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Lizzy Jan 2015
Funny little thing is she,
She laughs at lightning in the storm.
And what most would see as torture,
She inflicts with pride and is not scared.
Her skin is sharp like broken glass,
And through her lover’s skin she tore.

Through her safest home she tore.
Stupid little girl is she.
They try to mend her broken glass
But the edges cause destruction of a storm.
Please don’t run, don’t be scared,
Don’t be a part of her torture.

Running love is her only torture,
Not pain that through her heart tore.
Distance leaves her crying scared,
Unable to control the fear in her.
Maybe she is the rain in the storm,
Shattering passing window glass.

Maybe she doesn’t mind the glass,
She doesn’t think this is torture.
And maybe it’s not a storm,
But a hurricane she tore
Out of her skin. She
Is no longer scared.

The distance does not make her scared.
Her skin is no longer broken glass.
Alive little girl is she.
Nothing more will be her torture.
She doesn’t need the lover she tore.
No longer does she hide from the storm.

Not sunny skies, but no more storm.
Not yet calm, but at least not scared.
Not yet healed, but not torn.
Maybe cracked, but not broken glass.
Some discomfort, but it doesn’t feel like torture.
Strong little girl is she.

Screaming insanely she tore herself out of this storm.
No one will say “she’s gonna lose it”. Because she somehow she is not scared.
It’s a mystery how she fixed her glass, or how she can still tolerate the torture.
Brody Blue Jul 22
Today is the day.
To yesterday, pay no mind.
Soon it will be night
When darkness rules things.
Whose corpse falls in the street, left
For buzzards to find?

Is it yours they'll find?
No. It won’t be yours to-day.
Leave for god what’s left.
Mercy? pay no mind.
You’ll find justice in the things
You will take to-night.

Soon it will be night
With a cloudy sky. You’ll find
Darkness will rule things,
Till the coming day.
To the sirens, pay no mind.
They have no song left.

Burn what they have left
To the ground. Light up the night.
Don’t pay any mind
To secrets they find.
They’ll be back at work some-day
Soon, and forget things.

And someday soon, things
Will be back like when we left.
Today’s not the day;
Soon it will be night.
At dawn, corpses they will find;
Mercy? pay no mind.

Mercy? pay no mind.
Go! Find justice in their things!
Take what you can find!
Burn what they have left
To the ground! Light up the night!
Till the coming day,

Pay no mind; what’s left
Are things to be had to-night,
Till the coming day!
This is a sestina made up of six pairs of haikus, and a single haiku at the envoi.
Brody Blue Jul 22
There may come a time
When I go out of my mind,
Lest I see a light
From above shine thru,
And all renewed ‘neath the sun;
Then the sky may fall...

Summer’s turned to fall,
And soon will come winter-time,
A cloud covered sun
Robs wonder from mind;
Until the spring comes thru
Blessing us with light.

Though spring with its light
Will come, first will come the fall.
Go the whole way thru,
It soon will be time
To learn the limits of mind
Lies under the sun.

And under the sun
Is where you stand in the light;
So keep it in mind.
Summer’s turned to fall,
And soon will come winter-time.
Go the whole way thru.

Go the whole way thru;
Look toward tomorrow’s sun.
You will find no time
For the bright spot-light
When you wake up and it’s fall.
It will blow your mind.

If spring’s on your mind,
I’d advise, don’t think it thru.
First will come the fall;
A cloud covered sun
Will block out all of the light,
Then will come the time,

Your mind in the sun,
And shining thru it, the light.
But fall comes, this time.
This is a sestina made up of six pairs of haikus, and a single haiku at the envoi.
Brody Blue Jul 22
When I learned your love
Was now not mine for all time,
I disarmed my heart,
Because I thought life
Was what you saw with the eyes,
Not what you could feel.

Now, all I can feel
Is loathsome hatred, not love,
For my trickster eyes
That looked into time
Without seeing any life,
Neither soul nor heart.

And yet, still my heart
Beats on, till the day I feel
How swift is life,
And learn I need love.
I will beg of you this time,
With blood in my eyes,

With blood in my eyes.
Fragile is my lonesome heart;
Help me thru the time
So I learn to feel
Once more the fullness of love,
And how to live life.

For to have a life,
You owe the light of your eyes
And sweet breath. What's love
To a pale-green heart?
Not even worms does it feel,
Unimpressed with time,

Unexplained by time,
And knowing that dream called life;
How bad it did feel!
With blood in my eyes,
I beg you, take it to heart
That you have my love,

When in time, my eyes
See life in anothers' heart,
And it's me you love.
This is a sestina made up of six pairs of haikus, and a single haiku at the envoi.
Evan Stephens Apr 17
You're off the plane
back in Istanbul,
where your heart
was made. Now, at night,
it seems a little peculiar
this time.

But you've got all the time
in the world. The plane
is long gone for some peculiar
destination, while Istanbul
belongs only to you tonight,
you can explore its heart...

Yes, tell me all about that heart
and about all the times
you walked out into the night
and looked up at the trails of planes
flying far above the lights of Istanbul -
They must have said it was peculiar,

to want to leave on one. Or not peculiar,
maybe it felt natural, easy in the heart,
a readiness to leave old Istanbul
and embrace someplace else this time,
to climb aboard the waiting plane
and fly off into the night.

When you land, it's still night -
isn't that peculiar?
The plane disappears
and it's just you and your heart
this time.
Say goodbye to Istanbul -

So many places aren't Istanbul,
all of them under the night
of drowsy stars and slow time.
It's rather peculiar
how the heart
is faster than any plane.

But this time, love, you're in Istanbul.
I watched your plane cruise the night.
It's peculiar how my heart hurts.
Plane, Istanbul, Heart, Night, Peculiar, Time
Brody Blue Jul 22
When I met you, love,
Round about the fourteenth day,
While on that month long
Road trip, we got lost,
Found a bar, and went inside
With an empty hand.

I fulfilled my hand
That night, when I met you, love.
You snuck me inside
Your room night and day;
I must admit, I got lost.
But not for too long.

‘Cause the road is long
Ahead; and a bird in hand
Is worth two you’ve lost.
When I met you, love,
It was on the fourteenth day,
And you stayed inside.

And you stayed inside
For just way too ******* long.
Windows shut by day,
Lights at night in hand.
That night, when I met you, love,
Were you just as lost?

That night, we were lost;
At the bar we sat inside.
When I met you, love,
I still had a long
Way to go. But bird in hand
Is worth two to-day

Till there comes the day
When I’ve found what isn’t lost,
That a bird in hand
Is worth two inside
The bush. It’s been so long since
When I met you, love,

That day spent inside.
I lost you; it took too long
For your hand in love.
This is a sestina made up of six pairs of haikus, and a single haiku at the envoi.
Evan Stephens Apr 12
She reads by candle
in the little kitchen
by the rain-licked window,
pushing against a dark
that's black as pepper,
black as the merlot bottle.

It's empty, the bottle,
neck used for candles.
As for the pepper,
it spread across the kitchen
in the quasi-dark,
when she opened the window.

No - that window
is a lie. So is the bottle,
& the rest. I tried the dark
against the candle,
in the mind's kitchen,
got stuck on pepper.

Let's try again: pepper
falls like snow in the dark
when I'm in the kitchen
making dinner, bottles
open for tasting, candles
lit against the coming dark...

Much better. Seal this dark,
speckled with salt and pepper,
with the soft wax of candles.
Open the window,
tilt the bottle,
dance in the kitchen,

the new kitchen -
feel the call of the dark -
drink from the same bottle,
Burgundy earthy as pepper,
close the windows
& touch me with the candle.

I drink from the bottle in the black kitchen,
ignoring the cold candle in the dark.
There's pepper blowing out the window.
candle, kitchen, window, dark, pepper, bottle.
JR Rhine Oct 2018
High above dear Maple Street
There looms a cold iron curtain of fear
That dares to drop and let all the monsters
Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos
As in Europe despots gift a new World War
Trembling parlors hug the radio

Hallows Eve: the radio
Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street
The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war
And that heavy iron curtain of fear
Eclipses the sun and invites chaos
In vacant hearts of men into monsters

Halloween Night: the monsters
Now dance to the tune of the radio
Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos
Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street
Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear
Riding hysteria, imminent war

O great catalyst of war
Twisting the minds of men into monsters
Diving your hands in that great pit of fear
Now throbbing with screams from the radio
No fences nor faces can save Maple Street
Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos

And we call it Chaos
This boiling of minds all stewing with war
Once masked with humanity on this street
Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters
Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio
Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear

And when that curtain of fear
Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos
And the broadcast fades on the radio
And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war
What will we make of all of these monsters
Scattered about in a daze through the street

Where there are minds of fear and war,
Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters;
Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
All Hallow's Eve, 80 years ago today, Orson Welles gave his "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast to an America terrified of war, enveloped in fear. I tied it into one of my favorite episodes of the Twilight Zone by the same name, where a neighborhood becomes engrossed in fear, resorting to an animal-like defense that eventually tears apart their humanity.
Much like a sestina repeats it's hook
Our lovers and idols, ever prophetic,
Sew meaning into quivering arcs.

Desaturating the still, all becomes clear
Unscramble the motion in the film
The cover image foregrounds.

Remove the chaos of every day
Plot points pinned to a story-line
We spin ourselves back in time.

As one song may last a lifetime
Churning the same harmony,
Of the few who never leave.

Worry changes no forking paths
So worry not and sonder still
Time clarifies, distilling all.

A viewpoint in the stratosphere
Changes the night sky forever
Yet, the seasons remain the same.

One prolonged glance into the sky
Listening to this primordial beat;
Here, true lovers, idols and myself
Glide through space eternally.
There will be a totem -
maybe castles are green
in gavottes of sun,
or a sly, sleek-angled bus
by a sky-headed smoker
will make its play.

Yes, we're in a play
about these totems,
where exiled smokers
in a delirious green
catch the last bus
to the sun.

But that diva sun
refuses to play,
& eats the bus.
Ain't that a totem?
We'll always be green,
always casual smokers,

(or is it social smokers?)
flicking ash at that sun,
which is evening green.
In the museum we'll play
among the totems,
catch a line of buses,

& then another bus,
almond exhaust smoke,
until we view the totem -
a saddle on the sun,
a silence in our play,
a voluptuous green.

The same green's
splashed on the bus.
Maybe the best play
for a casual smoker
is to eat the sun,
eat the totem,

then eat the green.
Take the express bus
to another play.
Totem, green, sun, bus, smoker, play

— The End —