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sean wonder Sep 2018
today was ******
there's no elegant way to put it and
i'm tired
all i can feel is anger that my body is broken
my heart is taking away the very thing that
gave me the beauty of loving again
to row, for me, is to feel.

do i know that it's not the end of the world?
have i survived a hell of a lot worse?
but i survived those things because of
my team.

i can't say goodbye
but the part that breaks me the most is
i know i should.
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the crack of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dreamweaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.

Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a back and glistening wave.

I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.

I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.

I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.

I hear the carve of oars,
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as both oar lock’s turn,
you slip the shore,
I hear the carve of oars

Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks

They didn't get along
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
On the very edge the living earth
dared to replicate Queen Fathima
The Queen of Heaven’s footstep.
That way is the destination de jour
graced by thousands of prophets of God!

In the name of Allah she descended
on the Night of the Ascension.
From the Night of Measures unlike the rest
none can enumerate it yet an unnumbered zone
in the perfect geometrised transcended location.  

The earth steps in the gap making way for her:
The only asymmetric golden ratio.
Slips out to the symmetric prophet flock!
Sequenced in symmetric phi she moves on
in the veil, reveals her unique divine relation,
the front burner for sure is ever closer to God!

So pretty she is the paragon work of art
the sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty in her shadow is burning fire.
She is 'Zahra' pure light the luminary dynamo
the only one woman had no shadow!

The great women flocked and mirrored the earth.
Treading across every atom on that angle
perfectly aligned down the Moon.
Until those beneath the skin atoms
bang, explode, on approaching the behemoth,
the vibration beneath Fathima’s foot!

The ocean billows up
feels life on the high
floating on the clouds.
Choreographed like a little dew
hanging low on the rose.
Just to drop down on that hot spot
like a cool honey drop.

Even the Moon on the horizon
fancies to sip from this drop.
Ah, the lunar punter is rowing down.
The sleeping beauty wakes up
eyes are on the silver dance.
Eying on every star in the night
the Moon is floating down.
The seven seas sing out in the dark
bubbling with exuberant fireflies
that would gleefully rock the moonlight boat
over to the cup of this pretty little drop.  

Poetry in motion is a sea on the ground
the same is known as the Moon in the sky!
The storylines jump ever more
on that way over the shady grove.
Painting the colour of the winds
the sky rains down on that spot
singing the sweetest title song.  

Never was a woman prophet of God
to the one primitive woman, the leading lady
'Sayeedatun Nessa' Queen Fathima
heaven is no secret, it is an open mirror!
For her heaven is made an open book
the first batch of houris came to be
tuning into the sounds of her toes.
The earth in its primitive water first moved on
bang, Big Bang, soon she drops in it her hair lock.
She's the hidden gem in the secret end of God!

For the planetary ebb and flow on the way heaven
the planet earth is the only stepping stone.
No matter how many times more it tries on
there will still be an unturned stone.
Until the very one woman, the original
the Queen Fathima steps on.

Her presence connects the dots
the nadir and zenith perfectly line up
intersect into one grand perfect circle.
She will close it with the pi once for all
without a gap spilling new decimal.
Putting it all on the map ‘as above, so below’,
all in all, like it's in pure scientia scenario.

Heaven will open its grand door
where the queen will stand on.
No more reverse engineering physically
the original, Fathima will step on,
on the last turned stone.
From the one great woman
paradise starts from here on
from beneath the mother’s foot!
zelda Dec 2018
i want to hear
your voice
when i'm alone
at night past two;

i want to ask
too many questions
but you don't
want me to;

i want to know
if she's still the one
but i already
figured out the truth.
dec 2018.
Godawan Feb 5
By Childhood haryanvi
By profile flowing as jahnavi
Dhundhari in dhundhar
Saurashtrian in saurashtra
Moved from there to hawra
Manufacture insulators
Glistering and dark gray
That is the base of
Electricity to move its way
By naure soft & sweet
That is a healthy heat.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
racing, rowing, sailing
continuously running
continuous rowing  
attracting junior, senior, master  
celebrated periodically
each three staged
starting, racing, ending  
Hosted annually
attracting large parties,
tangential to sailing  
dry-land discontinued
rowing Summer
sailing Summer
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source -
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Keep rolling, like sailing, rowing the science voyage.
Discovering a new discovery, then much happens:
a new crescent, new moon on a new turn is found,
yet a night to be invented eclipses it furthermore.

Will the voyage float at the newest dark energy frontier?
Will it now pierce verily the ******-skinned heaven’s last barrier
that divides the seen and unseen, holds the uncharted water?
Will it by design decode or recite the word, the language
the lock is coded in, the very command written on the stone?
Till then it won’t move, nor does one see the skin black or white,
and till then one won’t stop the sun lighting up the night!
The poem is from the book Zero and One: The Relativity of Science and Poetry available on Amazon.
Chris Neilson Sep 2016
Stopping to write words is my impulsive habit
as hopping grey squirrels cross paths with a wild rabbit

Hedge and tree sparrows creating their fun
tweeting feathered friends under a rising sun

Goats and rowing boats resting by a shady tree
donkey rides advertised that don't come for free

Mother feeding baby upon a tartan rug
a passing loved up couple sharing a hug

Ear flicking deer romping up then down
full leafed green trees turning to brown

For who knows a bell tolls at midday
not for a slight slumbering pony anyway

Passing a multicultural horticultural area
spotting an alpaca who's growing hairier

A soaking Labrador emerges from a small lake
brushing my bare lower leg in its wake

Sitting on a bench dedicated to a lost loved one
taking in the views he loved before he was gone

A picture may paint a thousand words long
but poetry captures succinctly September birdsong
It's my fortune to live close to one of the largest municipal parks in Europe (Heaton Park), this is my account of a stroll through there this unseasonably warm September day.
Joseph A Belli Mar 2010
My partner in crime
Always on my mind
Who I can talk to for hours with no words half the time
My anchor at sea on a ship with no sails
And the will to keep rowing where my strength may fail
While I am with you I am fearless of heights
You make me feel loved and prompt me to write
When you speak - I don't listen
I breath in your words
Exhale, look up and see a new world
One with promise
A future shining bright as the Sun
Simply knowing your Love means the world to just one
As we drink up these moments
We're running from time
Staring into your eyes
I glare back into mine
Fly north on your wings while your heart becomes colder
When we are to meet again, we wont be different - just older.
So if you ever are lonely in a town with blank faces,
Look up at the sky and count the stars in their places.
For you can bet God I'll be counting them too.
Although we may be apart, I am always with you.
© J.Belli 2007.. Critique, Help me become a better writer..
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2018
A sprinkle of blue sparkle
off the lapis lazuli sky.
A throw of stars
from the full moon night.
We will take in abundance
while rowing the waves
once in the River Nile.

Hear! The crave of oars
breaching the shore.
Reaching out and close
to the pyramid foundation.
That’s scientia is pure rigid
yet so open loose.
One dozen milky ways
can hover in rhythm
over this stony knot!

That doesn’t mean
the Mintaka stars will give
up their shares at all
They will sit on the top.
Without the pyramid moving
a step from the true north.

Between this relative sublunary
and over the moon mural
if and when one spaces up.
The silent Moon takes a pause
humming the prehistoric lullabies.
With a patch of the blue sky
and a starry sprinkle from the night.  
Maybe then we will take a break in
behind the closed doors of the great pyramid!
A poem from my upcoming book Qun: Love is Above Reason
Monika Layke Dec 2018
Splayed against the sky
Fingers became long feathers
Off she went, rowing
Steve Mar 24
Mountains and dreams
Castles and Rainbows
Flashing eyes
Lightning bolts
Warm smiles
Rowing boats
Cushioned by clouds over
Castles and rainbows
Deep breaths
Angel lips
Sharp nails
Honey sips
Lost in the moment beside
Castles and rainbows
Heart beats
Smoke rings
Chocolate treats
A robin sings
Feeling you rise seeing
Castles and rainbows
Blue sky
Hot sun
Moving waves
Double fun
Castles and rainbows
Mountains and dreams
Tassels and hedgerows
Fountains and queens
trf Sep 2018
H arrowing abundance rife with result
O ur minds narrowly try to cope
U nder pressure facades and near **** haute
R estricts the leisure of bare beauty
G rowing impatient by the cover of makeup
L oving imperfection is now a rare duty
A ttributes of wear benign hope and
S ecede scars born of cataclysm while
S carcely inhibiting a chance to forgive them
everyone is beautiful and everyone is ****. shine a light on anyone, make your decision & determine which way you'd like to be perceived
I thought the storm had passed
and that wreckage had been avoided.
Against the current my whole pirate life,
uncaring of the opinions of others,
and focus on the rowing at hand.

The gray and thrilling sky
make the dark sea water seem ferocious.
The risk of lightning had never crossed my mind
before tonight when I suddenly realized I was alone
on a boat in the sea
and in the middle of a storm.

I steer with my left
and dump bucketloads of water with my other hand.
Focused on damage control
and ignorant to the the storm's prognosis
whilst my wooden mind struggles to stay afloat.

Row forth and onward.
This storm too shall pass,
and I'll come out stronger.
rough night
this is what I dreamt before I fell asleep
C H A T A N T May 27
Above and below, I go.
To and fro, to and fro.
I'll row my rowing boat
To touch every jelly fish
And kiss every sharks lips.
Then I'll row,
Far across the star filled sea
To dance and bounce
On a whales leather belly.
And if he's hungry,
Perhaps I'll let him take a
Small bite out of me!
Mary Gay Kearns Sep 2018
The rowing boat gave you half an hour
On a murky lake in the middle of a park
After waiting in a line for quite a time
One took the paddles and jumped inside.

The boat it rattled and rolled, the paddles
Clanked as each backwards move pulled
Fingers floated wide stretched in the leaf
Sycamore seeds dust meniscus shimmer.

Autumn holiday glitter in St James Park
Where the Serpentine under arch bridge
Eating sandwiches and waiting for City
Christmas lights to brighten Selfridges.

Love Mary **
Yue Wang Yidhna Aug 2018
I am terribly near sighted
Consciously and subconsciously
I see not what I have saw
I hear not what I have heard
In fact most of the time,
I don’t even feel
What I should have felt

But the mirror of life
It keeps a record of every little thing
And I relive in my dreams
All that I have missed

And much much more:

All I ever need
Is just a little hint of life:

Your lovely little smile
I failed to respond to during the day
Would haunt me
With what would seem like
A whole lifetime of sweet champagne
Kisses of cherries and grapes
With a scent of longing that
Fills me to the core with
Twinges that burst throughout
My entire being
Shining brightly from
Every single particle of my

The little chirps and calls of crickets
That alternate between the oblivious
Moon upon a bed of restless stars
And the wizened sun
Would always take me to a land
Unlived, untouched, unruined
A vast nonexistence
A vast ruin full of life
Where I have never been so alone
Yet so fulfilled, so joyful, and so


The dreamless gale that
Would raise me up to mountains
From which I can finally gaze down
With sure and confident eyes
Upon the whole of life
See, sense, and feel
Every scenery and every being
With the purest of colours
Rowing down the crimson rivers
In a canary boat caressed by
A forest of ocean blue sequoias
Blanketed with a soup of
Violet stars
Into the heart of the universe

Where everything that have lived
Or could have lived
Never went away

Where nothing is ever gone
But just lost
So momentarily
Like a wandering child
Let out into the world
Seemingly defenselessly
Yet, perfectly safe
Under the hidden watch of
The mother

Where everything I love
Love me just as much
And so much more

Where I am never just me
But a child
A poet
A painter
A musician
An ancient pilgrim

Where I can fall into stars
And float up to the edge
Of the sky
Swim in the air without my feet
Ever touching the ground

Where I am finally
Held by you
The one person
I love most unyieldingly
In a death grip of never letting go.
I Love you through My Dreams
Jan 27, 2018, 6:15 PM
By: Yue Yidhna ****

Used to be a personal favorite so I wanted to publish it, but since I haven't heard back from anyone, and I don't like it as much as anymore  I'll just post them.

(I wish I can pin posts here:
I think these are better poems of mine:
Travis Green Dec 2018
The immense trees stood quietly
in the background, its shattered
leaves under clouds of confusion,
the wind rowing a reverberating
beat of broken blues beneath
it's sunken surface.  I stared at
its swollen symmetry and
tangled angles, the scars splintered
inside its core, the crushed dreams
drifting in loneliness.  I could feel
its inner presence sifting inside
my dimension, the disintegrating
thought of closed chambers
crashing sporadically within
my veins, the quivering faces
of frozen features, the cracked
skies upon the dead, the suffering
shadows lingering in a corridor
of thinning sounds.  The darkness
was slowly closing in as I gazed
into the horizon at the body of
blanched hues, stark screams
echoing across the sky, seeping
inside me as I inhaled each stroke of
pain pounding deep within my domain.
Travis Green Dec 2018
I can hear the waves speaking to
my soul, swirling rhythms of blue
light beaming in my sight, a smooth
bridge of poetry rising all over me,
a bride of glory and passion nudging
up against me, sparking creative
inventions and insights inside
my mind.

I watch the sun shine in its
magnificent kingdom, glittering
cheeks of goldenness, sweet
tunes of enlightenment filling
the landscape, as the puffy
clouds float in a bed of brilliant

And as the afternoon fades away
into the evening, I can see the
deep glow of dreams rooted
in this space.  The great white
pelicans soaring above me,
distinguished creatures of
dominance and depth.  The
river of trees blowing in
the breeze.  The vivid
purplish hues carved into
the sky.  The dream chasing
perfection rowing across
the skyline, as my heart
is reawakened in this
world of thrilling creations.
Terry Collett Jul 11
Lydia brought a bag
of sandwiches
(her mother reluctantly
made them),
and we went
to the park.

I brought along
a couple of bottles of pop,
and two candy bars.

We sat on the grass
and she shared
the sandwiches.

What's in them?
I asked.

She looked:
Cheese or paste,
I think,
she said.

We ate
and sipped.

Did your old lady
mind making
the sandwiches?
I asked.

She moaned a bit,
but after she did them;
she even took her
cigarette out
while she made them,
Lydia replied.

I watched boys
kick a ball
over on a football pitch.

How is your big sister?
I asked.

Mum says
she's a *****,
and they are
always rowing,
Lydia said.

I saw her
the other evening
with a Spiv,
I said.

Dad won't have him
in the house,
Lydia said,
but Mum
don't mind him.

The sandwiches
were good;
we sipped
our pop drinks.

It was her idea
for the picnic thing
and pop drinks
and candy bars
were all
I could think to bring.
A boy and girl in London in 1958
Terry Collett Dec 2018
The ceiling never seems to move about;
it seems steadfast like the mast of a ship,
only shadows billowing like old sails
caught by rough winds, flicker above your head.

You lie on your back on the double bed,
your body caressed by the cream duvet;
your head propped up by two off-white pillows.

You do not think he will return again;
it had been a bad night with little sleep,
with both your voices rowing in the night,
with intermissions of ****** games,
with promises made in the lustful hours;
a future mapped out in idealized talk.

Dawn’s light seeps in at the curtains’ edge;
birdsong filters in from the trees outside;
distant traffic hums like far away bees.

But this love-making bed is yours alone;
he has fled to some other’s bed, you guess;
someone younger, more pliable than you,
who has that innocence and skin beauty
that you once had. Now she is his new ship
that he can sail in his lustful hours.

You lie there on the bed like a wrecked ship;
marooned on the loneliness of this shore;
this bed; this room and ceiling, loved no more.
© 2 minutes ago, Terry Collett
A woman betrayed
They say it’s painless
But it’s not nameless
No, we’re not nameless, no

They ***** with your head and I’m sorry
You don’t deserve this
It wasn’t your fault, if it wasn’t your folly
You should know it

But you must know you have a Father in heaven
Someone who loves you and accepts you in
He won’t abuse your emotions
He feels your pain, and will heal your bruises, He’s rowing
You can show Him all your scars
What you may have done, and what was done to you
And He still welcomes me with open arms
And our Savior will guide you through

It’s okay to admit you’re in the storm
Don’t ignore it like before
It will always linger
But with God, death loses its stinger
That is not the love the Father wants for you
What He wants for you, is pure and true

They say it’s painless
But it’s not nameless
No, we’re not nameless, no
I want to write a song about this topic, because I think it’s very important, and something we don’t pay attention to. Bellow the age of 18, 1/3 girls and 1/6 boys have been *****. Any more suggestions on what this song should contain?
Em MacKenzie Oct 2018
People walk on by and only glance in my direction
unaware that I am suffering from a deep rooted infection.
For don't you see that I'm painfully dying
and in the future you'll know that I could've been saved,
all it took was a simple moment of trying
and to hear the things that I always craved.

They tell you a drowning man will drag you down
but I've always been a strong swimmer,
we can easily take on another pound
just focus on the waves surfing glimmer.
Keep going, keep rowing,
don't inhale that salty sea.
The wind's blowing, exhaustion is showing,
I'll hold you up even when you can't hold me.

People walk on by and only glance in my direction
they aren't the slightest bit shocked at my self inflicted dissection.
For I desperately need to remove my organs of rot,
these days feeling just takes too much of a toll on me,
and they're so badly damaged that no customer has bought,
even when I offered them up for free.

They tell you a drowning man will drag you under
but I've always been gifted with a swift stroke,
how I made it out this far truly is a wonder,
or maybe just another sad tasteless joke.
Keep going, keep towing,
don't you give up so easily.
The wind's blowing, pace is slowing,
I'll hold you up even when you can't hold me.

So call me Ismael 'cause I'm lost at sea,
was caught up in a current very swiftly,
and my white whale has lost all interest in me,
I guess there's some other place it would rather be,
than stuck in my sad excuse for company.
Do I glimpse land's salvation or am I just succumbing to insanity?
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