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Tommy Randell Feb 2017
Always, always pleased
To be unexpectedly smitten
Like finding the wind comes from trees
Waving their branches in rhythm
Like finding a Poem has meaning
Beyond the words that are written
That the path we follow is true
As we dance through a series of prisms
This poem was written to a moment of insight upon reading a poem 'Mutiny' by Mysidian Bard (qv)
Oh Savoir faire,
the emotions you share
with your heart and your mind
let me know we are truly two of a kind.
This woman you speak of, the love of your life
is a destination you seek when she is your wife.
A goal set in motion by your mother and me
from a memory you have, age two perhaps three
lights the path of your journey
so you're not traveling blind
oh Savoir fair we must be
two of a kind.
Love you Son keep on writing

-Patrick D. O'Connor SR.-
My father wrote this to me in response to stroke story
Camilla Green Oct 2017
Every day the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught and pulled, like taffy,
sunshine tendrils into rocky satellite white.
She swung sunbeams into starlight
And I thought it'd drone on forever.
//
Every dawn the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught sunshine tendrils,
pulled them into rocky satellite white, like taffy.
She swung sunbeams into starlight,
And I thought it'd drone on forever until

I realized that sprinkled sugar cookies made hands numb flammable,
that you can't feel them again until they leave the powder blue locker room,
until they're in the car, worried they might melt the steering wheel, when they’re left to figure out why.

Now streetlights gassed with Canadian lypophrenia
make snowflakes float like stardust,
while splintered lilac fingertips trace meaningless constellations,
as they ponder whether daisies can tell
if someone loves you,
                                       or not.

With firefly breath, I wished on dandelion dust
for December's cruel weather to warm,
so we could sleep forever on the concrete floor
and it'd feel like Pennsylvania moss and twigged leaves.
We’d swing dance in the sidewalk cracks
drowning in footsteps and manhole steam.
Saturn would bloom to petal dust in your wake
and you would never feel small.

And I thought cocoa butter was our solace,
that you'd be drenched in chocolate wishes
that turn ribboned skin to soft smile scars.
The Earth would lay enveloped and confessed-
a dripping orb of love and light thrown against
the burning oblivion of the universe.
I pull in the horizon like a great fish net
So much life in its meshes!
I call in your soul to come and see.


With the spring equinox, four-leaf clovers withered and died,
still-lit birthday candles melted into oceans
and heads-up pennies piled into roadway castles,
unwanted, unneeded by someone who forgot who she was.
I thought, for a moment, that I'd been wrong.

Within that rim of rose, there is ungravity and life on Mars.
But this world is a rememory of drought and oil spills,
drowning you in a warm, sweet, malignant blanket
of braided brown hair and tokyo tickets.
To you, my whispering lips screamed for palmers-
for 13 ounces of memories that were never mine,
and still, you slathered it on.

Our streetlights set and the sun flickered out,
the pennies I never reached for, someone else had picked up,
and the clovers I ignored, I now ached for with all my heart.
Eyes streaming, I reached for a shooting star,
but the night does end, dawn always rises,
and my precious last chance melted in my desperate hands

because i fall in love with everyone
and my lips are never chapped
  so now i eat cinnamon toast
   and I paint the sun
    with blackberry juice

In apple-killing cold, stars fade in the amber glow of tiger's eyes,
gray clouds are still bursting with starlight,
willow trees will forever weep diamonds,
and daylilies still steal away sleep.
This one's for you,
patty m Nov 2018
Poets don't pick the time or place, or the state of their lives.  Some write while trying to STAY ALIVE in a hellhole state of abuse. And yes like the homeless man on the street They don't mouth words, they write guts, and gall, and bruises, They write love, and levity and crazy rants or bits and pieces of hope and dreams. Poetry is  the other side of the mirror, the place of sanity/insanity and escape.

Tinny whine
by design
a wind-chime
blowing
words are snowing
trumpets blowing
where's the rhymer
the man who writes lines for two bucks
what the f- - k
Once poets were revered
now they sear through the mind
refined or unrefined, no
loving valentine.
And still I read in awe
chewing on a straw
drinking all the thoughts in
how does one begin to absorb
it all?
The aches the pain, the non-monetary gain,
the romance, and happenstance,
As to the question
Who writes poems like this?
the words were uttered like a breathless kiss

not a reprimand, or justification
supplication to that
unholy state of upper-hand,
on demand, testamentary of
vocabulary signature of solemn state
in which one contemplates tone and
that alone designates the way
one whispers when truly touched
by poetry that says so much.

Who writes poems like this?
I seek to amend,

Only the very best my friend
text is so easy to misunderstand, when one can't hear the tone expressed.  
hugs
Patty
Some way I know this pain,
It shamed me to love the way it flowed,

I'm looking at my scars,
Beauty in the burdens.

But I only masked my true pains,
For every night I bled outside,
I also bled within.

Find the blade that cuts your heart,
And get away...
So you no longer have to search for the blade that cuts your arms.
Response to "Inside that Counts" by Atlas
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2986
Steve Page May 3
The parent told the child,
"Just you listen to me -
"Do as you're told, you'll be fine;
you need to wait and see."

The child smiled at the parent,
relieved to have someone in charge.
Their worry had been overwhelming
with so much that couldn't be grasped.

The adults looked on, both curious
at this exchange that they'd observed.
They then continued their journey,
sharing all that they had learned.
Marlita Apr 10
HOW COULD YOU?
Five
Six
SEVEN
messages
and not ONE response?

DO I not MATTER?
IS THERE SOMEONE else?

You act different,
You talk different,
We negotiate different.

Where did we go wrong?
Why did you stray from me?
Why did you pretend to be my friend if you weren't?

AHHHHHHH!
I hate men,
All of them.

I'm finding another Mr.GreenThumb,
One who cares
And never lets me
GET STRESSED OUT.

GOODBYE!
Not my stop, but
     I take your hand
still the thought of
     pull you with me
leaving makes my
     kiss you fiercely
heart feel hot – to cross
     together
beneath the buzzing light,
     escaping
softly into this crisp night.
Marsha's poem is intertwined here with mine.
Mystic Ink Plus Oct 2018
If they spell
Evil to you

Be wise

Let them get paralyzed
By your kindness
Genre: Inspirational
Theme: Response when have to
Ashley Chapman Nov 2018
In a playful vision sent
Your ****** homologue
Of amber shins and pale phalanges
Weaves four-leaved clovers.

In response,
***** spurs
And protean winged descent
To float into your kaleidoscopic star:
Gliding,
Freely falling,
To rest in lace extremities.

There in our bed of sensual feet,
Sunflowers breath,
Whose burnished rotating petals
Gather me in wisps,
Each spiral frond,
Gyring
Before death's voids
Is drawn in purls.

And in pleasures held,
Cossetted in latticed limbs,
A ***** lustrous rich embrace;
Denuded and alive!
And with abandon kissed:

    Bony toes
    Tendons
    Deep arches
    Shins
    Ankles,
    Sweetmeats,
    Light and delicate.

As here between pretty shins
And fleshy silken feet
Our ascent begins
Rising,
From low regions,
To scale new heights
And crown our night.

This lovers' leap into prismatic
reproduction
In the empty Cosmic wastes
     In a web is caught!
Where feet and toes inspire
Continuity for pointed stars.

As material possibilities collide
The lust for life
Is born in non-existence:
So in our nest of feet,
Mating in the game
With heads thrown back,
Of lust drink deeply we.
A friend sent a mesmerising image taken from a kaleidoscope. In that image so many ideas came together that I was able to put this down. It tells of what I know, the line between life and death, or more succinctly put, between our conscious and the great unconscious. In mind, to love is indeed sublime as it removes us from ourselves and plunges us to meet our heart's desire. Out in the wastes of time and space we also see ourselves writ large where whole galaxies collide and in so doing, the resultant chaos, new stars are born. So I take solas in such thoughts, even if my soul does at times yearn to shuffle off this mortal coil and be at peace and know Truth at last.
Emeka Mokeme Aug 2018
Holding on to whatever
is not worthy or needed
is terribly frustrating,
a waist of time and lives.
Letting go of the
unnecessary and unbefitting
is the only ultimate proper
response to lack of result.
Whatsoever that is beautiful,
and acceptable to the heart,
the mind has to admit
and adjust to all its ramifications.
Healing comes after turmoil
and chaos that ravages the body
and mind.
Our mood recovers from the shock
and pressures of the world outside.
Nothing can be more devastating
than the mere ignorance of ongoing
deception choking the life out
of the people.
Taken by the horns,
this beast of burden has to go down.
The fire is rekindled within
and ignited by the unknown forces of
the divine light burning in the heart to
cleanse our impurities of the body and mind,
refreshed by the spirit with sublime light.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
And let me guess,
You threw away the key?

The Trust we've mustered, and dusted off,
In the past, has only set fast our reasons to not.
Time, and time again...

We've finished with this pain,
Locked away,
We keep our scythe-d hearts...
still-bleeding from the wounds of years ago.

Our still-beating heart that somehow survives,
Despite itself...
And the lines we've drawn.

I am the great wall with no gate.
And nothing inside...
But with nothing to hide,
I hope.

I'm just afraid,
You'll come by,
and give me another reason to...


Wait.

You've given me another reason to not.
I hold the keys to many hearts,
but not my own.

You've put the table on the wrong side,
as well as the door.
Six locks,
To keep the blight inside,
But not to hide from us all.

These blue eyes see through those sighs of grief.

You've not locked yourself inside.
Just put your pains away.
You,
May leave your strains behind,
And fly,
Away to breathe the sighs of relief that you couldn't wait to see.

Don't lock away your heart,
Because here's the key
In Response to "Locked Out" by Adrasteia
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3096497/locked-out/
Kat Dec 2018
Dear mom and dad
I'm sorry I think I was born broken
You might think otherwise
And
I know it is true
I know I was not born broken

How else could you explain
Why
When I was 15
I beat the eating disorder that could have killed me
Proved it was not the only way
To live
Why
Three years later
I found a reason to live again
Found myself a full-time job
Traveled to foreign countries
Applied to college
Learned a new language
Learned to be happy again
When I thought happiness
Was just a dream
Why
Sophomore year of college
The world threw me a curveball
And I couldn't dodge it
But I tried so ******* hard
To heal the wounds it left
Reached out to friends
For the first time
Found a counsellor and a psychiatrist
Learned to ask for help
And learned
That help is there
When I need it the most
Why
Now
I take pills three times a day
In the hope
That they will make me happy
Because I'm trying my best to become
The happy person
The successful person
The calm person
I know I can be
Know I have been

How else could you explain
Why
Every day
My memories are tinted with
With the knowledge of all I have survived
The knowledge of all I have accomplished
The knowledge that it can get better
I care so much
That you care
And when I feel like I hurt you
I remind myself
That I am not the burden
I think I am

I'm sorry I think I was born broken
But I'm not sorry I am me
On my way to becoming
The person I want to be
Know I can become
This poem is a response to my poem "Born Broken." When dealing with mental illness makes me feel broken, I try to remember what I've accomplished and how I've survived and learned from difficult experiences.
Luz Hanaii Jan 2014
Many think, I used to think this as well, that to be happy you must fill exalted and exited. When good things happen to us we naturally feel good and elated, it's a natural human response. Good things make us feel good and what we consider not good, make us feel bad.  A natural child and human response.

The sense of  happiness I'm describing here is not the mere result of a reaction to some happy event but is rather the state of being of our spirit, the acceptance that there will always be things that we have not control of, which we feel are bad and make us angry or sad.  True happiness in my estimation is being at peace, not letting our emotions, either good or bad determine our inner balance.

How many times those things I considered  bad, latter where the very things which help me learn and grow.  Experiences such as, illnesses, poverty, abuse, ignorance, depression, anxiety, fear... on and on, are nothing more than teachers, though we may see them as tormentors, when they first strike at us.

We are taught to live in this world using our five senses.  Therefore we estimate that happiness must be having good things and good feelings. We are thought to judge in order to survive in this world.  And that is fine up to a point, if we don't look before crossing the street, we take our chances at getting hit by a car.

We are taught that happiness is outside of us, we look for entertainment, material things,  and people to make us happy.  We look for support and words from others to value who we are, it is the normal thing a child does. It is the normal process of the primitive survival geared mind.

Some of us have not have the blessing of having parents that were happy within themselves, we've been verbally and physically abused, publicly ridiculed,  beaten, not validated/ignored, minimized and made to feel sick and disconnected etc... we've come from broken homes and broken people trying to raise us as best they knew how.  We are trying to heal and grow. We are all seeking to be happy.  We are all seeking support from an exterior world and from people, it's natural.  But as we mature and awake, we realize that no person, entertainment or thing can ever truly give you the happiness you need. We need to stop comparing ourselves with others or taking to heart their estimation of us. We need to revise and update the old programing in our minds given to us by our parents, school, the world. We have to learn to forgive others, love and accept our selves to find true happiness.  

I once heard a good example of what happiness is, which I had not considered.
Example below
*******
Look at your hand and observe how each finger is happy.  They don't ask for anything, they simply are.  Now if you were to hit one finger with a hammer the finger would stop being happy.  It would start to throb with pain and depending on the impact the pain would go away or stay longer.
True happiness is simply that, just being.

Revised @9/21/16
-Luz Hanaii
I revised this, for growth is not set in stone, my way of seeing things changes as I move on with time. There are different angles and ways to look at things. I understand that we don't all use the same eye prescriptions, my limited perceptions may not agree with yours.  Also that by me judging your way of observation as wrong, would only limit me and my growth.
Wanderer Mar 4
Had I known your voice would haunt like so many dancing sprites along midsummers plush ridges
I may have said my peace long before you faded over the horizon
Winter was not left with your leaving
Chilled roots perhaps but more late October mysteries I have no answers for
Sending inquiries, soft and translucent
Go unheaded, unwanted, unheard
We were friends once, intertwined with what I thought was a love that had not faltered, just evolved
Months pass with naught left but frosty windows, my face pressed against the glass
Still waiting to see your light weave through the trees towards me once more
This I feel in every string of being
Turbulence of the mind.
The peace hurt from whence it came,
And so quickly left the scene.

Nigh the stringent rules of a mind in chaos,
A rest n'er goes ungreeted.

As the missiles of a summer storm,
Rain upon the hopeful sound,
Dare'd I reach for the sky,
And was hastily struck down.

A vacant wood,
Reverberates the anxiety,
As the drumbeats in our hearts terrorize,
The thoughts we thought we could.

Lustful for the peace of endless time,
And finally release a smile sincere,
Shush our emblazoned thoughts,
And set free our restless minds.
Response to "Stormy Weather" by Keith Thompson
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3133885/stormy-weather/
Tarry, the Heroine's Right Friend-in-Bond
After months of Letters un-comprehend
I should have noticed your Living Response
But my Character has long been pretend
Forgive my English, Naiad of the Plym
Your Side-Family has offered Remorse
I mean no Blood; Just a Puff and a Whim
To show you I am honest in my Course
And yet, these are just Words; And in your Kind
Physics is the Path most will understand
Yet given this Map which I cannot find
I Support you in the Best Way I can.
Once the Flame lights in this Kingdom's Great Hill
I bid my Salute whilst my Feet stand still.
#brookegraddon
Lawrence Hall Mar 25
A Hasty Partisan Response to the Mueller Report

                      “And art made tongue-tied by authority”

                         -Sonnet 66, often quoted by Pasternak

The Russian reports on my desk include:

Selected Poems, Yevtushenko
The Possessed, Dostoyevsky
The Zhivago Affair, Finn and Couvee
The Complete Poems of Anna Ahkmatova
August 1914, Solzhenitsyn

And some of them unread, some of them read
And better read than red, so someone said
Some of them shelved (We and The House of the Dead)
But now I’m going to work the flower bed

And what century is it outside?  1


1 Pasternak
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Dinodust May 13
My feet trace the ground

As my heavy shoulders lift my head

And I stare at the shadows in the room

The windows respond with a sad glow

Tears fill my eyes as I wonder

Would I be better off dead?
Thoughts.
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