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Eleanor Feb 22
on a glass green sea
serenity in spite all

and yet,
serenity is not destined to stay

as glass turns to shards,
crying out for salvation
dying out
for no one responds

with the realization
the sea was never truly serene
Will Feb 2018
Her eyes are filled with a world of endless possibilities.
She catches as he stares at her.
What are you looking at?
She says with a smile, her adorable half smirk.
Just your beautiful brown eyes
He responds, smiling back.
She laughs and blushes, looking down at her plate.
That tender laugh was filled with such warmth.
He reached out and took her hand gently in his own.
Her eyes looked up, her cheeks still flush.
You truly are incredible
They both returned to eating, smiling at each other from time to time.
Never breaking the joy that hung in the air.
Carter Ginter Jun 2018
Locked into your gaze
You are the only one around
Though we're surrounded
By the moving bodies of strangers

I don't know how to dance
But the alcohol fuels my limbs
And yours are up against mine
As we move together as one

Colorful flashes of moving lights
Pale in comparison to your smile
Our foreheads touch gently
As we scream along to the songs

I haven't "known" you for long
But I've known you forever it seems
Even my heartbeat knows your energy
And responds whenever you're near

As I lean in to meet your kiss
Electric currents shock my chest
As everything around us freezes
We've created a universe in our arms

Despite the crowds and the show
I can't tear my eyes away from yours
Cause you're the only one I see
And the only one I want to
Emeka Mokeme Jul 2018
Wonders of the world
is too insignificant to
what you will experience
in your life for opening
your heart to receive the
fairest impressions of God.
You are the best gift life can
ever give to the universe.
Infused in you are the
unimaginable seed of greatness.
You are for signs and wonders.
Created and endowed with
enormous and immense abilities
to subdued and have dominion
over all things created.
Your words and thoughts can change
situations and make things manifests
from something for nothing cannot
give rise to something.
Thoughts are definitely something,
and your words are powerfully alive,
you only need to properly project it
into being to give it form and bring
it into your reality.
All things resonates to you,
whether positively or negatively,
depending on the platform you stand.
Everything responds to the octaves
of your vibration within the wavelength
of the rhythm of the pendulum swinging
circumspectively overly around you.
You can do anything you want to do
if you really want to do it.
But you have to learn how to do it differently,
because you are definitely differently configured.
You are an absolute dot stretched into being,
vitalised by the power beyond the ordinary
and full of grace of the divine light.
You are the light of the world.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Tom Spencer Jan 2018
distant hills
in a sea of grass

slip from stone
grasping nothing

winter evening -
crows glide in and gather
on the roof tops

diesel grit
blackens the fog -
a passing train

sipping dew -
a moth flutters down
the dripping eave


waking up -
a bird calls
- a gecko responds

no wind, no waves -
an empty boat is swamped
by the sunset

(after Dogen)

Tom Spencer © 2018
There is no more painful love
than unrequited love
A heart that is open
pouring out to another
but an empty space
like a vacuum
with nothing in return

Like giving a gift
‘Tis better to give than receive
And the heart offers freely
all of its wonderful presents

Free of expectations
when truly filled with love
It blindly releases itself to another
With a simple creed
‘I am for you’

Like the wall of a dam
suddenly letting go
A deluge of emotions
Thoughtful, interest, caring, warmth, love
A flowing waterfall
of Niagara proportions

However, without intention

which goes without saying
since the truer the love
the blinder it be

The vacated space
creates a sudden vacuum
A sharp, deep pit left
where once all of itself was housed

For a brief time
the heart is unaware
still glowing in the warmth
from the happiness and joy
of the love it gives

But slowly the glow fades
And the presence of the empty space
becomes more obvious
and apparent

A coldness sets in
An addict looking for a fix
The heart desperately seeks
in return what it has given

Never intending to give with strings
but so it finds itself
now tied to another
with the strongest of bonds

The intense fulfilling feeling
once experienced
Replaced with anguish,
longing, loneliness and pain

The mind and heart begin
an epic civil war
Feeling the torment
and seeing the destruction
the mind invokes all its resources
to break the bonds
the heart has created

But with hope that is
almost sad and pitiful
the heart refuses to let go
So sure of the ties it made
And fighting back with all
of its might to defeat
any attempt
the mind has
to remove the bonds of love

A man at war with himself
will find himself at war with others
And so, the inner conflict
resonates outwardly
displayed aptly with defiance
and destruction

Like a pebble in a pond
each action creates ripples
Slowly at first
but then with exponential speed
a life is destroyed
leaving only a broken
and beaten shell

And after all the destruction
and loss
All of the pain and suffering
The tears and sorrow
At this moment
standing on a pile
of nothing but debris
The mind,
with a sense of arrogance
and certainty,
confronts the heart
and pointedly asks,
“Do you see now?!
Do you see the
error of your ways??
Look what it has cost us!
Do you see the
mistake you’ve made?!”

Without hesitation or waiver
the heart responds
with a steady certainty
that is calm and cool in nature,
“No. Love is a risky venture.
One always, ‘takes a chance at love’.
But I will not admit
fault for trying.
When I love
I love freely and openly
I offer all of myself
without expectations
It’s only when you get involved
and create conflict within
that we have problems
To love is to love
It brings joy and happiness within itself
If it is not returned
then it is not returned
but an open and loving heart
can not feel emptiness and pain for it is filled with love
And there is no greater reward
than finding that love in another
and having another
find that love
in you
Written: March 4, 2018

All rights reserved
Tom Spencer Jun 2017
Life is the answer to the stars’
first question: Am I known?

Beyond the reflections and grime
of my office window
a pair of crows
is grooming one another
on top of a powerline pole.

Gently, he works his sturdy beak
along the nape of her neck
- and then she responds,
rubbing the edge
of her beak against his.

Two sets of obsidian eyes
- just lashes apart -
join for a moment’s mirroring -
an ember of knowing
alight in a jet-black world.

Leaning against the glass
the pulse of my breath
clouds and clears -
forming beaded wings that
ascend and then, disappear

into the longing
to be known.

Tom Spencer © 2017
Carter Ginter Jul 2018
White boy
With your inherent privilege
Please, make another joke
About ****** harassment
No, really
It's funny right?
Especially because you're joking that
Your male coworker is sexually harassing you
*** jokes are funny too, huh?
That's the same male coworker
Who I had to explain
Just hours beforehand
How the ****** encounter he described
Did not include informed consent
How fitting.
White boy,
I'm curious how you'll fare
After I told the manager
About the content of your jokes
(Not the proudly homophobic one,
Who then looked uncomfortable
But seemed pleased when I told him that
I had already called you out
Because that means he doesn't have to
Because he wouldn't anyways
It doesn't affect him
Just some harmless humor
So then I tell my coworker about your joke
Who then responds with:
"He's still doing that ****?"
Apparently so
Because no one there seems to care
About jokes that put me
The only person at work read as a girl
(Which I'm not by the way)
In an extremely uncomfortable position
Why is no one else uncomfortable?
Why does no one else say anything?
They're all like you
Or they don't want you to judge them
Because you have that power
Because you're a
It was a long night at work tonight. I don't have the emotional energy for this ****.
******* Greg
Umi Feb 2018
By the soul and it's order and porportion given to it
Inspired by it's wickness and righteousness each spirit strives
for it's own clear goal, wether that be nihilistic in some eyes,
or of great worth to others, each soul has been brought with
the greatest of purity at its time of birth.
Corrupting it is as simple as purifying it, but the evil, shades,
seduces tempts and leads astray to which a soul poorly responds.
Desires, wishes, hopes and dreams of them differ in many unique,
fantastic or irritational, preculiar and dark.
However, each spirit of a living being shares one similarity,
It is, as simple as it may appear, just the wish and dream to live
a life in carefree attitudes and a happy manner.
Of course, wealth too is amongst those shared desires, but this
world is cruel, brutal and shows no mercy as others have too much
and others have almost none at all.
Oh you of humble birth, patience, tollerance, compassion, love are
making this world a better place.
So give from your wealth and purify your soul by such,
in the remembrance of the poor, oppressed, depressed, abused,
starving human beings, whom could at least have it a little better.
And each soul runs on a clear course, determined to meet it's fate
when the sunset of its life has arrived and death becomes a cover.

~ Umi
Steve Page Jul 2016
Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas 
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father, 
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation. 

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength 
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, 
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also, 
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother) 

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great 

For example, 
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed, 
He'll proudly walk 
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride, 
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.
This is written with thanks to all the men who have fathered me over the last 50 odd years and as a salute to those of you who father without borders.
With thanks to Godfrey Rust and his poem, Church is a Verb.  Go on, search for it.
Morgan sb Oct 2018
I could feel my heart beat not in my chest, but in my head and fingers

I've kissed before. I've loved before.

There's something to be said about femininity; the way that my body responds to long hair and full lips and soft skin and collarbones and draped clothes over soft bodies.

My ****** identity has always been fluid, has always been a question mark. But it remained dormant, building beneath the surface.

There was...something... missing...I didn't know that I was missing the soft touch of a femme lover.

I remember the anticipation building because this kiss was to be the culmination, the confirmation of the feelings that lay dormant for 23 years.

She gazed into my eyes, hazy with lust and smoke and the gentle songbird crooning of solange.

I waited for permission and when it was granted, I leaned in and... something happened.

I relinquished control of my body and allowed myself to melt into her.

Our breath was in sync, if I remember breathing at all

My mind which runs with anxious, irrational, frightening, horrid obsessive thoughts only thought of her lips.

Lips: Softer than anyone's I've ever kissed. The nape of her neck was softer than the softest parts of my skin. This kiss mist have only lasted minutes, but in the haze of being ****** and queer and accepting this moment as real and finally not a dream, it felt endless

I don't like to think back to this night, this kiss, their face, their lips. That chapter has ended and it was over as quickly as it began.

But I recall how we broke apart and I had to catch my breath because I don't think I remembered to exhale.

Fragmented memories piecing together when you asked to kiss me again, and how the second kiss was better than the first and how I felt you pulling closer to me.

Your hand was on my thigh and I wanted it between mine and I learned then that a hand was not an invitation, but that it was an offering and I accepted it gladly.

I was so afraid to touch you; fearful that I would be too rough and that you'd pull back.

Instead I felt soft enough and pretty enough and just enough for you in that moment. I didn't feel clumsy or too much or too passionate.

I felt the heat rising in my chest and between my thighs and I knew if I didn't stop that I wouldn't stop wanting this

I didn't know how badly I had wanted or needed this until it I was in your car. In a giggly haze of nerves and lust and the desire to be loved on a Saturday evening. In your car. Waiting for you to ask to kiss me.

Your lips were intoxicating, the only thing my body could feel was you touching me, wishing we were anywhere but that tiny car. Anticipating the next time we'd kiss and we wouldn't have to stop at hands above clothes and lips only touching lips.

The kiss was the ****** to my self love story. To understanding the complexities of my heart and that I don't desire a rough, toxic, masculine heart.

I want the soft lips and soft skin and to welcome the flood of beautiful, wonderful *** feelings.

And God, I will always remember that kiss.
This is about a kiss I had with someone who would be best described as a lover. The time spent with them meant a lot to me.
Ciara Jones Jul 2018
A painted mirror
With the image of love
Only intended to show her exterior
No matter the size of the shove

They pick spitefully
Tossing flecks of dried work
But she responds oh so delightfully
Forgetting her crafted worth

Born to show others an image they'd like to perceive
Dead to have not even the maker grieve
Star BG Apr 18
I share my poetry with the
all spiritual beings in the Universe.
With the sun and stars
who vibrate divinely
feeding my creative juices.

I share my verse with angels
and archangels
who drift in dimensional highways.
With aliens living in the cosmos
that visit my star lit fields of prose.

I share with fellow writers
on an Hello Poetry site divine.
With my significant lover,
who responds with a warm hug.

And I share it with God,
the one who started it all.
Inspired by Perry  THANKS
A starving beggar begs for food;
He turns away the man who offers a corpse to eat.
The beggar says, "I will not eat a corpse! I am no animal!"
The man responds with, "You said you're hungry, so I brought you food.
You're far too picky."
A solution to your predicament has already presented itself,
You disregard it because it's not the one you wanted.
Taylor Mar 1
He sets out from Cape Elizabeth on a little skiff
into the silvery Atlantic at dawn;
несчастливый, he whispers, and the salty wind
throws the word against a cliff.
His curse, he swears, is gone.
He dreams of fighting fish, of yellow fins,

of something more than mottled cod.
In afternoon, a bite: too strong to reel.
I’ll take you by surprise, the young man thinks.
He settles in and prays to God
that his fish will equal many meals,
that Gretzky will prevail at the rink.

I can pull you, fish, but I will let you tire.
He eats a bit of bread and takes a final look
into the deep.
The black of the sea meets the black of the sky;
the moon hangs, an empty fishhook,
and the young man holds the line and sleeps.

He’s awakened by a pull, a smack
of nose and bone against the stern;
she’s pulling further yet from shore.
Blood dripping, palms raw, he holds fast.
She’s still on the line. His feet stand firm.
Tomorrow, fish. I’ll wait one day more.

The next morning sees him rise,
prepared to fight.
You will come home with me today, fish.
In his weathered palms: the line.
Sun and salt and sweat collide
on bronze muscles blessed by Helios.

The fish responds right away:
she circles and he pulls, a deep-sea tango
until she’s there beside the skiff,
blue like tokens worn by brides on wedding days,
chain-mail sapphires with a sheen of gold:
a more beautiful adversary could not exist.

Regret set in. One of us must die today, fish.
She pulls him close; his hand lands on her fin.
Behind him, the harpoon, too far to reach.
One of us must die—I am not sure I care which.
His body is broken, somewhere within,
an injury he cannot treat.

The Great One played with a broken rib in ’93.
I must be worthy of him.

His bones cry and shriek, but he will not rest.
He plunges bleeding hands into the sea
And wrestles body and fin—
She presses against his breathless chest.

He pulls her nearer still,
Weapon at hand,
And as he is about to deliver the fatal wound
Her dark eyes ****
the need to prove his worth as a man.
His fingers drop the heavy harpoon.

We are equals, fish; I cannot take your life.
I cannot sell your flesh.
I cannot catch you just to boast.

He draws his rusty knife
but cannot bring himself to thrash
the rope that binds them both.

He sits down in the boat.

*Fish, take me out to sea.
Fish, it’s you and me.
With apologies, of course, to Ernest Hemingway, with whom I share a love of polysyndeton, but not much else. I'd likely be embarrassed to publicly admit for whom this was written, although it will be quite evident to some of my friends in certain circles. :)
Luna Craft Oct 2018
a devilish friend who laughs with me in the early morning hours,
reminding me of things I have yet to do.
Ask her my name and she will sing a song of a decades march
Ask her my story and a third person will emerge from the outside
Another me, ask it if it can find its way home
I'm tired, I have so much to do
Self hatred can only erupt,
There is another me that loves myself.

It asks to be my only friend.
It responds only to bitter tongue;
Just like it was taught.

Ask me if I'm tired and I will always respond yes,
it's only conditional
Ask me if I'm sick and I'll tell you how much I think
analogies about shoving pens in my eye sockets

I am a self-hating narcissist.
I believe I need no help, yet find obscure ways to punish myself when I can't do it alone

And the other me knows I'm a liar, and it ******* loves it.
It loves the drama, it lives off of it
Let's it define a meaning
Without it I am nothing.

I am so tired of feeling emotions that hinge on the fact that I spend most of my time numb.
Luna Jun 14
whenever someone asks her “ why are your hands shaking?”, she always responds “ I’m still waiting for his hands to ease mines” , and I guess that, that is love,
knowing that only his touch could calm her agony.
Terry Jordan Oct 2018
I used to have 4 brothers
And loved them all the same
The eldest used us siblings
For where to lay the blame

Hoping reincarnation
Proves true after a while
Dan said his fondest wish was
Return an only child

Soon I arrived, his sister
Right after Dan turned 2
He fed me peanut butter
Until my face turned blue

Dan denied that he loved me
As kids did, once or twice
But he jumped in to save me
When I fell through the ice

Surviving eighteen months then
My baby crib moved on
I moved to the bottom bunk
My next brother was born

Named for our dad’s Commander
World War II not fearing
Ted was sent to Vietnam
Where he would lose his hearing

Neighbors once thought we were twins
Blond hair and Dad’s blue eyes
Family strife split us apart
Though close in age and size

He can’t hear but does read lips
That bomb, it took its toll
Seems no single moment’s joy
PTSD took hold

Next came Bill when I was 6
AKA “Sweet William”
Boundless joy and endless love
His broad smiles worth millions

When I loved chocolate ice-cream
That was his favorite, too
He is my son’s Godfather
His wise words helped me through

I have no clue what ended
Brotherly affection
Before 2 brothers died he
Cut off real connection

Sam was born prematurely
When I was twelve years old
Spent 5 months incubating
Before we took him home

Our father’s disappointment
Sam never went to college
Didn’t want to play football
Was seeking other knowledge

Sam learned how engines functioned
By disassembling cars
Made candles in the basement
An Eagle Scout-golf star

A heart of gold he suffered
Much doggerel and strife
Alcohol’s what dogged him till
Tragically took his life

Divided family members
I’m actor and spectator
Seeking to forge connections
Reunion instigator

Some gather for funerals
A wedding now and then
I mourn, alone, Dan and Sam
Lament what might have been

Hadn’t been able to finish this piece until I took a long vacation. I still have 2 living brothers, but neither responds to my overtures. One can't hear me, and the other is not speaking.  New Englanders are known for denial and take-it- to-the-grave-grudges.  I guess I really don't want to know why.
She is sitting under her mango tree.
An empty plate and a half-finished cup of tea.
Her hazy sight gazed on the wall while a flock of flies ravage on the wet spot of spilt tea.
I extend my hand for a formal greeting but my presence is absent in her wondering mind.
"Hello granny"
My hand shakes her fragile body while her muscles quake like a shaked *** of half cooked sadza.
" ooh muzukuru Phidza!"
She responds in an almost dried up voice.
I smile though I know that is my brother's name.
She has been forgetting things and now my name is one of them.
"Your mother is right behind you isn't she?"
She asks the usual question.
"No granny but she will be home for Christmas."
I give her the same answer as on yesterday's visit.

Her offsprings had flown to the diaspora for greener pastures.
Leaving her under the custody of maids with neither any of her blood nor seed around.
"The baobab is falling, worms are devouring it from within." She whispers.
I clinch my hands around her in an emotional hug.
These were the hands that spanked me for taking my pants for the bathroom.
And a soft kiss on the fore head reminding me for all that beating for truancy.
So I smile as I am getting lost in the dense forest of my childhood episodes.
The poet exhibits the effects of poverty which has left the elderly in third world countries especially in Africa unattended as the youth are in search of greener pastures. The granny is now suffering from Alzheimer due to old age and is now lossing memory
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