Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
jane taylor May 2016
heartache is a gift that breaks us wide open
and gently spills into the broken places
that we never knew were there

agony fills in those crevices
with a quiet reverence
and peaceful meditation

no matter how form appears
the content
is stillness

thoughts appear
illusory images dance before me
yet there is no duality

even in this seeming world of separation
i realize that i at last am home
and that i never left

©2016janetaylor
ryn Oct 2014
Elated to see you aloft in the night sky
To what do I owe this enchanted boon.
In the merry company of winking stars,
Enthralled by this sight as I admire my moon.

Bathe me in your streaks of translucent silver.
Accompany me through my sleepless nights.
Watching over me with unwavering vigil.
Swathe me in whispers of peaceful respite.

Oh how you govern the raging tides of my soul.
Rest your gaze as the waters break upon my shore...
Erode and weaken the load strewn over my burning shoals,
Sands drowned breathless but craving for more.

Few nights now... Smitten as you coyly turn away.
Thick strands of shadow clad hair in gentle cascades,
Alluringly obscuring a slight fraction of your face.
A tiny crescent blanketed away; into the blackness it fades.

More nights pass... Now I see only a lesser moon
Leaving me with only half; darkness so had claimed.
Please make yourself last; you mustn't leave too soon,
I'm not ready to be left crippled and maimed.

I silently look up as more nights go by.
I watched my lunar love dissolving into space.
My heart too, torn away a morsel at a time...
Finally she had gone; without a sliver or a trace.

Every nightfall since is rife with emptiness and despair.
I asked the stars if they could soothe my gaping void...
But they'd only twinkle in indifference...
Regardless of the pleas I've employed.

Unsure of how many rises it has thus been.
Nights only brought the onslaught of mocking stars above.
Still I toy with the promises made overhead,
For the awaited return of my crazed elusive love.

I know it's frivolous to think I'm the only one...
There are others who pine just as I do.
But I yearn the most for your sought after attention,
For our hearts have sung in every colour and every hue.

Anxiety at peak, dismayed almost broken,
Then I hear a sweet song sung; distant and far.
A song that shared the words we once had spoken,
Again enveloped in translucent silver, with relief I sighed...,
                          *"There you are..."
Inspired by the lunar cycle...
jane taylor May 2016
stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests

pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed

as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories

recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner

i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time

familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine

i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus

an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self

flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward

i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain

as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind

an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned

as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home

©2016 janetaylor
Mary Alexander Jan 2017
You left a scab which
Took too long to form,
And my healing heart
Was all dead and worn.
You have no right
To come back and do this,
Checking me off
Like an item on your To-Do list,
What happened to me
Was awful and cruel,
And now "never trust"
Is my number one rule.
So you have no right
To come back and say,
"Oops, I'm sorry
I treated you that way",
For shallow words do
Nothing when spoken,
To a newly healed heart,
Not ready to be broken.
Janelle Tanguin Jan 2017
I left it here,
came back
a different person
searching for
the same object.

Three years
of moving back and forth
searching for it,
frantically blind
in every nook and cranny,
in eyes filled with words only
I couldn't read,
in corners, seams,
**** even
web-like cracks on the walls.

I kept searching
til it drove me
mad.

They say lost objects show themselves
by the time you've stopped searching,
so I did.

I stopped searching,
see it's already lost.

We are both lost.

I don't know where to find it,
and I don't think it still remembers
its way
back to me.
Dimitris Sarris Oct 2016
I'd like to travel around the world with a ship.
My ideal morning, lot of light
a beautiful song and the first sip of coffee.
A word that would summarize the meaning of
life "the people".
Things that i miss a lot such the sea, the city's small port,
the whiff of that city.
I am afraid to forget those especially her.
Mark Penfold Mar 2018
Where do we go our tired bones,
When we shed ourselves of mortal robes.
Without past burdens we are free to roam,
And ponder on our returning home.
Nadia Aug 5
Home sweet home
Where I can sit on my ***
With no need to roam
And no need to ask
Or research
What to do next
A good sesh of nothing
Sounds like the best
With no need to worry
About where to eat dinner
And when to meet friends
Order in trusty take out
Throw the kids in bed
Time to binge on light shows
Then sleep like the dead

NCL August 2019
Had a lovely vacay but it's always so nice to get home.
Eva Rushton Jan 30
As my emotions overflow
Like a ruptured pipe
Tears draw their path
Down the concaves of my face
Like that of a writer with a broken pen
Trying to tell of their pain
When the  tears reach the lines
Of laughter gone by
Together rivers of confusion
Lead the way downward
Coming to rest upon my chest
As if to say
“This is where I was born “

Written by E. M. Rushton
January 2019
city of flips Jul 2018
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^
  

that ain't me babe.
Maddie Jul 13
You numbed all of my pain
Your smile
Your jokes
Your ocean eyes
Made the dark thoughts and heartache run for cover
But when you left
The pain crept back
Out of the shadowed corners you pushed them into
Able to run free
Now that their captor disappeared
And the host was too weak to fight them off
Now that you are gone
They have taken over my feeble mind
Without you here to fight them off
And there’s nothing I can do about it
Dr Peter Lim Dec 2018
I thought then
at the journey's beginning
a new world was beckoning-- never knew
it would be grief and pain at the returning

for a greyer, more fragmented man
I had become--more desolate and disillusioned
there was no Arcadia but the barren wilderness there
I couldn't breathe for want of air----imprisoned

in alienated time and a landscape
never had any mortal ever imagined
the stream had turned dry, every tree had died
the faces of hills and mountains were scarred-- unrestrained

blew the recently-burnt ashes from nowhere
prolonged and hurtful they stayed in my eyes
I began with the dreams of rosy youth
returned with the death of a lost paradise
Admire her Independence
Now is her homecoming
She came from a long way away
She is beautiful with her scars
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Shoulders rolling, rising
as icebergs from their glacier calf to sea—
as men, we fend the rimless wilds

With force, flung, withheld,
intelligence, ancestral songs of origin,
of prophesy, returning avatars

Overhead
white seabirds
wheeling
.
I guess you’re on your own with this poem. I can tell you where it begins. The scene is set in ancient times, and as near as I remember— a northern, coastal region following the spring equinox. A few of us had embarked upon a quest to find The One.
.
The One: Everyone knows what "The One" means for themselves, whether they love or hate or are indifferent. Of course, "The One" was not what we called such a Being but it serves to communicate. The name does not matter for the purpose of this poem. Most of Earth have heard it anyway, in one incarnation or another.
Calf: The offspring of various large mammals, such as cows (cattle), elephants and whales. Also, a piece of an iceberg or a glacier that breaks away or the action of this happening.
Fend: (figurative) To defend or attack with skill, make one’s way.
Avatar: The manifestation of a deity or released soul in ****** form.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
Bob B Jul 2018
To return to the essence of what I was
Before I was: a mystery.
Will knowing who or what I was
Before I was be clear to me?

To speculate on lofty dreams:
Wistful efforts to fantasize
Something that’s unheard by formless
Ears or seen by formless eyes.

Disintegration of ruins show
The odd conception of what became
A vainglorious attempt to have
A monument outlast its name.

Will the name be muffled by
The echoes of a limitless void
When all semblance to what we think
Is real is once and for all destroyed?

Even though impermanence
Governs what we think and feel,
Maybe a deep understanding
Reveals something pure and real--

As real as any bubble that bursts
Or lightning flash from sky to earth.
Must being be purely palpable,
Or does it somehow transcend our birth?

Speculation gives the seeker
Hope--a blissful sanguinity--
While past, present, and future constantly
Merge into infinity?

-by Bob B (7-28-18)
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.

Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.

Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.

Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.  
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
bekka walker Jul 2016
Lying beneath the stars longing to feel your honest heart beet.
Returning to the dirt we came from, I can feel your breath hot and sticky filling the gap between us.
Scrupulously steaming us vegetables.
I can't help but imagine biting into your savory peel.
Some say the skin is the most nutritious part.
I inhale the ripe droplets dewing across you,
and wonder what we'd look like mashed together.
Stuck in a blender.
Ripped apart and delicately reassembled.
And then I remember,
That we already were.
Kevin J Taylor Jun 2016
Approaching Siddhartha where he sat a
boy examined him politely (this-that?)
Siddhartha spoke and there the unnamed boy
who sitting a while with him that day thought
and over the days ahead returned and
leaving only for food, drink and service
that Siddhartha would not be distracted
from his goal until upon returning
he saw him glowing in the morning light
and so began to dance with him beneath
the tree. A leaf was shed, was gathered then
and the boy, who while tucking it away,
Siddhartha asked if he would run for him
to village, crossroads, field, grove, wherever
Siddhartha wished to speak. And so he ran,
and soon arriving, announcing thus his
coming, holding high the leaf he carried
and which had never died, living— living
green until Lord Buddha left his body.
cool in the shade
still dancing
with Lord Buddha

.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
Sammie wells Nov 2013
Storms stirring
  Winds surging
 Thunder roaring  
          Lightening cracking
             Rains lashing
          Waves bashing  
Grounds Shaking
                  Lakes Bursting
Cracks Emerging
   Lands Overturning
       Sky's Blurring
                      Streets Burning              
         World's Disturbing
        all Submerging

                         Life's Fading

                    No Escaping!  

                         No Returning!!
Hell hath no fury like mother nature scorned.
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Sometime around vespers or matins, still dreaming or about to—
swimming spaceless beyond the stretch where vision is blindness
where photons tumble like Phaethon from his chariot afire

Where time beats that archetypal
echo of rhymed nothingness
pulsing through ALL verse

Unfulfilled
nothingness
unfulfillable

Except to those returning soul-side
grooving to the hush between the beats—
the authors of such co-labours as these
.
Vespers, evening prayers. Matins, morning prayers, morning birdsong.

Phaëthon [fey-uh-thuh n, -thon] In Greek Mythology Phaëthon is the son of Helios, the sun deity. Phaëthon borrowed the chariot of the sun and drove it too close to the earth where Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt to save the world.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
onlylovepoetry Jun 2016
~
the Nth culling
~
she gentled sleeps besides the imperfect poet,
who has wandered the hallways since four am,

retuning his returning

to their temple bed,
to cull, pluck, her each precious breathing sound,
source material for his
Nth
love poem

smirking at his own
Nth foolishness,
weeping tears at the consequences
of human interactions,
he wonders,

why does he worry,
searching to distinguish
between the black and white of life,
hunting for meaningful words

when all the while
he has the vein of her breathing to mine,
as if he were a
Ruth,
following behind
the harvest reapers,
culling a bounty of
dropped grains,
fallen unto him to
garner, imbibe and memorize


those Nth breaths,

that last but seconds,
but here memorialized for
his own
all time
Lizzy Jun 2014
Grayness swells and burns as ice
Coldness fills hollow creeks
My mindless ghost of a shell
But drifts ever so quietly

Ghostly shells as mine
Follow the current
Follow the breeze
Too weak to fight
To swim upstream

Now I am told the sun returns
But will it return without help?
Without artificial dawn?
Will this dusk be everlasting?
Never reaching devil's hour
And never returning to shiny morning

My ghost ever mourning
A loss of some unfamiliar friend
Sick for a home that has never existed
I forever dwell on my oscillating waking
Next page