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She fell:
into my arms,
like raindrops
at my feet,
but no:
not the tiny type
that proceed the storm,
like the plump generous kind
that fall,
and let you know
that you're in the beginning and the middle of the deluge
half way in, and you can't go no farther -
type of rain.

Lighting up the night sky
of my life
with spiderwebs of purple lightning
she rolled like distant thunder,
while her waves of water
made everything brand new
again.
Path Humble Jun 2018
left my phone unlocked
on the taxi’s back seat,
won't be the last time

called it a few times
finally, the driver picked up

he had a fare immediately after mine,
and was now headed way downtown,
and would call later
when fate returned him nearer my office

and so it came to pass,
very shortly thereafter,

we met on the street,
he rolled down  the window
and with the greatest smile of pleasure,
as if he had won the lottery
beaming,
handed me my phone

I had two $20's to cover any expense he might have incurred,
neatly folded in my hand  
and offered it right up, right away;
but the driver repeatedly pushed my hand away
as I insisted,
saying:

"No sir, no no, not necessary!

Allah sent me a fare
that took me soon back close to you, so,
  no loss of time did I suffer,
so your offer is kindly unnecessary!"


to which I replied,

"exactly!
Allah sent you to me
so I could reward you!"


and with an equally, beaming smile continued,

"our ride and meeting today,
together was pre-ordained it was


Inshallah!" ^

something he could not dispute...
or his amazement, disguise...

  we parted ways
   each believing,
   each receiving
a heavenly check plus,
each, credited with a mitzvah^^
on our
respective trip logs,
our humanly divine balance sheets,
kept by the
single
supreme taxi dispatcher
Arabic for ^"God/Allah willing" or "if God/Allah wills," frequently spoken by a Muslim


^^a meritorious or charitable act in the Jewish tradition

FYI,
NYC taxi cab drivers are suffering economically by the explosion of ride hailing app cars, many unable to pay their bills, earn a living, have committed suicide over the past few months
https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/sixth-new-york-city-cab-driver-dies-suicide-after-struggling-n883886

true story, poetry is there for the taking
CK Baker Jan 2017
I can’t wait
to be a hundred
turning over the thoughts
and plots
of Caledon
floating
on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon

Through the
barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes
and goes

You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
from Allis Chalmers
to combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
to shallow carp fields
the patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on ripped and rolled
frontier seats)

it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through
the rusted
grinders wheel
I came upon a dandelion  
An ordinary, common ****.
Most people don't look twice
Unless it infected their gardens.
Then it is uprooted, stem and head.
Thrown away and then forgotten.

But that **** meant something different to me

It was sunshine and laughter
Bouquets made of thistle and lavender
Bunched together and given to my mother
It was rolled up jeans
That perfect summer breeze
Cuts and bruises on my knees

It was my childhood

Memories that I can't quite grasp
But what I can remember is the bright yellow,
Stark against the grass
False Poets May 2019
when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,

when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...
Prachi Aug 2018
I'm sorry!
for not talking to you all these years.
I don't know the reason,
Maybe because I was disillusioned,
or may be because I misjudged,
and I was imprudent.

But that day when I heard you name,
I couldn't stop myself from talking to you.
I found myself in the memory lane,
and all divergence creating reminiscence.
Tears rolled at the pace of the emergence;
of all memories sweet and bitter.

I made a good decision and talked to you,
never expected you to take it so lightly
as if nothing
ever happened between us,
You are the best brother ever,
but neither I am nor I was a good sister.
I'm sorry!
I spoke to my cousin after a long time. I did not speak with him  for 5 years.But he took it lightly,and it made me happy.
Alyssa Underwood Jun 2016
The moon and stars they wept
The morning sun was dead
The Savior of the world was fallen
His body on the cross
His blood poured out for us
The weight of every curse upon Him

One final breath He gave
As heaven looked away
The Son of God was laid in darkness
A battle in the grave
The war on death was waged
The power of hell forever broken

The ground began to shake
The stone was rolled away
His perfect love could not be overcome
Now death where is your sting?
Our resurrected King
Has rendered you defeated

Forever He is glorified
Forever He is lifted high
Forever He is risen
He is alive, He is alive!

The ground began to shake
The stone was rolled away
His perfect love could not be overcome
Now death where is your sting?
Our resurrected King
Has rendered you defeated

Forever He is glorified
Forever He is lifted high
Forever He is risen
He is alive, He is alive!

We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
The Lamb has overcome

We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
The Lamb has overcome

Forever He is glorified
Forever He is lifted high
Forever He is risen
He is alive, He is alive!

You have overcome
You have overcome
You have overcome
You have overcome

                   ~ Kari Jobe
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mv4LRl2KI2M
Bhill Apr 2019
Thunder rolled in
A voice, loud and vicious
From the south she came
Rains, lightning, and violent winds
Skimming the mountain tops dropping her flair
Waters, finding their way down to the valley floor
Water flowing through washes and off cliffs
Washes created by storms from the past
Flowing, furiously fast
Swallowing all things in her way
Cliffs creating the most wonderous of waterfalls
Lightning showing off brilliant power
Sending jagged beams of power across the darkened sky
Beams dancing from cloud to cloud and cloud to ground
What a show...
Oh, the desert can deliver these storms with little warning
Oh this place we call home has beauty and terror in balance!

Brian Hill - 2019#107
Inspired by desert storms...
Another desert inspiration
Jon York Apr 2019
Growing up in the 60's and 70's,
                   I learned to smile
                like  I've  never  cried,
            I  learned  how  to  fight  like
                   I've never lost.

          And as a United   States   Marine
                            in Vietnam
                    I  learned  how  to  ****   
                       so I could make it  
                home   alive  only  to  face
            another war in my head called
                            PTSD or die.

                 And  I  learned  how  to
                              love like
                    I've never been hurt.

                      And I learned to live
                  like  there's  no  tomorrow
               but  how  to  live  in  the  now,
                    and I learned kindness
                 doesn't  cost  a  ****  thing,
                         so I learned how to
                sprinkle  that  ****  everywhere.

                    But most important of all
                        I learned that there's
                only one thing that can make a
                       soul  complete, and
                         that thing is love
                               and that's
                     just the way we rolled.
                                                         ­                                    Jon York   2019
zebra Sep 2017
she was queen for a day
brought to you
by
the Red Cross
and
Freezone
to lift off
those painful foot corns
and lets not forget the good folks at
HEET
for those  aching back muscles
strong
yet doesn't burn
and comes with a handy dandy applicator

she could have anything she wanted
all she had to do
was ask for it on
TV
after becoming the winning contestant
for a life more tragic then all the others

the competition was stiff
who would break hearts the most
and get the biggest ovation
for all who came to see the suffering
and move the needle
on the
life ****-o-meter

which lady of endless sorrows
would be the gleeful queen
of white knuckle terrors
the winner
of the race to the bottom
circa 1958

and i was eleven years old

the winner was wrapped
by her very own glittery subjects
in a  plush royal queens cape
and placed upon her crown
a twinkling tiara
then enthroned
and bestowed a bouquet of flowers
from the magnificent
Carl's of Hollywood

she a mottled exhausted woman
withered by life's harrowing cruelties
hollowed by fear and heaping despair
flickered like staccato lighting
on black and white TV
for all of America to see

cause every
dinner cookin
vacuum cleanin
dish washin
bathroom scrubin
dirt sweepin
house wife goddess
of the vacuum cleaner and handy scrub
would flop herself on the couch
with a jin and tonic
put her feet up
hair in curlers
before dinner
and dishes
for the squabbling  brood
and her very own tyrannical
Ralph Cramden
huba huba hubby
king of her cracked castle
and
grab a pack of
Marlboro's.
Pall mall reds
Kent's
or
Chesterfield cigarettes
blow smoke
and watch
QUEEN FOR A DAY

today's
QUEEN FOR A DAY
Miss Clarice Williams
trembling almost to the point of tears
implored humbly for a gurney
so that her fifteen year old son
who was mentally slow and shot in the stomach
could be rolled outside on the porch
and feel the sunlight on his face
for the first time in years

they lavished her
with the Bomgardner Hydro-level cot
for the paralyzed
sure that it would do just the trick
plus
a miniature transistor ham radio
so you could even
hear what there sayin
all the way in Japan
plus
a Teltape tape recorder
and a brand new
automatic laundry machine and dryer
from the nice folks at Westinghouse

but thats not all

a star studded vacation
where the stars stay
at the deluxe knickerbocker hotel
where you can lounge at the pool
or your own royal suite
and have dinner
at the exotic
Polynesia Beach Combers
Wicki Wicki Room
all the way in the land
of the
hoochi coochi
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2017
I rolled out of bed
to start my day,
but the power was off
my all electric home,
as still as a grave.
No coffee, or toast.
The refrigerator not cold,
the freezer started dripping
the contents soon to spoil.

No computer, no cell phone service!
I began sweating profusely,
no air conditioning to cool me.
Not even a TV Emergency Broadcast Alert,
to release this uneasy feeling of topsy-turvy .

I drove into town seeking a pay phone,
with not a single one to be found,
gone the way of the dinosaurs,
extinct now too I assumed.

My old truck had no computer chips,
most cars did and were dead in their tracks.
I needed gas but the gas station pumps
electric computer driven, all DOA to boot.

The Nations electric grid had crashed,
blacked out, stone cold dead everywhere.
All heavenly satellites blacked out, expired.
Everything computer related (and
that is about everything), had ceased
to function as had the electronic reliant
world we had created.  

The street throngs of dazed people walked
around like zombies, clutching blacked out
dead computer devices, knowing not what to do.
Not even talking, forgotten I guess how to do that too.
As dependently defectively programmed as the useless
devices in their hands.

In a panic I did awake finding that
this scary dream world was indeed all fake,
a nightmare of fearful unconscious thinking.
My electric clock was still churning,
It's music alarm blaring,
birds outside still singing,
my cell phone started ringing,
it was merely another Robot call,
Welcoming me back to the 21 century.
Imagine if you can some man made device or solar flare
knocking out all the satellites in space and computers on
earth, then this nightmare is not so far-fetched.
I actually did have this unsettling dream. The possibility
of this reality does indeed exist.
Get your finery on and let the games begin,
Does it look like you'd trust him?
Blackout suit, purple shirt,
Crimson tie, dangerous eyes.
Sly, slick, sardonic and wicked
wearing a gentlemanly disguise.

The dinner was alright
now get ready to fight.
White powder on the counter,
A dusted card and a rolled-up fiver.
Finish up your line
and get out there.

Codine chills, calm is instilled,
Colorful lights, relaxed thrills.

No chats so I'll settle for that.

A while later
and we're back in black. Hometown
beatdown.
Lets get completely smashed;
Go hard or go home.

Messy nights never get old,
River of glass across a broken road.
Tonic wine is best served cold, though
the medicinal properties remain unknown.
A bottle of B from Buckfast Abby, they always
blame it on the buckie, infernal commotion lotion with its cough-syrupy sweet nectar.

Just the end of another debutante night,
Staying classy while we drink and fight.
Making hedonistic debauchery stylish
'cause we're Irish.
Larry Potter Aug 2013
Overborne barrels
Rolled out in weights
That God knows how much.

Down the bottomless pit
Of unredeemable darkness
Where desire laid unrest.

The hounds of greed
Stripped off the barks
But hid the naked truth.

Where pigs are kept
For the coming slaughter
By the hungry crocodiles.

Only brittle bones
Shall be thrown and fed
To the ignorant river.

But the water saw blood
And soon the tide will rage
To drown the narcissists.
At the spot people still glance as they pass, see it empty and give a sigh
You can still hear his cheerful whistling as you go by,
Now the corner where the strange man lived is dull and clear
The spot where he lived, the man from everywhere but here.

The strange man talked of places never seen
He talked of places no one had ever been,
He talked of beautiful princesses, kings and knights
He talked of fierce battles and winning fights,

People who were from out of town thought he was just a little queer
But the local people knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

He talked of Trolls and Giants as tall as the eye could see
He talked of maidens and fair ladies as beautiful as can be,
He talked of conquering fiery dragons without a scrape
He talked of guarded dungeons where he’d always escape.

All the people from far off would say “he’s full of beer”
But all the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

He talked of tall trees and mountains oh so high
He talked of big castles that would scrape the sky,
He talked of great far off enchanted lands
He talked of places where good and evil always held hands.

People ask him if he was ever afraid to die
He’d take his finger and point to the sky,
With the same old sparkle in his eye,
He’d say the day that star up there is gone
That is the day that I will move on.

The people from out of town thought the man was just a little queer
But the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

His cheerful whistling would brighten anyone’s day
His enchanting whistling would make the rain go away,
He’d sit in the same spot all day and talk to the young and the old
He talks to the nicest, the meanest and even the bold.

The people from far off would say “he’s full of beer”
But the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

That winter the clouds rolled in and it snowed for quite a while
But no matter how cold the strange man always wore a smile,
He became so pale he was as white as a ghost
But no matter how cold he still had time to boast.

Boast about all that he had seen and done
Boast about all the pretty ladies he had won,
He’d tell you still about all the people he’d met
He’d tell you about all the sly traps he’d set.

The people from out of town thought he was just a little queer
But all the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

The winter wore on and so did the snow
But the strange man never looked low,
That night the clouds rolled away
To reveal that the stars had gone away.

The next day the man had vanished out of sight
All that was left was his blanket and pipe,
The man never came back after that day
But his cheerful whistling will never go away.

At the spot people still glance as they pass, see it empty and give a sigh
You can still hear his cheerful whistling as you go by.
Now the corner where the strange man lived is dull and clear
The spot where he lived, the man from everywhere but here.
© 2016 Christine Mulvihill
L Maughan Jul 2019
who you were I cannot say
July there golden as a burning bubble
and it gave away an evening
the exact temperature of skin
lawns stretched out to anybody
and you with a pup
while the last
of a day poured slowly
out of a dark pitcher
your kindness with him
stroked my eyes
as he rolled around your feet
in the cool grass coaxing you
to stay a little longer
you with patient pauses
and the softness in a man
that is the most seductive
Francie Lynch Sep 2018
I've used them on my windows
To see the clear outside,
If I read the Op-eds,
I shudder, shuttered and hide.

I've spread them 'neath my plates and cups,
My shelves all neat and tidy;
But the headlines made it clear to me
My glass is more half empty.

They had a place in the litter box
For **** to scratch and squat;
I laid them round my garden plants,
They made fine insect traps.
Rolled and twirled they'd start a fire,
I could fold them into hats.
They cleaned the grease from BBQs,
And they're safe to pick up glass.
Crumple them for packaging,
They work as school book covers;
Add water and some flour,
To shape papier mache lovers.
Fold seeds in them to germinate,
Then use them for compost;
There's many ways to employ
Your Times and local Post.

But I won't subscribe to Dailies
For the felling of our trees;
And yet I miss my papers,
And the ways they worked for me.
But when enthroned,
You'll hear me grouse,
There's no **** paper in this ****-house.

My cell works well to scroll and swipe,
But it's only good for a virtual wipe.
Hg Aug 2018
i’m friends with a chemist
she always got a flask

now she got a heartache
and a faded henna tat

lately i’ve been lonely
and she’s been really sad

so we took to the roof
we took the ***** threw it back

her finger has a tan line
but we don’t mention it

i can’t hold down my liquor
or my laughter so i spit

she chugs like it’s water
she’s got those russian genes

the only thing i got in blood
are zits and heart disease

the sips leaks out her lips
like cracks within a dam

some drip onto her wrists
rubbing the henna off her hand

i make a drunk comment
on her spiral designs

she says they’re meant to bring
good luck and blessings to the bride

and then she paused the night
by tightening her lips

our feet dangled in silence
hanging off the tiled edge

till suddenly she cracked
her bottled up emotions

poured out what she feels
the wasted years of her devotion

**** love dude, she whispered
**** weddings and white dresses

let him go and **** all of
those delta gamma *******

she looked down at the ground
as a crack of thunder rolled

wiped away her tear and said
love’s just a chemical

she handed me her flask
and i took the final swig

sunset almost ended when
a thought rained on my head

if love’s a chemical
and that’s all it’s ever been

our bodies are just flasks
and love’s just a reaction
©Hg
King Panda Sep 2017
I was not sick
and needed no

convalescence

no rebirth
or panning
view of

bloodscape

the black

gasp of dawn
it offered

never
drew

no sickness

no hospital
beds

or starched sheets

no goodbye
rain

or last shot
of whiskey

it unended

when the
sickness of

the mind
rolled in

with its fingers
shaped like a gun

and a trash bag
for my jewel

give me
no sickness


I begged

and robbers
there were three

beat me down and
left me like a

headless buck
FreeMind Feb 2018
At 5 years old
She liked a boy
That told her she was "pretty".
They sat hand in hand
And played pretend
That they were "Oh so ready!"
She told her friends
So they all giggled without an end.

At 10 years old
She liked a boy
That told her she was "gross".
"Too much hair! Look at that fat!
I'd rather like a monkey instead!"
Tears rolled down,
Self esteem has broke.
She told no one,
Because she already knew
What she was...

At 15 years old
She liked a boy
That told her she was "beautiful".
So strong and tall,
She gave no thought
But loved him always more.
"He is no good for you"
"Find someone better"
She let these words fly past.
They stood hand in hand
Against the world
They always stood together.

But something changed...

No longer interested in her
"I can not wait no more!"
He robbed her of her flower once,
And then once more.
Regret and tears,
Nothing more.
She held it all inside too long.
She asked for help.
In need of aid.
But got nothing more
Than blue, purple, and red
All over her.

At 17 years old
She liked no one.
She went nowhere.
She did nothing.
She wanted forgiveness.
She wanted life to simply end.
No words to speak.
Only thoughts filled her now.
The "Why?" and "What?" and "How?"
They almost killed her.
She cried all night.
She sat all day
With nothing else getting in her way.
All alone,
No longer her,
Thinking of the best way,
To finally give in
And say,

Goodbye...



-FreeMind
#19
CK Baker Aug 2017
the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac

it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin

indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
how could the switch
be set so wrong?


it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?


the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand
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