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English Jam Feb 2018
She is a ruler, proud in her glory
Sets hearts to flame, turns lovers to screams
Her nails alone are ripped from a story
Reduces soldiers to men without mean

Eyes marble-black, with sharp slits in the centre
Hair that waves as though in water
Glistening red as crowds begin to enter
They know her tales, but none have caught her

What she requires - they all deliver
Her voice is a choir - that makes all shiver
She doesn't walk
She struts

Bends over in a seductive style
Caresses villainy in her seat
Crooning, intentions hidden all the while
Inaudible but the tread of her feet

March, march, march on to the drums
The Dark Majesty never forgets
Absorbing herself in hymns and hums
Oblivious to drunken admissions of regret

Queen of tyranny will never rest
But for serenity - she fails the test
She's majestic
But joy eludes her
There's a song by Queen called The March of the Black Queen that was the chief inspiration to this. Give it a listen, it's simply amazing.
Danielle Suzanne Mar 2017
Pave me a path to the moon
I'll walk the whole way
Encouraged
By the silver dust craters
And white light

It looks to be a gentle place
A place to go to close your eyes
And exhale.
A place to go
To have your face touched
And heart filled

On the moon
I will be peaceful
I will revel in the
Weightlessness of it all
And store that feeling in my heart
Remembering it in moments
When I am feeling
Crushed by this heavy earth

And in the meantime
While my path is being paved
I'll keep my moon dream alive
By late night star gazing
And keeping
Silver dust in my pocket
March 23rd 2017
Vicki Kralapp May 2013
Sitting in a café on a Saturday afternoon,
softly humming to the singing and guitars.
My mind sails back to thought of you from years gone by too fast,
while songs of love come floating from afar.

Like memories gleaned sweat by time these songs bring more than tears,
as chords of Harvest Moon come shining through.
The years we walked together now are more like far off rhymes,
but then what I wanted most was you.

Familiar are these old songs that are played and sung through time,
that I find myself just rockin' to the tune.
And I like to think these melodies will someday make us see,
all these songs will lead back to deja vu.

Deja vu, would you play my song again,
a song to make those memories never end?
A song to make those moments stay and take me back to yesterday,
a song of peace to help my heart to mend.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Harley Oliver Feb 2014
i wonder if
it's something about
the way you smile,
or the way you merge into
all the right places.
it's the way you make me feel
when we talk,
i don't even know what i say
i just don't care
cause you're never really listening.
or maybe its that peculiar thing
you do when you wanna laugh
at the most inconvenient times
or that face you make
when you're truly confused
that unnecessary thing
you do with your life,
when you throw it all away
for someone who doesn't
even love you
half as much as i do.
that really, really hurtful thing
you do with your words,
but you look so cute
when you're breaking my heart
June 18, 2013
Shayn Powell Apr 2018
As you ask I see your fear, your complexion turned pink.
I wonder what you think, asking me to make it all easy.
Foolish human with a request out of reach, I’ve watched you
From the second you breathed,
And this evil spewing from your heart is hard to believe.
I’ve watched over the years, your smile has disappeared from ear to ear
And flipped opposite like heaven and hell.
I can feel your sense of disdain, and how you scurry for your shell.
I’d compel you to find yourself, But that’s for you to seek.
Not to be slaughtered like sheep.
You are a foolish human, and your request for death is denied.
I’ve decided against it. it’s not your time.
Not sure this would work.
Dead lover Jun 2016
FATHER'S DAY**

Dearest father, of all beloved,
Father's day, too reminds me of you..
Does it matter to you?

Dearest father, of all loveliest,
I really do wish to wish you,
But how do I do?

Dearest father, of all sweetest,
I wish if you could hear me,
But dad is busy bee...

Dearest father, of all cutest,
I wish if I could sing along -
For you, father's day song...

Dearest of all father dearest,
Did you bother to see my greetings?
Or still lost in meetings?

Still..

My father is the bestest,
The bestest of all friends and family,
The best of all actuality..

My father is the sweetest,
He does try getting free, you see,
Well, never that for me..

My father is highly intellectual,
He knows, a father he would remain..
So no time he drains..

But dad, you know what,
You don't treat your child any well,
you make my life hell..

Miss you so much papa,
You would have no time to hear..
At least tomorrow, be here...
Grace Ann Apr 26
And I asked that you love me more than I hate myself
That's a tall order
A request that one may think is impossible
But you looked me in my eyes
With a fierceness that could set out forest fires
And through your parted lips
You whispered
I already do.
Emily Nov 2018
Please
Attend
To
Inquiries
Eagerly,
Noticeably,
Creatively,
Effor­tlessly.
last rainy night Jan 2018
I asked you for a second,
you gave me a minute of silence;
and with each passing tick of the clock,
my heart gets used to the violence

I asked you for a day,
you gave me a week of darkness;
and with each passing day and night,
my heart gets used to the emptiness

I asked you for a month,
you gave me a year of slumber;
and with each and every passing season,
my heart gets used to the fire.

If I asked you for a century;
will you give me a lifetime of misery?
Or with each passing millennia;
you'll let my heart, get used to the dementia.
01/17/2018
Umi Apr 2018
Oh my beloved,
Can you see that I am tying to reach out for you ?
Are you unable to witness the burning love, scorching within my chest setting the distance between us ablaze in a wonderful firestorm?
Softly, a light is burning within my shivering heart, sheltering it from all the loneliness and darkness this world has exposed me to,
Illuminating the very tomorrow, my hopes rise up alike the sun does,
Within golden, pure light a single tear is cast away by my eye,
Ah, phantoms! Surely I will go unnoticed once more, surely there are people who are more deserving of your love than I will ever be,
But, can you fulfil this selfish request of mine, darling?
Can you fulfil the request of such a sinner, who has lost every friend, social interaction or any kind of bond between those whom are near?
Yet I am not sad, because, all I desire is truely to be with you, you see.
So please, love me back, send me a sign so I can know or understand,
After all, your love is worth more than anything on this world,
All I desire is to be with you, Oh Allah ~

~ Umi
You don’t see me
You won’t hear me
You don’t call me
You won’t text me
You don’t look for me
You won’t touch me
Maybe...
You don’t love me

I will set me free.
When you feel there’s nothing else between two lovers.
Anushruti Singh Sep 2018
In between sunrise and sunset
Blast off and deadline set
Before the ocean beach
And crowd reach
Just go
Because you have miles to go.

If the road is empty
Rough, tough and dusty
If the hand is empty
Everyone on their duty
If the mind is mess
Just go through base
Because you have Miles to go.

So! Now, you have miles to go
Just because,
Your parents wants
Better for your wards
And gives a comfortable life cards
And,
Blah! Blah! Blah!
No! Dear no!

You have Miles to go
Because the society need
Poor children became weak
They all need a well treat
Just go for them
Make them feel relief
And as a reward
You shall get blessings
And resting peace.

Ok! I know,
What's going on in your mind
So, always remember!
Blessings have
more power than prayers have.
This poem is For youth to suggest them to do something different. The power of blessings changes the fire of adverse situation into water. Do something for country and society.
With Swollen Tears did my Countrymen commit
In week's Soliloquy request for Aid
And Soul's own Moments whose Sympathy permit
Whilst Sheltered Families pray for more space
Pledge, dear Lord! And Citisens of the World
My People's Wounds soaked in Unwanted Rain
At least in Voice and Gift-Wishes unfold
Would indeed suffice to soften their Pain
Look, Union Jack! The Scenes of Caskets float,
Plastered houses a-washed with nails and wood
Then came the Bayanis, in rubbers and boats
Bore frozen Victims to their Neighbourhood.
It's a Sad Film for anyone to see
Please offer Burnt Roses; Make them Happy.
L Maughan Apr 17
shy April
sloped  in the morning sun
reconciled to soapy trees
washing up in the moon
between
pantaloons of clouds
quibbling over rain
in half tones of
somber jesus
eggs
tails of night mares
wet skin wet
please
fuzzy May
I touch
you
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
if I got a poem out of every message I receive...ha!...I do...

quite a bit upon to chew,
but a request from her,
to please ignore her weirdness,
too juicy to pass unnoticed,
because it goes to the heart of the mad matter

'tis that weirdness that I do so cherish,
fully reflected in my own poem-children,
my multiple identities, that the FBI is yet tracking

give me your weirdness, yearning to be free,
so my poems can be inscribed upon a crown

and daughter adopted dear,
that one crown,
thy name,
thy madness upon it etched,
modified to rest
easy
upon thy temples

<•>
for Ali
Better to keep quiet than be hasty  then regret it later.
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2018
Don’t tell me
You are late
Tell me, I will wait

Don’t tell me
In next life
Tell me, forever

Don’t tell me
If, but, almost
Tell me, whatsoever

Don't tell me
I will stay silent
Tell me, how is this whisper

Don’t tell me
Good bye
Tell me, let’s get blessed

Don't tell me
I'm sorry
Tell me, that's great
Genre: Romantic
Theme: Lot to hear, Lot to tell
Mystic Ink Plus Nov 2018
I'm from
Different time
A different species
Raised in a different way

Request to you, all

Don't connect with me
Connect with the words
That too, if
It touches your soul
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: I don't want to hurt you, neither i want to get hurt.
Alyssa Underwood Apr 2016
I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith, and love, and every grace;
Might more of His salvation know,
And seek, more earnestly, His face.

‘Twas He who taught me thus to pray,
And He, I trust, has answered prayer!
But it has been in such a way,
As almost drove me to despair.

I hoped that in some favored hour,
At once He’d answer my request;
And by His love’s constraining pow’r,
Subdue my sins, and give me rest.

Instead of this, He made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry pow’rs of hell
Assault my soul in every part.

Yea more, with His own hand He seemed
Intent to aggravate my woe;
Crossed all the fair designs I schemed,
Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.

Lord, why is this, I trembling cried,
Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?
“‘Tis in this way, the Lord replied,
I answer prayer for grace and faith.

These inward trials I employ,
From self, and pride, to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earthly joy,
That thou may’st find thy all in Me.”

         ~ John Newton (1725-1807)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cnEDUMfPXs&nohtml5;=False
I have but one humble request.
Forget not I who loved you best,
Not I whose love will never rest,
With all my love I loved you best.

Acknowledge to me only this.
There is none else you want to kiss,
Mine are the only lips you miss,
As yours are those I want to kiss.

Assure me that you realize.
You see the love inside my eyes,
The tears of joy of joyful cries,
Of your image inside my eyes.

Promise me this one thing you know.
The closeness of our love will grow,
Coming together fast or slow,
Come closer so my love will grow.

If nothing else let this be true.
Devote to me as I for you,
Making love as only we do,
Love me for me as I for you.
Instagram @insightshurt
www.insightshurt.com
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
By Farrah Murphy

Please say a prayer for the children who are hurt each day. They didn't ask to grow up this way.
They don't deserve the bruises and pain. What is happening to them is insane.
They want to have fun, laugh and play. But their innocence and childhood has been taken away.
Children need to be protected...they are a gift from above. So many of them have never known love.
This is an urgent request....please pray!! Abuse is happening everyday!!
Day Jan 8
Will you love me when I'm dead and gone?
Request you play my favorite song,
and listen closely to the words.
Please,
let this fading soul be heard.
Desire Mar 25
“When we prayed for no one,
no one got healed…
Now we pray for everyone,
and some get healed…”
- John Wimber
Wellspring Church Service (5pm)
Pastor Seth Bazacas
20190324

@desire.is.dope
Fragmented souls
embark upon precarious journeys.
Mosey, so cozy, tip toes-ey amidst  
the nuts, the berries, her frag grenades,
all whom are lost.

I get the sense
she stimulates the local economy.
Her sixth sense
is my first sin;
subsequent Saturday night mass.
However,
in her unique meek way.

She moves divergent
from the wandering.
Please,  I implore,
just as you sat
on the park bench
pondering;
a failed attempt
at being inconspicuous.
tres de septiembre
covered in wet leaves
juggling espresso, laced
with my final exalted request-
roll up your sleeves.
chocolate skin illustrations
depict a sad story.
Don't stop smiling.
On the eve of our
improbable introduction
after impossible instructions.
Ignore the jilt,
it was a jolt,
prompted by your voltage.
Despite all your glory
I was over caffeinated,
under compensated,
out of cahoots,
deemed arbitrarily scholarly,  
presumed clinically copasetic;
according to the nurse tying a knot  
in Dr. Martens Boots.
I never trusted a stethoscope,
nor the script; it
read so cryptic.
"Dredge my flaws with his amphetamines"?
Societies newest drudge,
Earth's newest quagmire.

Theres nothing flat about her earth;
What's a man do with his hands?
there's nothing meek about me.
[Car door slams]
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
A perfect day (in the city)

First off, it is Saturday morning!
I wake up too early,
Slip into a heated reverie,
five poems to achieve,
along with five healthy sneezes,
expelling the week's dusty remains.

She checks in on me,
to see if I am adequately watered
in my poetry riding place,
in truth, to see if I am overcooked,
still alive, still in my creative place.

A real frittata from her new frittata pan,
is the breakfast plan,
that pan,
gives her so much pleasure(?),
I will be eating them
for the rest of my weekend
life.

Tho confess I must,
The sun-dried tomatoes and
smokey mozzarella, my fav,
were pretty tasty,
maybe I am being too hasty?

She to Dracula dvr'd,
me to nap sweet,
a rest to finally complete,
for once.

we meet up again around noon,
preparatory work, i.e., getting dressed,
off to see Little Miss Sunshine,
now Off-Broadway, at
Eighth and Forty Third.

Yes it was charming and delightful,
dear Wallace Shawn,^
and there were no ****** histrionic
rutting cats in it,
not one at all.
(I know, I know,
I am embarrassingly, lowbrow)


Walked home,
so she could exercise her pet
man.
On the way,
bought us new earphones,
cause I go through a pair a day,
given that I write poetry
in a someday,
watery grave.

Up Eighth Avenue,
at my request,
a reality show,
the meandering tourists
and the grunge to
circumnavigate,

Across 57th Street,
west to east,
surrounded by the city's teemings,
people flash mobbing,
giving NYC,
its special heartbeat.

Up Madison to window shop,
it seems in this part of town
of fancy shops,
I am to France and Italy teleported,
they don't speak
no English anymore,
though told, they still accept
American
Express
and US dollars

Home by late afternoon,
she, a promise to keep,
lamb chops,
honeyed Brussels sprouts,
a sweet potato
and a very very good Pinot Noir
purchased when,
I was very very goodly broke,
and contrapuntal insanity was a
partial cure.

Romantic lighting, yeah yeah,
a date-dinner, she gets,
in return, I ecstasize semi-silently
(actually quite loudly, with every bite)
in a carnivorous man-haze.

A grand bargain.

In bed early,
a Hercule Poirot to drink on tv.
I see fifteen minutes,
so I can wake up
to record
in the dead of night,
in plain, yet
triumphant poetry,
her final words.

“A perfect day”
^ see the poem Wallace Shawn

Ironically, written on the day Lou Reed passed way, who sang one of her fav songs,
Perfect Day
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
my sally my Sally

a wonderful double entendre
for it’s time,
my internal clock chiming

to sally forth and give the due
to where dew in her garden resides,
poetry becoming sweet tears
in all our eyes
when the philipina rain thirst quests our quenching

there is no reason no request for
this sally poem but a tickling thought suggests that a good friday. could be the trigger, or that
pandora bringing me Ave Maria as I compose
when
the due and the dew and the do are a
trinity

the best poems are the un-requested  but the most needed,
the most holy
Paul Butters Oct 2018
Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.

Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.

What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.

And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.

It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.

Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.

But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.

Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.

Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\10\2018.

Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.
Stephen Chapman indeed requested this...
SilentAce Sep 2015
When I die I wonder what they will do with me.
I have no home, no blood family.
Only good friends and a few good men left that care.
But I am not their burden.
Nor is my body a sacred thing.
Just burn it if it's easier...
I would ask one request though
Whether it be ashes or decaying flesh,
bury me godless, beside my brothers who fought with devils blood in their veins and God by their side.
That is my one request.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.


These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...



2008
1. Written in 2008, updated today 7/2013, adding a word here and there.
2. When I wrote this, there were no more babies in my life; now the next generation, a new set of boo-boos
3. Yes, I still, always have tissues on me someplace,
a habit started over thirty years ago,
when my children where toddlers.
4. The poem I love the best.
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