Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
AprilDawn Jun 2014
as though a small town
beauty pageant winner
paraded through  
tossing sweet petals
like fist-fulls of  candy  
from her seat perched high above
local roads
this fragrant litter
purged  in layers
from the catalpa tree
with  it’s divinely
designed
heart shaped leaves
plainly remains
      an organic  shade
for the neighbor's shed

.
This  is  a poem I began to write  7 years ago in Massachusetts ! I realized this  tree also existed  in my  neighbor's back yard where I live now about 2 years ago  ,  a truly  delightful discovery.The shape of  this tree   was  different  and that had thrown me, in identifying it.One day  my nose was clear enough to smell the flowers on the  stepping stones on my way to the car and  the fragrance  catapulted me back to  that  big   tree  in New England.
Knit Personality Jan 2015
I take a concept scattered, rough, or mean,
And put it through my epigram machine;
Then hope that, though its soul may well be dirt,
It comes out clean as Mr. Clean is clean.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
SCATTERED DREAMS

Whenever I fell
asleep

my father came
& cupped me in his hands

carried me to bed
as if I were as precious

as water
in a hot dry land


or draped like discarded clothing
on a couch...in a garden


on a bench or a beach
I would be gathered up


& awake to find myself
back in the safety of my own bed.


And I would have thought
I had flown


or being magically
transported by a spell


but it was only the ordinary
magic of my father


cradling me in his arms
gathering up the littlest


of my scattered dreams
stroking my hair

& tip-toeing backwards
out of the room

his voice
full of tenderness


casting a spell
“Good night son...goodnight...goodnight.”
Persephone Sep 23
Roses bloomed in her eyes
The day the sky changed from grey to divine
We danced on starlight clouds
And chanted songs of childhood springtime
We never thought to wander
The pasts or plunders
We loved to the world turned round
And never stoped to tie our shoes
Or frown
SCATTERED DREAMS

Whenever I fell
asleep

my father came
cupped me in his hands

carried me to bed

as if I were as precious
as water

in a hot dry land

or draped like discarded clothing
on a couch...in a garden on a bench or a beach

I would be
gathered up

& awake to find myself
back in the safety of my own bed.

And I would have thought
I had flown

or being magically
transported by a spell

but it was only
the ordinary

magic of my father

cradling me
in his arms

gathering up the littlest
of my scattered dreams

stroking my hair

& tip-toeing backwards
out of the room

his voice
full of tenderness

casting a spell

“Good night son...goodnight...goodnight.”
Dougie Simps Sep 12
At times I wake up
Thinking why the hell did god let see another day?
I barely pray
Barely say “dear lord thank for blessing me”
Guess I have a purpose
28 years layin down feeling so worthless
Nobody’s perfect
I lashed out at everyone because inside I was hurtin
Feelin so deserted - needing a story
Wondering every **** day
When I die...what was my story?
Was I gift? Sent here to help spread change?
Was I a monster? Sent here to help spread pain.
Maybe I was a non factor and just fell back
Maybe I touched a few hearts...while sadly remaining detached
I don’t kno what it is nor can I ****** give anymore effort
This world is tough and everyday we all tryna to gain new leverage
I stop to see
What it was that was always in front of me
The open sea.
With endless possibilities
I see my siblings and watch them go out and fulfill their dreams
I see my friends - growing up and accomplishing all they were meant to be
I see my mother - who pushes on when life gets heavy
I see my soul - who is uncertain yet, claims to remain ready.
But that’s life - it’ll always remain unsteady
It’ll gas you up - lie to you and even act semi petty
80 percent is how you react while 20 percent is what you let in
I’ve let it all come into me - some would call me reactivate
Not many people enjoy you - this trait is not attractive
Yet I’m combative - for I am, the way I am and that’s that kid.
I’ve changed so much that I could’ve gotten into fashion
I feel I need a cause for the reason that I am who I am and I’m so tired of askin
God and I just don’t see eye to eye and he no longer understand why I need to cry
When I work out with my demons- thinking that I got stronger
Is it excuse that I wanna die young? Or can I not take it any longer?
Idk, don’t ask such personal questions until you walk a mile in they shoes
Don’t count your wins before your blessing or your destined to lose
Don’t say a rich man means having green in the money holdin machine...
To me success comes from the genuine love within a human being
Or does it.
I’m just tryna stay balanced on this uneven scale
Will I prevail or will I fail?
The clique so you chose the path you’d like to trail
You make the decisions that benefit
Even if they barely fit
Some sweat writing this ****
I’m nervous I’m losing hold and can’t get a grip
While sayin metaphors out these lips
Imma end this small poem here
Just tryna say don’t waste time on what don’t matter
You never know if you’ll see another year
Text someone you love - thank a stranger for holdin the door - tell the broken winged child they can fly and allow your heart to finally soar
Make peace with your demons - try your best to chase your dreams - to make change isn’t always visible - but the act of kindness & love will never remain unseen.
Coming back with some new flows and words - please show love nd let me know
Chris Neilson Jul 2016
Attended a dinner party with poets departed
secured a place in a fantasy scenario self created
Dylan Thomas did not go gently to the event
discussion with Yeats was heaven sent

Conversation with Shakespeare was ***** and lewd
even brawling Brendan Behan found him crude
Wordsworth wandered in as lonely as a lakeside cloud
faced with his eloquence before me I bowed

John Cooper Clarke's showing brought mouths open wide
Jim Morrison spoke, "You've broken on through to the other side!"
The Salford Bard looked dead so they let him in
as refusing him entry a gratuitous grave sin

Heaney was asked for his views on Brexit
a number was taken for dear Seamus to text it
"Here come some female poets?", exclaimed Sylvia Plath
as Browning, Dickinson and Rossetti walked up a path

When I shuffle off this mortal coil
with relics scattered in suitable soil
eternal musing with all the above
would bring evermore everlasting love
NURUL AMALIA Jan 2018
everything is so sweet
like cotton candy sold in the night market
just like vanilla ice cream that melted on the tongue
tonight the sky was bombarded with fireworks
rainbow colors are scattered everywhere
stars have friends
they celebrate
Rebecca Wolohan Jun 2015
His hands are long,
calloused and inviting.
Scars tell stories,
scattered
across his knuckles.

He has one hand cradled in the other,
tapping and rubbing
his palm
with his fingers.

His mind is a jungle:
heavy, sticky, lush,
challenging to navigate,
surrounded by undecayed green
and unobstructed sea.

“Are you anxious?”
His hands are moving rapidly,
yellow parrotbills
flitting in and out of the tall tree trunks
and violet, epiphytic orchids of his mind.

Turning to face me,
he stretches his lips into a smile.
He assures me that he is fine,
but he doesn’t see any birds.
Antino Art Sep 2018
Who draws strength
from watching the passage of time
after dark
blur against the windows
of a moving train bound
for ends uncertain.

Who walks most balanced
on the beams of empty tracks.

In the shuffle of strangers
at a crosswalk, who finds
direction.

Who sees
clearer through rain.

Who finds their place
in the limbo of airport terminals,
on delayed flights
between chapters,
over open roads that branch
into tales of cities unseen,
in the turn of pages unwritten.

Who can keep track of time
during the improvised chaos of jazz,
catching notes scattered
in the winds of horns.

Who understands
that wind moves
fastest through dark places like tunnels,
during storms in late August.

Who finds their center
hurled in flight,
always coming and going.
Storm flight trains movement
ryn Apr 2015
This is me...*          
Seeking refuge          
under a tree,          
As the wind released          
it's pensive sigh.          
Leaves sapped dry          
were then set free.          
Shades of yellow          
took to the air in an          
attempt to fly.          

This is me...
Peering through
jaundiced eyes.
Laying still
in a torrent of
ochre.
As leaves fall
from lowered skies,
Drenching
and
submerging
me in a sea of
scattered amber.

This is me...          
Captivated by this          
spectacular phenom.         
Flavescent dance          
governed by          
wind and gravity.         
This is the dream...          
Too long held for ransom          
By the relentless          
grasp of reality.         

This is me...
Awaiting such time to
arise and run.
In my heap,
my safe haven,
my fortress of yellow.
Till the inevitable set of
the *orange
sun
Only then...
myself to the moon
I would again
show.
Matadi Aug 2018
Close mouths ,don't get fed
Broken hearts, share their beds
lost soul linger, endless roads
Empty hearts, ends up cold

Mean folks are the bold
**** folks beautiful soul
Black or white
White is right
Martin Heath Sep 2018
Lonesome Pine -

T'day I knelt by your Lonesome Pine
Stroked cold needles from your stone face
Lifelessly lying scattered 'las
Revealing shy eyes that still shine

Limbs 'bove shadow Heaven's staircase
Swaying gently amidst gold rays
Reflecting off worn weathered steps
Praying for a lasting embrace

Knees weak amongst wet wilted grass
Straining to shed a heartfelt tear
Glancing above when b'low I stared
Sand sifts thru our lost hourglass

T'day I knelt by your Lonesome Pine
Stroked Spanish Moss from your sweet hair
T'night tears pour thru these trembling hands
Alongside this our lonesome shrine
punk rock hippy Jul 2014
I want to hit it hard, not romanticize about the blood ya feel me?
As you read that first line,
when you cross over to the second,
your nose will start to bleed just before my fist connects with your face.
I often dream about it, being feared.
The only reason that you're on the ground is because I put you there.
Quite frankly I'm fearful of myself.
My throat still holds the ache of the alcohol going down.
I swear to you I'm doing better.
I swear.

I can't swear in this house hold so I will talk so quickly creating run on sentences without punctuation or breath because I'm panicking over nothing in particular.

******.

Add some shakes to your vocabulary and you've got it right.
My medication puts stray dogs under my finger nails, that's ok because dogs are happiness.
That's supposed to mean I'm happy.

I made myself write this, its horrifyingly scattered just like my head.

That's not right.
That's wrong.
Something is terribly wrong so I must fix it.

That's what I do,
I fix.
I'll just look at this as art.
Some persons trash is another ones treasure.

I'm too scared to write anymore.


This is garbage.
Empire Mar 19
I'm losing control
I'm letting it all go
It's slipping through
My fingers now
Everything I believe

There's just too much to hold
My burdens feel so heavy
I'm just not strong enough
I'm too weak to hold on any longer

You told me I could do it all
So I did, but you were wrong
Now my faith is scattered
And I don't know how
To pick up all these pieces

I haven't let go
I don't want to
But I can't hold on alone
Everything is already slipping
Spinning out of control
And I need
CONTROL
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Waiting for spring to return this winter’s day.
Straining to touch warm breezes of the past.
Caught in this prison of gray and white.
Wishing to break these dark chains that hold me.

Remnants of fall, crumpled like brown paper on the ground.
Straws of pale brown growing up through the snow, ******* it dry.
Seeds and freeze dried fruit lay scattered about under trees.
Bare limbs and stalks drip with liquid glass.

Trees hanging bare, gray in lifelessness.
Winter birds call out, single in their pursuit of leftover meals.
Tracks of animals unknown dot the landscape with patchwork.
Waves of ridges etched in white lead off to nowhere.

Sparse, sun filled days bring brief glimpses of hope.
With the promise of warmth waiting to banish the cold
that holds me to my past and this existence;
waiting for spring to return and thaw this frozen heart.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Manda Clement Jul 2014
We did not come here on the orders of others
We came freely, our own choice, blown by the soft winds
scattered o'er many a mile
Landed upon Flanders Fields and rested a while

Then death came, disturbed the earth
Destruction hit the ground in which we slept so quietly
Awoke us from our slumber sweet
To witness tragedies and defeat

Now we are risen
and in our place beneath lie men and boys of courage, strong and true
Who fought valiantly but now lay slain
Our gentle roots entwine around their bodies that remain

Each dawn we wake for them and face the summer sun
At night our gaze doth meet moon
We stand tall and proud and dip our heads
And honour them that lie beneath with our petals red
Another WW1 inspired poem. Poppy seeds can lay dormant for many years before flowering. This is what happened on the battlefields of ww1. The earth was disturbed with all the shelling and death and destruction and released the seeds that had been laying dormant. How beautiful yet so sad.
Purcy Flaherty May 2018
As I enter the arena and the blood sport begins;
I gaze around the room, at the fighting *****, all dressed in battle trim.

Angry eyes telling tails, chests puffed out,
**** and ****** feathers scattered to and fro, spurred on by spite...

Amidst the bitter cries; and angry beaks;
talons rip and wound again and again until the match is over
and everyones a loser;

Even the hen!
Inspired by **** waving & cockfighting.
Advent Oct 2014
when the clock ticks at 12,
another minute has passed and another day has been renewed.
it replenishes an entire moment that separates yesterday from today.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a part of me has left something for good.
something that could only be retrieved by the nostalgia
of the passing hours that gives a pang of discomfort and dismay.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a fairy godmother is there waiting for me to move past everything and start fresh,
like nothing has ever happened from yesterday

but when the clock ticks at 3,
my emotions are scattered,
eating me alive.
it kicks me out of the zone - exposing me to a world of nothing but things to hide.
it haunts my core, dwells with my demons,
building up emotions that don't seem to collide

and at 3, I find you - once again with all the sublime images we’ve captured
and grand words we’ve uttered.
i find you, drowning from the roots
of my memoirs... and there I see how midnights took parts of me

because at 3, I’ll always remember how I grew with thee


a.t.
Next page