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Butch Decatoria Oct 2018
Evening shimmers wet with Autumn rain
It's sheen reflectors, mirrors, eyes

Of cavorting shadows amongst the fey
Like city tinsil this Samhain night,

Oh how lovely colors celebrate
With ghostly kin & youthful lights...

With circus-painted skins and facade
Of candied ghoulish grins,

How sweet & innocent the haunted highs
Infects each home, "trick'r'treat" of hymns.

Laughter like All's been forgiven,
All seems right, again...

Though hidden faces -  forgotten sins,
Speak sie la vie this holiday,

With carved pumpkins, witches' cry,
Screams are as illusion as the fright,

This Samhain evening’s tide .

It's all babes and monsters ball
This hallowed eve
This Samhain night

Tra la li, tra la lay
Then tomorrow is Hop tu naa...
The days after for all our saints...

Come the winter will be white,
As the ghosts this Samhain night.
the wind that howls in the deepest night
is a comforting sound
the dog that moans in the earliest light
is a soulmate found
I abhor the thought of wistful bliss
of nervous laughter unprovoked
I slip into my warm abyss
this sea of pain on which I choke
I wade in pools of sought despair
while punks seek out their mothers
I dance on floors of rotted wood
and sing to ghosts of lovers
I find it my salvation
to document this pain
to analyze the demons
and revel in the rain
perhaps one day I'll leave this place
and walk into the Sun
to share the light of happiness
content my deed is done
whole new crop of oldies I discovered. (revised) I will mix old and new.
jane taylor Jun 2016
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor
this poem is dedicated to fellow poet chris who just passed away
we love you chris!!!
http://poetfreak.com/705083/chris-vaillancourt-rip.html
Dougie Simps Aug 2017
Have you ever felt like you put on mask to hide what it is that truly eats you?
And gave everything you got to fight back  the moments that truly defeat you?
To wish upon a star that only occasionally shines
To pray to a angel who just no longer has the time
To wake up from nightmares while sleeping walking a dream
Hoping that this pretty world isn't as **** as it seems
Am I a victim?
Course I'm a victim
I hear what you're saying doc
It's just easier not to listen
I'm looking back at the mirror
I see him clearer
He's the hatred I've had inside of me and I can feel him
Can you fix that?
Stop telling me to love my dad
It's easy to diagnose someone when you haven't walked a day in their past
I respect ya comments and cherish ya feedback
But you've never hated being half of what you are while fading back!
You've never took a pill to numb your open wound
You've never drank and wrote suicidal notes alone in your room
You've felt doom?
Tell me what it was like?
Did you forgive the outcome?
Or just enjoy telling me what's right?
Can't force a triangle into a square
Can't lead a army of broken hearts until you've felt despair
Don't you dare!
Sit there, look through me and stare
Come with me first
And I'll take you down the devils stairs
I'll show you lost
Show you pain and show you terror
Show you a little boy
Whose day's just never seemed to get better
I've given my all - I've tried my best and still came up short
I've married happiness - but never saw this sudden divorce
Forever I do!
I'd go back if she wanted me back
But the insecurities and memories get in the way of all that
Don't feel my pain!
Just look at me and smile back
I can't give in too this!
NO!
I will never do that
I've cried enough and ripped out plenty of hair
I've had a pity party! Sat alone, and pretended life wasn't fair
I've enjoyed the ride
Thought itd be better to die
I've broken promises - took a loss and even attempted to swallow my pride
I've yelled loud and did plenty that I'm not proud
I've had hope and more so even had doubt
I've had this - I've had that
No sense to repeating all that
I'm just done with the same story and continuing to look back
I'm sorry for my actions and questioning my reactions
Please just accept me!
It's simple and that's all that I'm asking
I've finally arrived
I'm here and so alive
I'm ready to get what I deserve
I'm ready for my time

The old me is dead, and that’s okay because...
I revived.
Not my best piece - guess I have writer's block
Robert C Howard Oct 2018
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to stay its upward ******.

One errant step is all it takes
to breach that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless wanderer
who fails to guard his path.

Fragile calderas also roil
buried in darkest hollows of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in molten pools
of self-consuming misery.

To dress and salve our wounds
we sow gardens of reconciliation within
with beauty, trust and reason
and bow to gods of grace and solace.

But a despot’s studied eye
knows just how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot
and reason has no district.

Sisters and brothers of our flesh I pray
we find a holy and transforming alchemy
to convert our heat to light
and shield our sacred calderas
from enemies that stalk us from within.

July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
I decided to repost this poem because after scores of revisions over the years every stanza is substantially different than it was when I first wrote it in 2006.  Hopefully after 12 years, I've got it figured out.
Sally A Bayan May 10
Scent...

............is a spray  
of sweet, nagging fragrance,
borne by a rush of air,
touching nostrils as it travels,
to stimulate, and scintillate
a parade of memories,
especially, when distance is great
and truly separates...
::::::::::
could be from a bouquet of roses,
or a handful of jasmine...or,
the welcome smell of cinnamon, sage,
other spices...elements of what we call,
the fragrances of good cooking...or,
those of sweat and a fruity cologne,
blending, while working,
from caring....from loving...
::::::::::
it's a brush of summer wind
that captures, even a bit of a sniff
of any, or all of these scents...
::::::::::
these smells dwell in the senses
they reassure...that one person is never away
fears are held at bay...you're okay,
it brings calm to one's soul...
::::::::::
the nose...the other senses know,
the heart and the mind know
the source of all
these fragrances...
::::::::::
no perfume could ever equal
the scent(s) of a woman...
::::::::::

Sally



Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 30, 2018

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL MOTHERS
AND GRANDMOTHERS !!!
(From 2018......edited a bit.)
GreenTrees Jul 2018
Adore! Adore! Adore...
A prayer for sacrifice never more...

Chimes the bells against the cathedral floor!
Adore! Adore! Adore...



COPYRIGHT 2013
Karl von Mecklenburg
5.4 K reads
L B Oct 2017
Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones

...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden
One of my early memories.  I was three.  Between my first and second year,  memory begins for me-- mostly impressions and strong symbols that seem to float without time.  
My grandparents were gone, but my Uncle Ray still worked their small farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts, and we would drive up from the city on Sunday afternoons.  The house itself, was one of the oldest in New England, with the barn attached by a distinctive enclosure, to allow easy access to the animals in heavy snow, like the house described in Ethan Frome.

What's left of the farm is abandoned now. :(
The buildings cannot be torn down-- National Historic Site
There is a marker on the property: "Balise Family Homestead."
L B Jul 2018
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
   I was small then
   She had a parakeet that landed on my head
   and a bathtub too
   with water so deep!
   and legs and claws!
   **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!

She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
   where bugs hung-out in the haze
   of teenage August
   I played in the tall weeds
   with a shoeless Italian boy
   who ate tomatoes like apples
   and cucumbers right off the vine!
   He was ***** free and foreign!
   We played— reckless, abandoned
   behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn  
   and through the endless fields
   I didn’t know....
   His name was Tony
   I ate pizza with him—the first time

At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
   but I could watch night flowers
   bloom on wallpaper
   She came in to say good night
   slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
   and I peeped her *******!
   like Tony’s cucumbers!
   I had never seen my mother’s wonders....

Night spread its wings from the old fan—
   a bird of tireless exhaustion
   whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
   tireless exhaustion
   tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
   stretched out on the whine
   of the overland trucks
   Route Five through the night of an open window

In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
   crickets    crickets    crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
   a summer child
   not yet ready for the fall of answers

Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
   I followed her everywhere I could
   I was small then--    
   do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
   of being sixteen
   and woke to Peggy Lee’s “Fever”
   while she tied her sneakers
   against the mattress by my head

I followed Maureen (in my mind)
   tanned and bandanned
   to work in the fields of shade tobacco
   with all those Puerto Rican boys!
   She knew where she was going!

I was small then
...do anything for a stick of  gum

“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
   ...through the goldenrod of roadside
   through the smell of oil that damped the dust    
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
   and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
   the way the screen door slammed
   on her bright behind
   the way her lips taunted and took
   the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen

I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!

Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”

Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)

…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, be-boppin’

“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
_


Peggy Lee's Fever:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4hXyALR9vI
I was seven years old, but I somehow got this.
False Poets Jan 2015
like yours
if you'll reciprocate

follow you
if you'll follow me

repost mine
repost yours

pump up those
double discount
quantitative adulations

making everything here,
cheapened and discounted

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave...
when first we practice to deceive.”

standalone
on your merits own
the only way to stand
upright
Dougie Simps Feb 7
False claims, you said you loved me - my bed wasn’t the only place you lied. It’s funny when someone says “they’d never hurt you” - but watch you...as the blood rushes to your eyes.
Writer’s block slowly going away - feel like me again...or do I?
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