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Wass Apr 2014
The burning flowers underline the sunset and 
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating

Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson

Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.

In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.

Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely. 

The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils

Which diminish as dawn
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.

And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience 

As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 27
being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~


a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas


upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
David N Juboor Dec 2015
My mom
Tells me I'm a gift.

She says love
Is what keeps the atoms
In you and I
Is the moment
She caught my
Father's eye
Is the day
My grandfather died
With a candy kiss on his cheek
She had never tasted something so sweet.

When we were little
We played kickball,
The ground is lava
And hide-and-go-seek.
As I grew I knew most days,
It was harder to find myself;
Let alone somebody else.

And I have been around
Enough center city playgrounds
To see the rich
Pump every bit of spare change
In their veins fighting
A cancer that they
Never learned to put in their past.
To see the poor
Wage wars with themselves
Trying to pick up
Way too much,
Way too fast;

Nobody really knows how to make love last.

So put your prism your heart
Beneath the moonlight.
Refract the wavelengths
Of your wonders
Into ROYGB-eautiful like the sea,
It took a lot of jellyfish to let
people see through me.

And even more mirrors
To find a place I was comfortable
Praying in.

Fraying in doorways
Where I learned hope,
Is looking both ways
On a one way street
Cause it can be so easy to thank God
While you still have bread to eat.

I have never prayed
So hard for a healthy meal
Than the days I remember
The heart is a muscle;
And sometimes the only
Thing we need
Is to "work it out."

And I know that some days,
My doubt hangs my
Smile like Jesus Christ
I never quite learned
How to bleed right.

But if there's one thing
I found from cleaning
The crosses out of the
Empty hallway of my character
Is that you haven't experienced loss
Until you've held two outstretched arms
For years waiting for your innocence to come back.
Nothing, weighs more than the guilt of your past
And nothing throws punches
Faster than the ghost of who you used to be.

And I know it's hard
To stop looking for yourself
Under every bed you
Left nightmares in
And I know it's hard
To be comfortable
In your own skin

But sometimes bars
Aren’t the only thing
That builds a cage
And sometimes
The only way to live
With yourself
Is to stop digging
Your own grave.

You can spend years
Listening to morticians
And never get grounded.
Surrounded by the
Square roots we all share,
By the same air,
We've all got to learn to let go.

To learn that
Holding your breath
Has never been how
Living things
Learn to
"We're all hurtling towards death, yet here we are for the moment, alive. Each of us knowing we're going to die, each of us secretly believing we won't"
Morning Rainbow

Myriad prismatic crystals,
     refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
     across the misted horizon.

Eyes turned to the western skies,
     we suspend our meteorological selves  
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
     un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
     of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.

Synthetic Refractions

A luminary ballet takes center stage
    when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
      with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
      discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
     into pre-ordered spectral strata.

If the sky denies us a rainbow,
     we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!

Spectral Sound

Before there was music,
     bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
     held us captive by their banks.

Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
    With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
     With songs of wonder, joy and longing.

Before there was music,
     bird songs brushed our souls.

Robert Charles Howard, 2019
This is a rewrite and expansion of a prior poem called Morning Rainbow. The poems are design to go with an original piece for solo flute also called Prisms.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 24
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~

having already deduced that:

“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^

the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem  

I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral

no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next

has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
spontaneously born at 7:57am on
Sunday, March 24, 2019

read her poems.
T Nov 26
I laugh, a wide-eyed hum
You look right through me at the rose-tinted sea
The sunlight swirls across my skin
I close my eyes
We refract
And create a rainbow
I walk forward
Into the great expanse
Out of yearning
Out of the need to be seen
And become infinitely, immeasurably illuminable
Cyan Aug 16
I live inside a glass bottle
with crude facets
that refract
light at odd angles.
I must always be vigilant
for you want to open the bottle
so badly.
But when I can smell the air
I feel my skin ignite
And begin to boil away.
So I reach up and pull the stopper
of my volatile vial

I’m sure if I were released
the view would be fantastic.
I would rush into the world
existing only for a second,
a glittering torrent
running from the air,
leaving swallowtails of myself
as butterfly scales
behind me
as I fly,
before combusting into
an acidic mist
and scatter,
searching for a new container.

And I will not let that happen.

Because I can’t let you
breathe me in,
for your ruptured lungs
to become
my urn.
Whit Howland Oct 23
just blue
and darker blue to meet a multicolored sky

something about it seems
so familiar

you're not here
it just feels like you are

you search for it
the feeling

like the quarter
that got buried in the sand

then the images refract
as through a crystal  prism

© Whit Howland 2019
Abstract word art
AmeriMav Nov 2018
My eyes have been opened to the person who is you
And everyday's more focused, more vivid, and more true
I think you find it strange that I long to look so deep
But I want to gaze at your art, even when I sleep
And so, my dear, I've studied, to pierce your mystery
So in our time together this is what I see

I see your timeless beauty, the glory of your face
The sculpture of your body, your curvature of grace
The starlight of your eyes, the wave of your lips
The softness of your *******, the music of your hips
How delicate your hands, how supple your sweet thighs
This is what I see, when I look with merely eyes

I see your sword sharp intellect, your precision wheels that turn
The thoughtfulness in each thing you say, the way in which you learn
The wisdom which through decision you put your knowledge to play
You do not live life carelessly, as you chart the roads of day
Your opinions are worth considering, only fools should give no grind
This is what I see, my love, when I see you with my mind

I see the light refract, when it hits upon your soul
With rainbow colors brilliant, a truly transcendent goal
You don't hold back compassion, you won't force back a tear
Your love is so inspiring, even in the face of fear
The fibers of your spirit flex, ten thousand horses could not part    
This is what I see, such strength, when I see you with my heart

And this is just the start, I know, who knows what else will be
But you should know, my eyes are open, and this is what I see
Yazad Tafti Mar 27
i came onto this site because of you
and now i've been cut off from the entirety of you
you have left my sight entirely
you and narcotics reoccur in my thoughts daily....funny no one mentioned girls would give me withdrawal symptoms
i tormented you with a guilt trip, but i am guilty of tripping on my own set backs as a constant reminder of that which i don't want to be reminded
your land, exploring with you i have newly marked it

you are so beautiful...yet you deny's like denying gravity...we all know it's there.
the colourblind person may not be able to see red, but i stare at this apple for evidence.
your eyes sparkle like the glimmer of a snowflake
diamonds don't refract as much light as your eyes
alluring (hot) like a burst of magma spewed out of a volcano
you are calm and listen...listen to listen.

σχίζω (greek) must ****..i'm trying to understand, but i can't walk a mile in your shoes because i only wear flip flops/
who would walk a mile in platforms...the stage is yours.
hey :) these words are real.
the title is a chemical it.
Andrew Munn Nov 2018
I knock on doors
that refract light
as sketched shapes of hope.
That chimera of real and illusion.

I remember that in hospitals,
maternity wards and hospice,
doors are to be opened and shut
with gloved hands,
elbows or leaning hips.

I hold myself to a few words:
I needed to go
and so I do,
"one-step at a time,"
when fortitude warms the path
And otherwise,
I remember a red light in the dark
at 6 am in February,
chortling engine
with two hundred miles to traverse -
I was sleepy and restless
and beneath my hums on coffee breath
a seed sprouted
barbs and blossoms.

I doubled down on heartbreak
and the fertility of schisms,
because the world is shaped
by twisting plates that ****** and slide
into one another in dumb collision,
and for all we glean of how,
it may as well be on stone rafts of fate
we built our hopes.

— The End —