Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Joanna May 28
Pushing my way upstream to be where you are; is not one of my highest dreams.

Being one of many little tributaries isn’t so far from the place, you say to be.

And yet I find myself doing just that. Pushing and striving to understand.

Until I am empty as a dry river bank looking for what I already have at hand.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
Little Piper Dec 2013
Once a time we met
You were there smiling charmingly
Keeping your eyes away
I stood unnoticeable
I watched as you speak
As you laugh and your eyes sparkle
That charming smile I'd say!

Once a time we became friends
I enjoy teasing you, fighting with you
You never knew
Nevertheless, you treated me well
I stood frozen
I watched as you smile
As you talked with full interest
That charming look that I'd say!

Once a time we got together
We cuddled, laughed and talked
We hugged, kissed and smiled
I stood speechless
I watched your face lighten
As you looked at me with love
That warm love I'd say!

Once a time we fought
We shouted, yelled and argued
We throw tantrums with ego
I stood heartbroken
I watched your angry face
That fear I'd never forget
That person I'll always love..
Penelope Winter Jul 2017
Throughout history,

Hearts have been broken,
Children have died,
Tears have been shed
By widows who cried,
Wars have been fought,
Homes have been burned,
Errors repeated
From lessons unlearned,
Good have been murdered,
Bad given freedom,
Rich throw to waste
What the poor yearn to feed on.
Few have found refuge;
Re-learned how to smile.

Who?

The poets who sat down
And wrote for a while.

- p. winter
Steve Page Sep 2018
leave to remain
stay to move on
tear down to build
some space to call home

make new reminders
keep a fresh store
full of faint memories
with room for much more

drink to old allies
drink to forget
laugh with new friends
shake off your regret

this is tomorrow
a brand new today
this is fresh start
you're welcome to stay
There's room. Just shift over.
Nathaniel Apr 27
You creep behind refuge, exemplifying human nature
The dearth of your kindness kindles my feature

Your tongue must flavor of dust or dirt
For your falsehoods lay with incessant inert

When God formed you he fabricated sin
Stitched with worthlessness that festers within

I know your deeds and will sing them atop the trees
And your precious pride will perish with my lip's ease

I would do a charity and release your soul from the earth
And make the pain as profitable as your life was worth

Death will wear you as a cape in the afterlife
He'll carve his name in you everyday with a boning knife

It is a sad dawn in hell when you arrive
But it was your fate son, you mustn't deny
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
The world's gone mad but my mind is made up.
Time to let ya'll into the darkroom of my mind,
A place where I'm the referee of a poetic world cup.
This is where I am creative even though I'm blind
Don't get me wrong I am not leaving from town.
No more radio or TV saturated with all the sad news,
I have got enough breaking news of my very own...
Breaking to me each and every moment as it brews.
Come and meet the hard drive of my creative doom,
That contains my beautiful and liberated mind.
Welcome to my one bright side I call my darkroom,
It's a place that's so special, I reckon it's one of a kind.

You have to know that I always act blind but I see.
In my mind, I can walk stack naked and levitate.
My mind is where I remain totally black and free.
Come join me set my poetic dial and help me activate,
The code that will outshine any power on this earth.
My mind is where I live and where nobody has access,
Here I can run a poetic marathon without taking a breath,
Call it my playground and intellectual fortress.

My mind is deep, a place of absolute calm and refuge,
Somewhere I will always see as the final frontier.
It is dangerous and toxic like a nuclear centrifuge.
In there, I am all alert and vigilant like a soldier.
My mind is a darkroom where I give birth to new ideas.
It is a vessel and place in which I do magic with letters.
It is my holy land of thoughts, my own creative Judea,
Where each idea is sacred and light as bird feathers.

Welcome to the epicenter of my creative mind.
This is where I turn letters into spoken words
A front line of creativity where no one leaves behind.
Come and see where all words become useful swords.
My mind produces powerful words like some light beams...
Courageous and powerful words for extra motivation.
Spoken Words that will light up people's faded dreams.
Now you know that up in my mind are no limitation,
There exists an enormous capacity of time and space.
Welcome one, welcome all to the darkroom of my mind
Take a seat and be calm, be quiet this is my place
For this here is my personal creative post of command.



www.poemhunter.com/IvanBrookssr
#Vanguard-poetry23
#IvanBrookspoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
@Bassapoet
My mind is the final frontier..the bright side I call my darkroom where I process loose letters into spoken words.
ryn Apr 2015
This is me...*          
Seeking refuge          
under a tree,          
As the wind released          
it's pensive sigh.          
Leaves sapped dry          
were then set free.          
Shades of yellow          
took to the air in an          
attempt to fly.          

This is me...
Peering through
jaundiced eyes.
Laying still
in a torrent of
ochre.
As leaves fall
from lowered skies,
Drenching
and
submerging
me in a sea of
scattered amber.

This is me...          
Captivated by this          
spectacular phenom.         
Flavescent dance          
governed by          
wind and gravity.         
This is the dream...          
Too long held for ransom          
By the relentless          
grasp of reality.         

This is me...
Awaiting such time to
arise and run.
In my heap,
my safe haven,
my fortress of yellow.
Till the inevitable set of
the *orange
sun
Only then...
myself to the moon
I would again
show.
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
Healing leaves are now disrobed branches
on the edge of this wilderness.
Many tall Douglas Fir stand sentinel
over 100 foot tall amazing grace — the fleeting leaves
expose the beauty of the moss clad scaffolds
adorned with a lime-grey lichen lace
Nature is my refuge — solid ground to stand
in this harmony and peacefulness.


Jesse Stillwater — December 2018
Left as a comment yesterday, mused by "Healing Leaves" by Reena Sharma:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2843497/healing-leaves/
Neuvalence Jan 4
The children grew heavy on our backs
The desert sun was baking our skin
But we could still see sand, endless at the horizon
We knew our last days were near.
Wordsmith Apr 13
There are many of us
Yet few like us
Different tho we might be
Least we know our difference together

I felt alone
And you extended your solace
A comforting refuge
In fight and in counsel

Now my days fall silent
And I seek your voice
Have you indulging my quirks
Or chiding my folly

Try as I might
To fill this void
Words are spoken
Yet silence persists

Wherever you are
I miss you my friend
Wherever you are
You are but far
Some friendships will always remain dear
Mariam Jan 2018
I contain her thoughts
Her secrets
Her sorrow
I harbor her sadness
Her loneliness
Her quarrels
I’m not just a poem
I am her refuge ... I am her hope ...
Lizzy Jun 2016
My hands have betrayed me.
Once the means to write pages,
Now my hands are only dead weight.

My hands won't pick up a pen.
Or even type short,
Choppy sentences.

They dangle at my sides
And find refuge in my hair,
Leaving me bleeding.

Like my hands,
My mouth has declared itself
My enemy.

Once the passageway for words
To explain myself,
My mouth is now as useful as a broken bridge.

With nothing of value to say,
It talks  
And sings anyway.

It opens without my permission
But stays closed whenever I try
To scream meaning.

The inability to illustrate
Or translate my mind
And my soul
Is not an unfamiliar ordeal.

But it's lonely on the outside
And frustrating looking in.
It seems I'll always feel like an alien.
L B Jan 2017
If that night could remember
it would call him back
to our Chinese restaurant
to fried rice and steaming tea
to our winter refuge of tile and cushions
60s retro black and white
Chrome legs of lacquered tables
with its mural of
our Great Wall

...winding, distant, wonder

If the snow hadn't muffled all
but our voices
we would not be—

so alone

Only I
felt his arm take its chance
around my shoulder
Guiding warmth
as good excuse as any
to touch

Two miles on foot
An arc in time
In lace of white
to hide— what might....

Below my window
“Good Night”
not enough
for troubadour
singing, pleading, stumbling...

(I worry about his long way home)

...and hardly notice...

How gently Time joins Snow
as if they cannot bare
instead, conspire
Decide the crystals
Send the flakes to sift over him

This loss needs snow
to blur his face
to fade from view....

This— tender let-down from the sky
As only snow can do...

Cover with beauty

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6o6zMPLcXZ8
Lowell, Massachusetts, January, 1970... Love was lost in the storm of war politics, *****, drugs, and grief.  His brother was a priest and chaplain, killed in Vietnam.
ryn Dec 2014
My last few hours,
In the land of a week's refuge.
Bade goodbye to water towers,
Away with sunsets made of rouge.

Ready to fulfil a previous standing pact
To a life I left and put on hold.
I'll leave you in memories of retrospect.
An experience worth weight in gold.

As always I find myself in the driveway .
Standing all alone, in the dark.
Looking up at what does lay.
Spellbound as usual as the distant dogs bark.

I'm sending wishes into space,
Kisses to the dots in the sky.
Going to miss this place...
As the coming year would go by.

I'd long for you,
My twinkling lovelies in my nights.
Following hours would be through
You'd be replaced by city lights.

For now allow me to drink you to a stupor.
A feast I can't get enough of.
Let these minutes extend into forever...
Goodbye Darwin stars, you have all my love.
Time to go home.
Knit Personality Jan 2016
Thou wert to me a refuge and a friend,—
A place to rest my head at daytime’s end,—
A place to whole days pleasurably spend.

As snug as is a baby in a womb,
I lived within thy walls: would that my room
Could one day once more serve me as a tomb.

O.O
tonight all is silent
on these quiiet waters
and tonight all is silent in me
again i have entered
into her state of grace
and i taste of what heaven might be

i've held back no secrets
and envisioned the truth
and the truth seems so easy to see
i've forgiven myself
sought forgiveness from her
and her sweet words of love set me free

i know i will stumble
today and tomorrow
but my mem'ry of now will still be
a gem of great value
a refuge i'll cherish
right now and for eternity
love the silent sound of her flowing waters
In all our haunted houses
Are ghosts just wrapped in sheets
And the vampires and werewolves
Havent been seen in weeks
We diagnosed the children
Who heard voices in their rooms
Now all they do is paint the walls
In crayola crayon hues
And the monsters under our stairs and beds
Seek refuge in our closets
As we boiled imagination down
To vibrations in quartz deposits
Jim Davis May 2017
Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early

I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights

We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care

Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times

Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame

This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums

Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights

Kevan's brother, still alive,  Keith
My other brother by another,  Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss

All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often

Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him

©  2017 Jim Davis
Kevan passed away over a year ago.  I just wrote the poem recently.
Next page