangled lovers

here and gone
embracing

here and gone
almost in the same split second
graspless

i'm obsessed, obsessively obsessive
for what could never be
and is;
am i not your fan,
your creep

if I pulled you from the oven
saving you for your rattled life
no doubt, you'd be all pissy at me
your magic rescue voodoo hero
your straight jacket of love
keeping you alive
cavalcade of dead girl faces
you would have hated me for that

your dead now
and i'm left here reading your poems
telling you softly
they are the best poems ever
and making believe
you love me
Epilogue: Ann Rice

"The longer they're dead
the deader they get"
Bartholomew Sep 2018
Every morning I would hear the metal wheels grind against the rails as the garage door opened
Leave for school as you were under the hood staring at horse power repairing every engine that was broken

Returned home and now you’re underneath a different car, your face blackened from the dirt, oil and debris
And at night sometimes I’d hold the flashlight for you, pointing the light at the wrong spots of the engine, I’d help to some degree

Rarely spoke but wrenches clanked, ratchets ticked, screws and bolts rattled and power tools revved
It’s the language that I never understood but it’s the language I know you’ve said

The garage doors would close, I’d smell the scent of Mary Jane coming from your room, swear the odor was limitless
Then I would hear the rifts and solos from the guitar strings that were plucked by your fingertips

Life as a grease monkey and a rockstar but you loved every second of it, you love everything you do
I wish one day I could find my own love and become something just like you

I see why my mother loves you

You called me your son though we’re not blood I swear I miss you in every way
You’ve alwayz told me to look out for my sister and to protect her everyday

Happy birthday
To my step father; rock in paradise

09/21/64 - 01/01/18
Yesterday, clouds gathered in the sky
Covering the sun,
Yesterday, I saw the ravens fly
I saw the squirrels run.

The wind stormed on the walls in rage
Her fury knew no bounds,
Violently she rattled the cage
Of the hell hounds.

She flew from tree to tree
Unsettling its leaves and flowers,
A hive that sheltered a swarm of honeybee
Fell in the pond, for the frogs to devour.

A thunderclap echoed from a distance
A prelude to what is to come,
Shattering everything in existence
Leaving everything numb.

Enveloped in darkness
The canvas was coloured grey and black,
It had an air of stillness
Yet, there was something that it lacked.

And then it started to rain
On the brown soil of the small town,
Easing the pain
That was hidden behind the smile of a clown.










Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2019.
All Rights Reserved.
As usual, I leave the interpretations to you.
Terry O'Leary Mar 2016
The typewriters tap,
with a rat-a-tat-tat,
like a fourth estate rap
to provide us the pap
(that serves as a snack with a rat-a-tat-tat)
in a newspaper scrap
crammed with meaningless crap
from the editor's yap
(spewing flimflamy flak, booming rat-a-tat-tat)
after gashing a gap
in the daily recap
with a snip in a snap-
sounding thundery clap
crackng rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

And the talking heads speak
with a rat-a-tat-tat,
of the news of the week,
tweaking tongue in the cheek
(with a click and a clack like a rat-a-tat-tat),
thus ignoring critique
'cause they're mild and too meek
in the midst of the reek
to report of the wrack (except rat-a-tat-tat)
whilst the pundits (oblique
when protecting the chic
of the upper class clique
at the top of the peak)
chatter rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

The NRA ghouls
plug a rat-a-tat-tat
while their blood money tools
fill the Hill’s vestibules
(where deceit behind drapes drips a rat-a-tat-tat),
spreading folly that fuels
frenzied hands of young fools
bringing guns into schools
(at the drop of a hat there's a rat-a-tat-tat
splashing blood in warm pools)
for now anarchy rules
(which the hype ridicules
'til the temperature cools)
hailing rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

Lawless cops, cutting loose
with a rat-a-tat-tat
spraying bullets profuse
without any excuse
(just a split second splat with a rat-a-tat-tat),
splay a rattled recluse
like a Thanksgiving goose
gushing cranberry juice
from six slugs in the back (with a rat-a-tat-tat).
To redress such abuse,
bend the branch of a spruce
with a neck in a noose
while Death's drums beat diffuse’
rolling rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

War brings freedom to all
with a rat-a-tat-tat
(well, excluding the thrall
with fear, facing the wall
[ often smacked with a bat, throbbing rat-a-tat-tat ],
until feeling the call
to creep out of the kraal
biting back with a gall
[ with a *** for a tat and a rat-a-tat-tat ],
or to mangle and maul
if still able to crawl
and be part of the brawl
in a freak free-for-all,
midst a rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat).

Holy warmongers praise,
with a rat-a-tat-tat,
any soldier that slays
and all rockets that raze
(the drones zoom with a vroom and a rat-a-tat-tat)
leaving smoky arrays
of gray ghosts in the haze
cloaking mute cabarets
(hushed, the hip and the hop, by the rat-a-tat-tat)
while ol’ Cerberus bays
with mankind in his gaze,
so society prays  
as it rots and decays
(Satan's trumpets of doom blare a rat-a-tat-tat)
until one of these days
in a flash through the maze
mighty mushrooms will blaze
with invisible  rays,
fin’lly braising the craze
of the rat-a-tat-tat,
   and the
            rat-
                 a-
                    tat-
                          tat.
Wade Redfearn May 2018
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.

Slow begins the dance of tongues and hard news.
I learn a thing I never wished to learn.
Afterwards,
a dance of tongues in the ensuite
begins a sudden rapture of claiming.

Nails mine, skin mine
to make a pink impression on.
Bile in the back of the throat, mine.
Fear of death, mine. Oaths and oaths,
mine, too. An exchange of humility,
knee for a knee. The rigid wall at your back.
The wall at your back.
The night which enriches
bluer out of the blue air,
not the action of
the world moving at all.

The particles of water in a birdbath divide,
decide among themselves
to marry each to each, to reproduce.
They become an ocean.
They drown the birds.
My mouth fills with feathers,
teeth itch with the tiny mites
running between the shafts.

I am a bell, and you are a country.
I am a bell and sound from far away.

Hands touch the broken vase in her parts, the toes,
the eyelash, the sunken wreck, the crowd of dead,
the treasure.
They say
  all this
as if the map was drawn
and burned
and came again
in char from the tablecloth
to all our wonder.

A single miracle can last for weeks in the mouth. Sometimes centuries.

I will spend eighteen days in the void of grace.
What begins as a pain in my shoulders
will grow into a tree and bury me.
I will want promises, promises, promises.
(water, water, water)
I will never be satisfied.

Looking always for permanent loss it becomes easy to simply
misplace.
Your caution leads to strange decisions.
You put your keys in the fridge.

I would like to say I knew the words:
I cut the lock of hair, I drew the blood.
The hex was removed by faith and chaste reflection
but everywhere I look, there is a confusion
of hungry birds and beggars
and I forget the spell,
or what chaste reflection even is.

Anyways, something breaks. Not my doing.
Suddenly, I am just noticing sky again.
I am transcribed back into English.
My first decision is to wash my car,
and next,
to learn what faith meant to anyone.

Charmed, is it?
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
It has nothing, really, to say.
It only rattles.
Just ask me.
OC Aug 2018
A curse upon you
for casting me the role of
a blind tracker
who's anxious with each step
lest his fumbling fingers
his stumbling stroll
will wipe clean the footprints
you left in the sand

----

A pox on your head
for sentencing me to
hang
from the smoldering debris
of my crumbling hopes
by a noose tied and fixed
to the moment
your turned back has
crossed through the door

----

Be ******
all that is you
a decaying piece of cloth
wrapped around dried up bones
produced from the depth of the past
rattled and hastily poured
pretending to feign me a future
with your crickety crackling song
Tammy M Darby May 2018
When the Last War began
It had been 15 minutes since the first missiles were launched and NY had no warning before it hit, entire blocks were obliterated, debris, brick, and stone mixed with flesh as horrified onlookers had only a second of recognition, before they too were nothing but melting skin, then ash as the radiation spread like a broken dam. A firestorm consumed all in its wake and deaths sister continued to rain down poison and rattled the earth in the aftershock of devastation.

New York City, Los Angeles, and Washington D.C. had been hit only minutes apart and the smell of fire and blood filled the rubble-strewn streets, those that did not perish instantly were killed by flying shards of glass, metal, and other projectiles. The smell of burnt hair infiltrated the nostrils of the soon to be dead as veins and muscle were ripped from the bone in an instantaneous flash. The screams caught in the throats of the victims stopped before they disappeared into flames.

Not one, but four nations had launched missiles in response to the sanctions, the isolation and tightening the noose of the military to strangle countries considered to be the "enemy," by the US.

But Trump's inner circle had miscalculated, the military, his advisors with all their combined minds never truly entertained the idea that Russia or China would attack and were confident the might of the capitalist US and its military would always prevail.

Russia, Iran, North Korea, and China had long been secret allies, laid their plans and patiently awaited the day when the US could no longer hide its intentions and made no effort to do so, openly challenging territories of other nations, promoting economic terrorism, backing extremist rebels and destroying governments. as they pleased and with impunity.

The lack of, "freedom and democracy," were frequently used an excuse for the invasion of unfriendly countries, along with the seizure of assets and resources, strategic position, or refusal to use the currency of the United States.

So they fired the missiles and dropped the bombs. The people of all nations had depended on their governments to use diplomacy to negotiate the differences that were the basis of the conflict. They never expected a real nuclear conflict to occur until it came as deaths face to their door, like a flash of red light before the darkness claimed them.

And so the last war began.

My first try at writing a short story

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby May 5, 2018.
All Material Stored in Author Base



All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby May 5, 2018.
grace Apr 15
milk and honey
petals and thorns
rattled bones and empty nights
nerves sing and sleeping tea doesn't help
but the bass in my bones makes lights dance
in front of my eyes and sometimes i stay awake just to watch the fireworks because the way colors flash
and photographs snap
makes my vision blurry but it's better than dreaming
that I'm just a mess of too much and overdone
alone in the vastness of all this uncertainty.
Mary Gay Kearns Sep 2018
The rowing boat gave you half an hour
On a murky lake in the middle of a park
After waiting in a line for quite a time
One took the paddles and jumped inside.

The boat it rattled and rolled, the paddles
Clanked as each backwards move pulled
Fingers floated wide stretched in the leaf
Sycamore seeds dust meniscus shimmer.

Autumn holiday glitter in St James Park
Where the Serpentine under arch bridge
Eating sandwiches and waiting for City
Christmas lights to brighten Selfridges.

Love Mary **
Sheer May 3
Is there a chance for us to undo the past?
To correct our mistakes
To retract all the wrong doings
To take back everything

Is there someone, somehow, who can help me heal the pain?
Would there be anyone out there willing to take me in?
Who can be by side and mend me?
A living soul, who'll be there to catch me.

I'm scared. Yes, I am scared.
No, I am not. I'm terrified.
I'm extremely, terribly, gravely, terrified.
And it's terrifying that, I feel terrified.

I am nervous.
I am frightened.
I am horrified.
No, I am petrified.

But you know what the scariest thing of 'em all?
The most petrifying, horrifying thing?
Is that I am shaky and rattled—
But my body feels like sassy and comfy.

I'm getting used of doing unsuitable things
Feeling cozy and warm—
Relax and composed
It feels like having my second skin—

Oh, I know. I know —
I think — just a thought
That maybe, just maybe...
I need saving — help me.
© 2018 Sheer
All Rights Reserved.
cleo Oct 2018
her words
were rainbow birds
chirping light
and i was dazzled

inside, i find feathers
detatched and *****
blackened
without body

like
her rattled, twisted words
taken from the world
wasted
on open and unknowing skies

and i listen to the lies
Vish Sep 2018
Black bird flapping it’s delicate wings under a stormy sky

Dark clouds overhead promise of a thunderous cry

Black bird screeching a wail that sounds like a muted song

Filling the air with smoke of despair that is certain to last long

Black bird shedding it’s inky feathers after the downpour has settled

Only to be reminded of the loss that will soon leave its bones rattled
we all have a dark side
Next page