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Brody Blue May 2018
Sunday's bell broke the recess
And three times, as professed,
The gavel rapped before the rooster's caw.
The horn was blown, the drum was beat,
And in the top of every street
We swooned with the wounded at the wall.
And we said nothing but our prayers;
But if someone's heard something,
Nobody cares.

And now with the yellow moon
Fixed beyond the clouds that loom,
It soon would be a day the devil owned.
High on horseback, thru the mud,
They came and bathed their hands in blood,
From the thumb up to the funny-bone.
And we said nothing but our prayers;
But if someone's heard something,
Nobody cares.

And, by and by,
We will crawl
Before we fly,
High above
The middle of
Utopia.

Lightning made the thunder ring
Until the dawn, when suddenly,
Light divided darkness in the east.
Thus once more the wheel has turned
And proved itself a viperous worm
That gnaws the bowels of the beast.
And we said nothing but our prayers;
But if someone's heard something,
Nobody cares.

And, by and by,
We will crawl
Before we fly,
High above
The middle of
Utopia.
A song about an honorable man.
Samuel Hoffmann Aug 2018
Remember when we spelled things wrong,
or when we were picky about what we ate?
When fire and police men were the only two jobs,
we’d play house with friends on playdates.

And then we grew up just a little more,
sports and toys filled our lives.
We went to school and had recess galore,
oh the fear for cuties, oh what great times.

And then we grew up just a wee bit more,
we learned to add, subtract, and multiply.
Not far after we went to high school and college,
they warned us, they said “time will fly by.”

And then we grew up just couple years more,
next thing we knew we were the family of four,
Then late at night when the kids were in bed,
we would dream of being young once more.

And then we grew up for the last few times more,
Our children had children of their own.
We lost our friends and babysat grandkids,
as our bodies ached down to the bone.

Remember when we spelled things wrong?
And then we grew up just a little more,
And then we grew up just a wee bit more,
And then we grew up just couple years more
And then we grew up for the last few times more,
Until we no longer grew any more.
...

--sam
duane hall Jan 29
As I slowly fall into the grip of mezzo consciousness
Your face emerges from the mist
A face this beautiful I shall never forget
Nor will I ever forget your beautiful silhouette
Is it really you, how can this be?
Last time I saw you,  you were wild and free
In the meadows we  used to run
Or Is this just an  illusion
You reach out your hand and we slowly caress
Your tongue explores my mouth's  inner recess
I slowly survey the curve of your lingerie
You leave me speechless, you take my breath away
Oh my god what's that horrible sound?
I open my eyes to find myself earthbound
I slowly turn over to silence the alarm
****, it was just a dream, I'm back on the farm.
Born of Fire Jun 2014
The violet sky stood bashful against the dimming horizon. Stark trees sprang from the ground, flourishing in dots midst the blushing stars.

Street lights flicker on, reminding me of how mom didn't have to yell for me to come home, the lights whispered it to me, carried in the caressing breeze.

I'm reminded in the spring, of the day me and my friend ran into the pelting rain and jumped through puddles, soaking our bodies in high pitched laughter and impending colds.

I'm always reminded in the summer months, how everyone including myself, preferred water from the hose over water from the tap. Or how we'd run rampant through the field behind my house, screaming against the heat.

The broken sidewalk reminds me of the time when we all thought we were cool for trying to smoke cigarettes we stole from our parents.

I fell in love with patches of clovers more than that of a boy's selfish smile. I was more in love with the act of collecting lady bugs as pets rather than holding a hand pushed into mud.

I preferred shallow swimming pools over the small voice of a boy asking me if i had other friends like them. Or how the beam of the sun was better than the beam of a slender, pale face with blue eyes.

Blind and innocent children, we fell in love with things we could touch or splash in. We fell in love with the beautiful colors and characters in our favorite Saturday morning cartoons. When we weren't playing cops and robbers, we were lost in a world of SEGA and Super Nintendo 64. We were infatuated with a world that never altered, but our vision cleared of.

We were saturated in a time where our only big worry was making sure we got our recess time. And when the smog cleared we realized our biggest worry was making our parents proud.
And it seems that it should be the other way. We should be proud of the kid our parents raised.
But ultimately, the monsters under our beds became the demons in our heads.
And the kid your parents raised
slowly became the kid you wish your parents never had.

There won't be a day in my life where i wish i could fall in love with the sound of an ice cream truck, or the animals at the end of my bed again.
Jordan Rowan Jun 2016
I died on a Tuesday and found my way in the news
Caught between a commercial and karaoke singing girl
Was the appearance of the killer but they only had his shoes

I approached the desk and rang a little bell
Saint Peter took out a pen, found my name and said
"You're not on the list, you must be looking for Hell."

I tried to appeal for trial in Heavenly Courtroom Twelve
Judge Jesus and Judy had to declare a hung jury
And during recess I had to find a bed in Purgatory Hotel

In Room 237, I met a man named Avery
He was a little cynical and said that this was typical
That "it took them 18 years to finally save me."

In the morning I finally I got to hear the verdict
Led by a jury of peers such as writers and queers
They said hell awaits those whose life isn't worth it
Homunculus Jan 7
Enraptured in
a fevered spasm,

Captured in the
mind's phantasm,

Swimming through
the ectoplasm,

Pouring from the
roaring chasm,

Hidden in the
soul's recess

A subtle, gentle,
warm caress

So jubilant, it  
doth redress,

The hindrances which
so suppress,

The progress of the
spirit's wellness,

Showing things which
words can't tell us,

Giving gifts, which
none can sell us,

Do you
hear the
bell that's
ringing?
                  
ringing
              from a
                           distant
                                        shore?

It resonates from
mammoth spheres,

In orbit, shedding
countless years,

Through aeons of
causality,

And boundless
temporality

We see how worlds
arise and cease,

We see how yearning
lays the fleece,

The wool over the eyes,
deceiving, cool

Dispassion's peace
relieving, our

Great webs
of pain and sorrow,

Darkening,
to light the morrow

For as all things
must come apart,

So suffering's,
great work of art,

is merely but
a transience,

receding slowly
in the dark.
Notes.
Lilly frost Oct 2017
If only things were as easy as 1,2,3
A,B,C
Like elementary
Arithmetic and spelling
Simple science
Gym was always stunning
Recess was revered
The swings were sacred
Writing on the jungle gym
Laughing
Running off with friends to play
Being enchanted by the smell of coffee and trees
Magic every second you breathe
Simply because you were somewhere you weren't supposed to be
Close your eyes
Now what do you see?
Darkness?
Dots of color?
Phantoms of light?
Remember when you saw dragons
Wizards
Whole worlds enchanting
When you walked people said it seemed like you were dancing
Remember when you were happy?
There was no worry about what to do
What are you going to be?
You had your whole life
Figure out what to do
Well what now?
What's your plan?
Too bad
Too late
It's not elementary
None of your dreams can come true
You're completely *******
Hello Daisies Dec 2018
Early morning dew
Misty foggy air
Fills my lungs

Chilly unconvered hands
Dripping wet windows
Eases my clogged mind

Puddles in the road
Silent lights dimmed near by
Creates calm in my face

Nostalgia pierced through
Children playing at recess
Easing my eyes back to sleep
It rained and it was all misty at 7am and like it gave me nostalgia and the smell after it rained just i love it
trf Sep 2018
we danced in the streets as the days were long
only recess and reckoning while water crept in
this city of dead, our place, where the stench lives
and bodies float, lying above the crypt's graves  

hurricane red absinthe & hand grenades
slugging the gulf like a shooter's brigade
a forecast shifts, flooding any escape
so we fire our motors with boats on em.
nola luvs u
Monika Layke Aug 10
Waves, in deep recess
ripen martini steep green
soul in spicy drifts

consciousness peppers
seas within corked goldfinch

in the stars, everywhere
sticky rivers flow, ticktocks
a second sacred garden
Axion Prelude Aug 2018
I'll seek refuge in places that don't hold my name to be true, and even in emptiness I remain wrought through heavy handed tones of antipathy

Echoes of resolute desire plea with somber empathy, but remain indefinitely beyond the horizon of which I can not seek - and I shall remain waiting for something that has yet to come, for good it seems..

It rings barren any semblance of genuineness, the shadows I fall under; in plighted qualms, through quarreled teeth; without strength to hold my own, my very soul becomes the ground with which they walk

Desolation is the staunch friend from which I may not doubt will never be there in my time of need; and what I truly need, I fear, will never set foot upon my gaze

Like a sullen rose barred behind a glass wall, bereft of life giving nutrients and slowly wilting away one pedal at a time: I'll solemnly gaze upon the last glimmer of hope what was once profound and pure, now gripped with agony, and sin; decaying, alone, forever out of reach with only my eyes and heart to embrace it, yet never once again know what it may feel like to hold close with my own flesh

I am surrounded by an unspoken emptiness; an infinite abyss in every direction, except forward - and to each footstep I hear an echo of its past, one more inch beyond itself and gone before the last moments incur what hollow life is left within

Each passing moment brings me further to the edge of the unknown, this hope that's guided me for this long has burned like an eternal candle, now wisping what light is left to bear before me

One step more, and into the embracing darkness I will fall unto

The cries of war are beginning to recess; the battle has ceased, and I am still without a place to call home
I am utterly exhausted, in heart, mind, and soul
Can we go back
To a time when
The worst thing
You could call someone
Was mean
And when all we cared about
Was finding someone
To play with at recess

Can we go back
To when
Smiles weren’t fake
And laughs weren’t forced
To the times
Where the only lines
On our arms
Were our friends numbers

Can we go back
To the times
That we weren’t thinking
Of depression and suicide
To a time
When if we wanted to be happy
We didn’t have to commit a crime

If I had known
Growing up would be like this
I wouldn’t have wanted
To grow up
So fast.
One nut bob Mar 2018
It's what's oppressed to relieve the stress that burns on, I am depressed but falling out of lonely recess. Beginning to see through eyes, I am not alive. Though without these pills, I hide, for a I promise I won't die. But it's these lies that keep me insecure inside. I guess it's just the narcotic in me. What brings out the sicotic envy of our relationship. Save it *****, face me and just relay that nip to you’re hellish pit.
Emeka Mokeme Aug 2018
Only the bat knows
the secret of every night.
So if you want to know
what happened in the dark,
you ask the bat.
There are mysteries
lurking in the dark.
Treasures are hidden within
the depths of the earth.
In the dark night up in the
galaxy at night is when the
heavens display their glory.
Within the darkness inside
the thick forest the mysteries
of creation hidden away from
the prowling eyes of humans
comes out to play.
Even beneath the ocean
where the surf searches
the sand for secrets,
there are mysteries
lurking therein.  
It is so difficult and even
near impossible to know
the thoughts a of man's heart.
Inside the silent thoughts of
the consciousness of man
mysteries are wrought there.
Within the sacred seed carried in
the dark recess of the man
and deposited inside the womb
of a woman for nine months,
the creation of life in the dark ******
are made manifest.
No eyes have ever seen the hidden
mysteries of creation.
No words can explain, express
or describe the wonders of God.
Utterance ceased when trying to
explain the beauty of the
mystery of creation.
No words can fully tell the stories
of all the mysterious things lurking
in the dark night of the earth.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Wade Redfearn Sep 2018
The first settlers to the area called the Lumber River Drowning Creek. The river got its name for its dark, swift-moving waters. In 1809, the North Carolina state legislature changed the name of Drowning Creek to the Lumber River. The headwaters are still referred to as Drowning Creek.

Three p.m. on a Sunday.
Anxiously hungry, I stay dry, out of the pool’s cold water,
taking the light, dripping into my pages.
A city with a white face blank as a bust
peers over my shoulder.
Wildflowers on the roads. Planes circle from west,
come down steeply and out of sight.
A pinkness rises in my breast and arms:
wet as the drowned, my eyes sting with sweat.
Over the useless chimneys a bank of cloud piles up.
There is something terrible in the sky, but it keeps breaking.
Another is dead. Fentanyl. Sister of a friend, rarely seen.
A hand reaches everywhere to pass over eyes and mouths.
A glowing wound opens in heaven.
A mirror out of doors draws a gyre of oak seeds no one watches,
in the clear pool now sunless and black as a cypress swamp.

Bitter water freezes the muscles and I am far from shore.
I paddle in the shallows, near the wooden jail.
The water reflects a taut rope,
feet hanging in the breeze singing mercy
at the site of the last public hanging in the state.
A part-white fugitive with an extorted confession,
loved by the poor, dumb enough to get himself captured,
lonely on this side of authority: a world he has never lived in
foisting itself on the world he has -
only now, to steal his drunken life, then gone again.

1871 - Henderson Oxendine, one of the notorious gang of outlaws who for some time have infested Robeson County, N. C., committing ****** and robbery, and otherwise setting defiance to the laws, was hung at Lumberton, on Friday last in the presence of a large assemblage. His execution took place a very few days after his conviction, and his death occurred almost without a struggle.

Today, the town square collapses as if scorched
by the whiskey he drank that morning to still himself,
folds itself up like Amazing Grace is finished.
A plinth is laid
in the shadow of his feet, sticky with pine,
here where the water sickens with roots.
Where the canoe overturned. Where the broken oar floated and fell.
Where the snake lives, and teethes on bark,
waiting for another uncle.

Where the tobacco waves near drying barns rusted like horseshoes
and cotton studs the ground like the cropped hair of the buried.
Where schoolchildren take the afternoon
to trim the kudzu growing between the bodies of slaves.
Where appetite is met with flood and fat
and a clinic for the heart.
Where barges took chips of tar to port,
for money that no one ever saw.

Tar sticks the heel but isn’t courage.
Tar seals the hulls -
binds the planks -
builds the road.
Tar, fiery on the tongue, heavy as bad blood in the family -
dead to glue the dead together to secure the living.
Tar on the roofs, pouring heat.
Tar is a dark brown or black viscous liquid of hydrocarbons and free carbon,
obtained from a wide variety of organic materials
through destructive distillation.
Tar in the lungs will one day go as hard as a five-cent candy.

Liberty Food Mart
Cheapest Prices on Cigarettes
Parliament $22.50/carton
Marlboro $27.50/carton

The white-bibbed slaughterhouse Hmong hunch down the steps
of an old school bus with no air conditioner,
rush into the cool of the supermarket.
They pick clean the vegetables, flee with woven bags bulging.
What were they promised?
Air conditioning.
And what did they receive?
Chickenshit on the wind; a dead river they can't understand
with a name it gained from killing.

Truth:
A man was flung onto a fencepost and died in a front yard down the street.
A girl with a grudge in her eyes slipped a razorblade from her teeth and ended recess.
I once saw an Indian murdered for stealing a twelve-foot ladder.
The red line indicating heart disease grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating cardiovascular mortality grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating motor vehicle deaths grows higher and higher.
I burn with the desire to leave.

The stories make us full baskets of dark. No death troubles me.
Not the girl's blood, inert, tickled by opiates,
not the masked arson of the law;
not the smell of drywall as it rots,
or the door of the safe falling from its hinges,
or the chassis of cars, airborne over the rise by the planetarium,
three classmates plunging wide-eyed in the river’s icy arc –
absent from prom, still struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts -
the gunsmoke at the home invasion,
the tenement bisected by flood,
the cattle lowing, gelded
by agriculture students on a field trip.

The air contains skin and mud.
The galvanized barns, long empty, cough up
their dust of rotten feed, dry tobacco.
Men kneel in the tilled rows,
to pick up nails off the ground
still splashed with the blood of their makers.

You Never Sausage a Place
(You’re Always a ****** at Pedro’s!)
South of the Border – Fireworks, Motel & Rides
Exit 9: 10mi.

Drunkards in Dickies will tell you the roads are straight enough
that the drive home will not bend away from them.
Look in the woods to see by lamplight
two girls filling each other's mouths with smoke.
Hear a friendly command:
boys loosening a tire, stuck in the gut of a dog.
Turn on the radio between towns of two thousand
and hear the tiny voice of an AM preacher,
sharing the airwaves of country dark
with some chords plucked from a guitar.
Taste this water thick with tannin
and tell me that trees do not feel pain.
I would be a mausoleum for these thousands
if I only had the room.

I sealed myself against the flood.
Bodies knock against my eaves:
a clutch of cats drowned in a crawlspace,
an old woman bereft with a vase of pennies,
her dead son in her living room costumed as the black Jesus,
the ***** oil of a Chinese restaurant
dancing on top of black water.
A flow gauge spins its tin wheel
endlessly above the bloated dead,
and I will pretend not to be sick at dinner.

Misery now, a struggle ahead for Robeson County after flooding from Hurricane Matthew
LUMBERTON
After years of things leaving Robeson County – manufacturing plants, jobs, payrolls, people – something finally came in, and what was it but more misery?

I said a prayer to the city:
make me a figure in a figure,
solvent, owed and owing.
Take my jute sacks of wristbones,
my sheaves and sheaves of fealty,
the smell of the forest from my feet.
Weigh me only by my purse.
A slim woman with a college degree,
a rented room without the black wings
of palmetto roaches fleeing the damp:
I saw the calm white towers and subscribed.
No ingrate, I saved a space for the lost.
They filled it once, twice, and kept on,
eating greasy flesh straight from the bone,
craning their heads to ask a prayer for them instead.

Downtown later in the easy dark,
three college boys in foam cowboy hats shout in poor Spanish.
They press into the night and the night presses into them.
They will go home when they have to.
Under the bridge lit in violet,
a folding chair is draped in a ***** blanket.
A grubby pair of tennis shoes lay beneath, no feet inside.
Iced tea seeps from a chewed cup.
I pass a bar lit like Christmas.
A mute and pretty face full of indoor light
makes a promise I see through a window.
I pay obscene rents to find out if it is true,
in this nation tied together with gallows-rope,
thumbing its codex of virtues.
Considering this just recently got rejected and I'm free to publish it, and also considering that the town this poem describes is subject once again to a deluge whose damage promises to be worse than before, it seemed like a suitable time to post it. If you've enjoyed it, please think about making a small donation to the North Carolina Disaster Relief Fund at the URL below:
https://governor.nc.gov/donate-florence-recovery
Treading between the leaves
Myopically stricken off the record
Keeps me coursing on the fallen leaves
Golden, brown, yellow, orange
As the height of my captivating self
Comes up with the peaceful
Suicide, orange is the new black
Of living half-conscious through memories unknown
Beknownst tripping or hallucinating
On a brimming hallucinogen, die inside or unbeing
Within the happy recess, we aren't able to say something about the same karma
The king can do anything if he can carry the humor
Spring can finally be full of mist, everything is still
"I am the lizard king I can do anything"-Jim Morrison
A song kid talked of poetry
Like it was placed for thinking and for presentation
And nature was written in the attraction to creative arts
She kept burning the midnight oil
The streets were illuminated by the flame of distress and desire
To become better, and the single line that she knew honestly
Life might talk of different angles to the wretched circumstance
The perception of a child in the poor encumbrance of a truly myopic poet
The one of toil and summer, and writhing in your experiences
Life can be complex for someone who writes on demanding terms of endearment
This is called achievement and recess, or talk of wisdom
Satvik gupta Jul 14
When i was young,
Had funny days.
Bunking the classes,
Each and every day.

Our school started off with the holy prayer,
Division, subtraction everywhere.
Next came,  the shakespeare,
Learning literature was a nightmare.

We were just dozing off.

Yay!!
The recess time,
Doin' nasty things
Creepy crimes.

Sweet couples enjoying their day,
We singles
Always prayed,

Last thing i remember
Was the fight between us
Smoking hard
Inside the bus.

I hope u will remember those days,
Let's meet on someday.
Do ya remember those days ,
Had funny names,
And creepy plays
ronnie hunt Dec 2018
‘one medium coffee, plain and simple’ says the man at the counter
he’s the dad of my friend from elementary school
and i’m spilling the coffee and hoping he doesn’t recognize me
and i’m getting flustered
and he’s asking the total and pulling out his iphone
cause you can pay with those things now
and you don’t have to sign the receipt
and i mumbled ‘have one’
and i meant to say ‘have a good one’ and i try to repeat
myself but he’s walking away now
and he’s already through the door and i’m still standing here
trying to get the words right
talking to myself
and i’m sure he probably thinks i’m an idiot
and he’s probably glad his daughter switched friend groups in fifth grade
because she found people who liked musicals more than me
and they sang and danced at recess while i sat and read
and he’s probably glad
yeah he’s probably glad we’re not friends anymore
we’re not friends anymore
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