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幽玄 Jun 2018
The first sign of a dream approaching is that when you’ve already awoken,
awoken to a strange place with no trace of how you could’ve gotten there.
And the unfamiliar, faces near, with eyes similar to shards– shaded  
you can’t help but notice those feelings emitted were somehow something you’ve come to known before,
but where?
–a notion coursing its way around a soundless observatory only to further dissipation—
A sign of discord covers the room,
all that was allowed is furthest from you,
a parched paper made from what seemed like rugged twine knows nothing but lead between,    you find a face emerging from it,
quickly drawn with detail,
there it stops from motion to undulating surpass,
away from a darkened room up in front of a morning taking.
This conjuring source flairs outward
rising through the outworn canvas
leading it to embers
dancing away along a fizzled plane
for what was despair inscribed in this meaningful dereliction.
To what is empty from emotion is nonexistent,
I couldn’t find the reason to live on,
this dream has died as will I... as will the will of this way this place carries over me.
Yes decay follows me,
unto everywhere will there be the silent breezes to carry me past the concrete terrain into nothingness.
I find myself to live this over,
until the advent of air drowns these lungs to knowing again,
to know exactly what it means to breathe again.
I see no reason for such things as unrealistic as they may seem likely for me to occur in this living.
Again I’m stuck in a room full of my owns thoughts,
such a dangerously sorrowful place to be.
‘For everything as it may have not been
weary am I for looking forward at
The things that never happened’

‘Turning over everyday, repetitively’

Let’s just say that this isn’t personal but for those whom share a common fate. Until overturned.
In its most rawest.
5.3

Parallels:
Snow, for me exemplifies a mute understanding from in juxtaposition with various types of sadnesses that branch off into disparately inclined yearnings, to nostalgic preferences, whether known or not. Why it happens is of course obvious but the way it affects you, makes one wonder, if at all— I think I’m trailing off my train of though here, I’m not sure where this is going..

This was inspired by a remarkable composer, as I recalled a dream before, along with the yearning of trying to expose my underlying expansion of myself with my current understanding of things. what it all could mean as much of his cello’s presence affected me during that process. I’m the gray area that needs deciphering.

—continuations:
the cello that wails the loudest, is one that suffers the most. Even so, every tone encapsulates the listener with resonance. And in that, it reaches its utmost vulnerability, showing the many hues imbedded in an infinite sadness, in an astronomical way, a type of exquisite somber, that resides in the instrument’s hollowness until implementation of procedure.
Marina Kay Mar 2014
Don’t come crawling back

with the myth that it’s us you miss.

Don’t give me reverie

if there’s nothing to this.
Don't let manipulative people back into your life.
ceara Jul 2011
standing like my father
staring into nothing
no, not nothing
usually something
boiling,
spuds , the kettle,
water.
Briar Ren Jul 2018
The boy that resides
in the hollow of my mind,

I gave him a name:

Morpheus.
Jesse stillwater Mar 2018
Morning falls
from a budding
   cherry tree;

   the colour
of nightsong’s
waning blossom
   comes to be
       an echo
   only heard
   by the wind

Soundless remnants
   of an intimate
twilight odyssey
   tarry thickly,
drifting lightly
through the landscape
      of dawn

   The hushed echo
   wields the silent
         reverie
      of the night,
   gently rippling
   the rivers that run
   through the heart

The poignant taste
of passionfruit lingers
in the sensory traces
      of a warm
   passing breeze;

      penetrating
   the lonely chill
   of a naked night's
      work of art

                ~


           Jesse
.
     14 March 2018
passionfruit:  any edible fruit of a passionflower
Wordfreak Jan 22
It really is amazing
How a human hand
Can turn taught strings
Into a song that touches the soul.
Inspired by and titled after a Mike Dawes instrumental, which in my opinion is one of the greatest pieces ever composed.
Melanie Jan 7
truthfully, vulnerability is like an open flame
but you take the leap
like an astronaut

so you steal her the moon
and gather the stars
and give her the world
so she'll never know loneliness
and so you can experience love

but she feasts on the air you breathe,
releases it in to her atmosphere
and completes her universe

her planets in orbit
the stars alined

but when she will rise as the sun
you'll now know loneliness
so a song she'll sing
a reverie
of all the pain you'll feel
when she finally takes your heart away
Arianna Oct 2018
"... pluck the rainbow from among the clouds and,
unraveling its brilliance,
its rays enfolding...

                              Sleep..."
AmeriMav Dec 2018
Swiftly let my wind blow down
Untangle you from your rope
Bear you to a place unknown
Catch you in my hope
Lift you high above the clouds
Where sun and moon are bright
Never shadow, never fear
Only wondrous light

Swiftly let my river flow on
Wash away every blight
Bear you to a place unknown
Glistening brilliant and white
Take you through the twists and turns
Cool and brisk the stream
Til we find a tranquil pool
And float there in a dream  

Swiftly let my heart beat race
Can you hear it in my chest?
Bear you to a place unknown
As you lay your head to rest
Hold you safely in my arms
Drown your worry in my love
Run my fingers through your hair
Set you free on the wings of a dove
Arianna Oct 2018
Father Time
Ticks with the tocks
Of the grandfather clock.

A lamplight reverie,
The silence murmurs along the walls
Of the living room

Where the faces of dead relatives
Peer smiling and serene from photographs:

Snapshots of lives,
History and heritage
Neatly compressed into 8-by-10 frames.

“A picture’s worth a thousand words,” they say,
But what about a thousand years?

The night tocks on…
patty m Nov 2017
Sharp evening birds shadow the sun
setting across the water;
in dreams the ocean
comes to full river.
Many times we've climbed this bridge
weeds changing the color of the water,
stirring glints of conversation
the uplift in the veins
beating a flight to autumn.

I hear your string of broken bird call
raucous and wild
as years turn it to echo;
Startling paleness
a reverie of winter's chill
how boneless is bird flight.
the solace of wings.
                    
Now there is only one
                                      where once there were two.  

          clipped wings
          the imprint of fossils
          the rain's guilty tones
          smearing the dirt

Planks wobble,
                            set as they are
                                                    haphazard­, uneven.

Now there's a blur of impressions,
                                  the nonsensical strings in a litany of sound
                                                           ­                                 
Today,
. . . reflecting on  you,
I walk this bridge alone, touching air no one else can see,
                 one step at a time,
                                           learning to be ME.
Alyssa Nov 2018
Thoughts of you come to me
Like permanent reverie
Your silhouette dancing so fiercely in my mind
I find your lips pressed against mine
Your embrace so kind
Until the dream is over
And it’s back to reality
But it’s always been you
And me
Dancing on the edge of consciousness
Michael Marchese Sep 2018
I wonder like thunder
Storms in the night sky
How it all came to form
Above mountaintops high
How the jungle has lungs
And with each breath it thrives
Teeming life in its infinite
Strive to survive
And as I pass it by
And it passes me by
I think only of what
A sublime place to die
Despite how much I try
To describe my goodbye
And believe there are gods
Who would ever reply
To my doubtful decries
Only to be shown why
I am here, I’m alive!
At least...
Most of the time
ryn Nov 2014
The gentle reaches of the late afternoon sun
I'd bathe in this light abundant reverie
Swaying breeze... Caressing the web we've spun
In the warmth of this amber coloured spree...

Shades of gold, stretch beyond observable measure
My vision could only take me so far
Shining through between the green and azure
As if the window of heaven left slightly ajar.

Swathed in the glow... Laying on a bed of green
Eyes closed... Under the blue that spanned forever
Feast for my senses thus honed keen
Relishing the lingering touches of her radiating amber.

She's finally dipping, taking all of her light...
She'll sink behind the horizon, descending gracefully
I'd still remember all through my night
That amber...
                   *Amber is the colour of her energy.
Inspired by 311's Amber
luci Mar 2018
in the waves
of your gaze
    my ship
  bursts into
     dreams
                                as my mouth
                           watering for yours
                                fills me with
                                     unease
                                                          ­              endlessly
                                         ­                                longing
                                                         ­             to permeate
                                                        ­           on your reverie
                                                         ­                  steam
                                    to dim
                                 the lights
                            of your sirenic
                                   breeze
                                                          ­           to undress
                                                         ­        the complexity
                                                      ­            of your mind
                                                            ­           scheme

                                        i solemnly live
                                     to hear your name
                                  that even the silences
                                               scream
a poem for someone who will never read it
laura May 2018
she’s blazing ease
young summer, things
are kinda difficult
when i don’t know how to drive
says he likes my body
and i don’t know how to feel
when i don’t see my body
the same way he does

odd serendipities
the sun stupefying, thick grass
tangles beneath our thighs
and our ceiling is the sky
adrift in a reverie
but it feels so strange
sunday uncanny
playing around with odd satisfaction
Arianna Oct 2018
Je pense aux rideaux de pluie argentés
Qui tombent
En automne du ciel gris,

Du ciel sombre

Qui me regarde de lointain
Dans les rues sous ses ombres.

De Paris à Prague:
C’est la même mélodie
De la même mélancolie;

C’est la même valse,
Dont je connais trop bien les pas.

À Saint-Pétersbourg:
C’est le même ennui.

Ce qui m’accompagne
À travers ce monde:

C’est partout la même pluie.
A writing attempt in French prompted by memories of rainy evening wanders while traveling, particularly while visiting Saint Petersburg. :-) The rain always fell so gently there; between the cool temperatures, the baroque and neoclassical architecture, and pastel hues of the buildings, one has a peculiar feeling of walking through a whimsical, film noir Impressionist twilight zone. :)
Robin Lemmen Oct 2018
I wonder if you ever reach out
Hoping to find the curve of my body
Connecting with yours at 4 in the morning
You are stronger than you know
But acting weaker than you should
I wonder if you ever get lost in reverie
Looking for my love at twilight when the rest of the world
Is soundly sleeping off the day left behind
You move through time without letting it latch on
I wonder if you ever miss my name, on the tip of your tongue
Think and long for those five letters to form a song
But you would not listen to it even if it were to be sung
I wonder if you ever miss my heavy thinking
And how I would share those mesmerizing nightmares
Those midnight tendrils with you
I wonder I wonder, I wonder
Oh how I wish to come home
Bus Poet Stop Sep 2017
the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
kevin hamilton Feb 2018
precious patterns
filled my eyes
the bone-white reverie
of an exploding sun

petrified
in feral, nameless positions
we, the subjects, bisected
under a twinkling spotlight

the ever-burning nitrate husk
growled behind auspicious glass
exposed once and for all
a recoiling shudder
ryn Feb 2015
.
    It's here again...
   Heavy downpour...
   I inhaled the rain,
    cloying with petrichor.

      Standing at my window,
     looking out...
    Street lamps struggled aglow.
   People with brollies walking about.

   My eyes reached out to the heavens,
    tracing these glassy beads
      as they'd free fall...
        Falling by the sheets,
       the pattering hastens,
      periodically punctuated
     by the thunder's call.

     Mind is drifting and floating,
       intently listening to a
          million love wishes...
             Liquid beauty...melding, sketching...
           In light entrapped splashes.

         Raindrops descend and come,
         into my still life tonight...
          Won't you will me numb,
             with your chilly bite...

             Wide-eyed enamour...
            Catching a stray droplet or two.
             Riding the tail of a zephyr,
              finding a place where
                no trouble could ensue.

            An errant gust blew
           to meet with me.
          The refreshing moist
         meets my parted lips...
        Inhaling deep in this reverie...
       Into a sea of tranquillity,
        my mind slowly dips...

      Sigh... If the droplets were kisses...
      I would savour each and every one.
      If the moist wind came and caresses
     I would meet it in a tight embrace
   till the break of sun.

  What a sight...
   Almost surreal it seems...
      As the light from the surrounding
         lamps dances playfully...
        Dispersing and exploding into a
     barrage of shattered beams.
    Before it gets subdued in the drops
   caught by the leaves on a nearby tree...

   The drops would trickle
     and fall before merging,
      forming stranded puddles
       unable to flow...
        Rippling... Splashing... Reflecting...
      An image...
     Borne out of a fantastic show.

    An image of beating hearts,
     overlapping one another...
       Speaking of consequential love
          and feelings so true
        Intertwined...
     in the promise of forever...
  Slowly retrieving itself into an...


  image of you...
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
Kered Feb 2015
Out of reach from any sound,
Beyond the highest thought,
Invisible across an astral scene, too

Aeonian home,
Forever free

The planets are like
great eyes to me,

My wife owns the moons.

The kids have turned
all fix'd and strange,
Been feeling awfully tame,
Poor things,

Remembering days
insane with esprit,
Moving willingly
through tilted palms,
On crescent waves,

Surrounded by
the clearest ever blue,

Deep under sanguinary hues
and tropic reverie that loom
to meet the sever'd, melting sun,

Arising horizons,
One hundred and one

As violent as fire,
Enough for them all!
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