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Seanathon Mar 2017
I will let the enamel rust
If that's what it takes
To remove
The enamored me
Southboud... The rhythm... Help me continue to count our.
L B Sep 2018
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass

We linger longest over John

Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags

...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed

No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”

Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning car alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--


...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
through the housing codes
and horror of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...

******* crazy-- John!

He was enough for one day at a time
like when

he flung that threatening bolder
on his bilco doors
for percussive effect

Get off my ******' property!”
(not using his “inside voice”)
“Next time, that'll be your head!!

He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”

My phone is set to speed dial

“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”

How we miss him now
How quiet
Every neighborhood has one,  and I do miss him.  John provided endless daily entertainment and angst.  Sometimes he was a truly friendly neighbor; sometimes, truly scary.  We had many long conversations.  My beloved cat, Bailey adored him.  I took that as a good sign.  John cried when Bailey was found dead.  I have entrusted them to each other's care in heaven.

Jesus, forgive John his failures and his torments.  I take his place dutifully as the local crazy.  :)
Arby Aug 2018
Emeralds and white linen
fasten to your stare.
Like rusting leaves to the coastal breath,
like your words to air.
Q Feb 2017
Years of my tears dry to stale grit
Rusting my skin with crusting corrosions
of Yesterday's emotions frustrations devotions
With time, composting into a dirt coating
Renourishing layers of decomposition
Green seeds in germination with anticipation
Sprouting fresh roots of deeper perception

A Glowing. Growing. Living. New Me.
trf Jul 2018
sleeping tears awoke to crimson crust & apple red veins,
eyes peering through the dizzying fog to find a faucet
& drizzle rain like nectar down the peach pit's core,
along rugged edges & oval pores,

imperfect patterns & lightning blinks
remind the second sadness to cry once again.

My swipe of crust is rusting
like a smoker's yellowing finger tips gathering paint on callouses
& cracked lips

mirrored reflections shadow gaze,
squinting to locate bronze crow's feet of a man, mid thirties,
lying for what-to die
dying to wait-for what
I wrote this poem on the back of my most recent 36x48 painting. Abstract-fully Delicious, yet sad and viscous
kt mccurdy Nov 2015
The checkered cabs have come and gone.
Hot melon, lime juice sipped by girls with practical names like
Petunia. “Fill me up,” she saltly said. So, with words, she swallows up out, erode the beds of fingers and of the sand, rode up the preying tide, rusting the shoreline like a spoon. Poison ivy and pennies, brass nickels and gums.
Flaking leaves from branches, barren and sad. Growing up from them are twisted spines, prodding the landscape of iris greens. Drowning pinks, hot melon, lime juice -- quickly,  swallowing raw.
the woods are moist with the fever of fear
suckling the after thoughts of speech
spit out without regard
for the crickets venturing to sing
or the widening of the streams
strong with neglect of the rusting branches touching tip to tip

(but) this is what we are, a forest
David Hutton Dec 2018
Just imagine if I disappeared,
Would your memory of me be blurred?
Rusting away in your mind,
Leaving me behind.
A face you had known, a name you had heard.
Evan Stephens Dec 2018
It's snowing
and I think
******* Dad,
when Maryland
beats Indiana
and I move
to text him.

He's beyond
snow now.
So what do I do
with these
unbearable photos
he took of me
standing alone
in the withered sun
on monumental trains,
I was six or seven,
out by the
rusting roundhouse
in Brunswick?

It's been snowing
for hours
& I carve
a footpath
out to the
unplowed street
to watch the
shining gray
banks under
the amber light.

There is no
route to carve
through this silence.
My father
was built
from ghost towns,
from Manzanar,
from the endless
of Idaho's
rivered night,
from all the
unmapped places,
he grew complete
in himself.

And even now
as I watch
the snow slant
and stumble
I am left behind
as his son
apart from him
& without.

The snow dives
into the
night blankness
& I wonder
if I had died
first, cutting
short this reckless
careless crooked
sprawl, would he
be writing here?

The smeared
gray glow
of the screen
across his hands,
the fat flake
snow rising
like dough
beneath the windows?
Chloe M Teng Apr 2017
I never called it a
Writer's block or what not,
Never did.

More to just a halt of the
pen that gathers dust and sand
Than the mind's mechanism rusting
With the passing of time and

It's your afternoon nap in that hot
Sweaty state, drinking in
the world but
Never enough to satisfy.
Words don't come as you choose
And you're left spooning your
Own mouth.

You're a servant of your own.

It's a loss without restoration,
A poet's unrequited love.

And in that state of mind
you question
the void lying
On pen and paper.
Nico Julleza May 2017
I'd tried to run but you led me to wait
through surging snows and rusting gates
I'd crumple but you pushed me out of subtle
what is it that you want from me?

Is it my faith, my future longed I have made?
my dignity I had redeemed, or my felicity for your company

Oh Solemn, where can you be?
when uncharted shores crushed my midnight sea
aren't you free? or just uncanningly meek
like sheep upon my feet, though as I was blinded to see

why did you ever hide away from me?
why did you led me up, when you ****** me down?
why did you give me light when I'm ready to see?

just so as you disappeared, unsaid, unheard, unread from me
Oh, Solemn did you ever try to care for me?
"Loneliness triggered the man to think if someone really cared for him"

#solemn #care #love #vulnerability #obscurity #questions #answer
(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Nigdaw Aug 2019
We will come to you in the end
On our hands and knees,
To worship at the altar of nature.
When money has become worthless
Cars are chunks of useless rusting metal,
And all the technology in the world
Hasn't saved our sorry ***.
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.

The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.

I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.

Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?

I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and  terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.

Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel –  ready for
the coming siege.

I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.

This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.

(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015
Robin MacCuish Feb 2018
You may call me a Snowflake,
        But I will not melt.
You may call me a Snowflake,
        But we will blanket the ground
You may call me a Snowflake
        But my fist will remain
        In the air, emboldened
        And Inflamed
You may call me a Snowflake,
But my chapped lips will Breathe
Warm Winter air
You may call me a Snowflake,
     But remember
             you are nothing but an old tin can
     Rusting away in the cold of
             Our Snowflake sand
             for we are everywhere you will stand
You may call me a Snowflake,
Cause I will be back again
        And again and again
        Waiting here on the ground
        For you to come join me
        under this blanket
And be a friend.
Donall Dempsey May 2019

Oh my how red **** struts(thinks he's a sultan)    
striding in and out among his harem-scarum hens

talking to themselves
like some lost senile sentimental souls.

Foolish fowl!

They lay eggs for gentlemen
and kids on long hot summer holidays

they hide their eggs like broken hearts
like old love letter secrets

safe in unseen places.

But see Auntie Nellie *****-nilly as a fox
stalk the chickens and expose them

cruel as the NEWS OF THE WORLD.

See her raid the haystacks
(backseat of the old car)    
rain rusting machinery

her apron pregnant and precious with
the warm and brown gift of eggs.

Red **** crows loud against the morning marigolds
while children's voices babble sleepily into wide awakefulness

love letter secrets staining their lips
sad valentines for breakfast.
labyrinth Sep 2019
I could have been a priest
Or an astronaut maybe
A president or a statesman at least
A poet could’ve easily been me

A professional athlete, or a shipmaster with a crew
What a proficient doctor I would’ve been
A **** good musician or a scientist too
Let alone being a chief archaeologist or something

Ended up being an ordinary man
Thousands of clients and their needs
As ordinary as a real-estate broker and
Been busy rusting with useless deeds.

Couldn’t figure it out to this day. How? Why?
And don’t know how to respond, either
Not much time left. Dad? Ma?
Or anybody else for that matter?
Not copyrighted yet
Evan Stephens Mar 2019
Sleep circles
with wide wings.
Pages vanish down the eye's well:

Napoleon burns Moscow,
French detectives fry onions,
Lorca dies in the greenest green.

Rain spits into the room
crooked, dark. I'm alone.
The gyre closes, soft as a net.

Dreams hunch on the furniture.
The mirrors broadcast
the Venetian blinds croaking

and rattling against the screen
like creamy swords
in enamel scabbards.

Book-addled eyelids
are rusting into blinks
of burling dusk.

Each dying thought
is a sleek Deco Bugatti
lead by a shining path

from teardrop headlamps
whose fingers pry the night
moments before tires

sing rubber to blue.
The rain gathers into serpents
in the channels of the floor.

Above you hangs
the fat black branch
of sleep's truest face.
Robert C Ellis Jun 2019
Sediment weighs more than water so I sink further;
glasses clinking words
enumerated faces diluting history the pressure
of becoming so much underneath
my skin splitting at the seams,
bearing teeth.  There are these great turbines driving the Sea, the Will of comets deceased churning water at degrees
building gills and ribs from rusting. They rivet bent
backbones into a sister teething our parents for Memory.  
The streetlights trying to burn down Infinity
Robert C Ellis Feb 2019
My neighbor sCREAMs at the night,
his bare frame clinching pinched ribs over
A busted belly; his arms stripping wings in the moonlight;
He struts, his skin convulsing with syllables;
A broken toy on tiptoes losing his top
My lungs stop; God’s machinery rusting
with another flight of dreams, the ether adding miles;
This theatre of sleep an unfinished sphere of
Rose petals, measured in decibels

The toss of weary Gods rearing Hell
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
Josteen Yazzi said the Critic should ask his thought

on the matter of great art and literature

What do you know of art and literature, Uncle?

Nothing, he said, I think about what I do not know.

I do not know why people don't like Norman Rockwell.

Norman Rockwell painted the American Dream,
with Indians in it, some times.

I like Norman Rockwell because I know how he felt.
I saw my people live in a good world that vanished.

Magic or other wise, I remember mine,
the way
when I see
Mr. Rockwell's America as he imagined
he had seen it.

Or maybe he painted
what you should have been able to see,
but for wars and Spanish Flu and cattle barons
and reaping machines and steam and electricity.

Olaf Wieghorst coulda painted America ugly, too.
But he didn't.

Literature. I have nothing left to say, Norman Rockwell, maybe he needed a mentioning for some
reader anchored reason.

We have to deal with that more these days.
People with big old dish antennae out there,
rusting after Direct TV got a satellite to see the res,

Some o'the kids build a radio telescope, outa them three meter models,
so we are connected.

Norman Rockwell painted the Peaceful Kingdom,
just like Mr. Hicks and Mr. Kincaid,

not mr klee or mr picaso, they could image hell.
My ma liked That drippy guy, said she could see the swing of things in he's paintings, What's-isname,

Jackson, damshame, Jackson Pollak right?

but the message is in the medium, that's what my Shicheii yoosto say. Art must sing.
So I can play my drum. And she can dance.
When we think nothing about it.
Thinking about America and an old man who taught me to ball trees. I had a job rescuing orange trees, Josteen Yazzi, he's not really a Navajo, but he was a bracero who staid without papers and nobody cared cause he was the last tree baller.
Ackerrman Jul 2019
The first time
I lost my mind,
The world seemed a destitute place.

The first time
I took it by force.
Left to fend with fiends

Furrowing through time,
Clawing at the day,
Dragging myself against the pull.

The introduction to
Something dark and true.

The second time!
I could stand no more
Of what I found before

Did not mean to come back,
Sometimes I think I didn’t,
Mulling in a mood grey and grave

The blue sky,
Once bubbly
Now looks blander

Circle of red.
Head of lead.
Lying in my bed.

The third
barely touched
Just scraped at chalk.

After that, I went away…
Opted out.
Nothing mattered.

There I sat in limbo.

Like an old car,
I sputtered,
Bore sitting and rusting.


And how I laugh,
To say
That I am less

How I laugh-
To say that I am dying
To think that I am sloth

I am greed.
I am pride.

I am failure,
I am afraid-
Of everything.

I died some time ago,
Left company

So now I am back in the game.
And enigmatic.
Do I scare you?

Because I should.
I am terrifying
And cant be intimidated

I do not fear death,
I do not fear reprobation
But honestly?

I scare my self
And I am afraid of you too,
Fear is my super power.

Depression is my identity,
Something personal to me,

So Welcome death,
Welcome fear!
Welcome Might.

You can’t comprehend me,
What it is to be free,
You have never died

Never writhed,
In fire,
You circuit.

I shan’t come out tonight,
Or any other

But stand afront,
With twisted mind, bald and blunt
And I shall eat you…

That look-
Look down

Divert your eyes,
But stand in my way,
And I shall eat you

Your eyes-
Fresh grass

Red light
Yellow filter
Green eyes

Pain defies
Anguish flies

Panic stricken,
Anxiety driven

Quick- Look down now,
Holding back the wrath of Jessu,
This mouse will ******* eat you!
I like Sylvia Plath. This is my Lady Lazarus.
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