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Apollo Hayden Oct 2018
See the waves rush in
to grasp a bottle in its hands;
a letter written perfectly protected enclosed by glass
Fire could not do
what this bottle is hoped to do
Sail aimlessly, never to reach the shores again of me or you
Words that were never said have ran out of time and expired
So they are just messages in a bottle lowering and rising with the tides
Never again to reach the shores of you or I
patty m Jul 2018
Beyond the reef
                     in crackling amber
the sun rises above the earth,
                     kissing river beds strewn with lovers

Passed mouth to mouth they whisper innuendo
the possibility of  living *******.
Bobbing bodies mimic boats on waves
and soon delirium penetrates a new country.

Heat and fire flare in bandied breeze
                          igniting insatiable shadow;
Pure and venial, the air incarnate
excites the ocean and ****** sing.

The quivering above ground
slithers silkily spilling watercolor rhapsody,
                         in a gush of white a fertile tsunami
reeks reckless abandon.   Once by moonlight,
they rubbed sleep from eyes, hugging hurt
as they clamored high in ghostly pallor.
Some leading the dance, hungered for knowledge,
others played shadowy roles.
Yet wafting still, comes the foreign fragrance,
fragments of spirituality,  a longing to touch,
as abundance rolls in shorelines green.
                         Offered mercies, fragile as wings,
shades of truth cascading like water, breathless
in sensual splash;
                       how tremulous
                       the image of truth,
                       the threshold of tomorrow.
Jenay Jarvis Feb 2013
I sat shirtless
in a familiar setting,
with familiar hands
tracing along the ridges-

that wrapped across the shorelines
of my backbones-

creating melodies of
ecstasy ribbing thoroughly under translucent
films of erected skin,

All the while-
what I heard in the doorway
in that afternoon sun
was clearer
and more divine
than the immaculate prayers
of selfless Saints;

When you said
**"I can see where they cut the wings".
Q Jan 2017
Walk through my soul forest
and sense
Anciently evergreen and wise
Fresh dampness deep with life

Rocket through my mind galaxy
and know
Burning nebulas of inspiration
Infinite dustings of thought constellations

Fall into my heart ocean
and taste
Tides brackish with emotional brine
Love foaming on shells and shorelines

Breathing life into my body
Blooming peace into my life
Take a moment to see me
And these natural forces of mine
island poet Apr 2018
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~

walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent

released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything

an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned

well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot  surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
winter strangled

but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
boundaries now and again

though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -

a l l  m y  l i f e,  I  h a v e  l i v e d  o n  a n  i s l a n d

counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home


my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails

but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago

hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me

all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human
Tommy Randell Mar 2017
Found your heart in a stone
As I was walking near home
On a beach that was made out of glass
I remember the grief in
You trying to teach me
That moments just couldn’t last
And though we had many
The moments of plenty
They never were going to ring true
Does it matter at all now
I never found out how
There was love in the meaning of you?

‘Cos you lived in a world
That had always been turned
By ambition and ambition’s plans
You had always been deaf to
Those trying to test you
Speaking aloud with their hands
But If there is love in meaning
It is all about leaving
And fire will always burn cold
And the singing of songs
Is where sadness belongs
When Truth is a heart turned to stone

Take the heat from your eyes
Where it never looked nice
And use it to keep yourself warm
I am safe from you stealing
The best of my feelings
My beaches will never be yours
And though there are reasons
To know all of love’s seasons
I like it now winter is done
Along shorelines of glass
I am learning to laugh
By holding you up to the sun

And if life is a maze
I will walk it with grace
And not try to take it with greed
Though I will not forget, love
Those times were the best of
Our bravest attempts to be free
Your heart is a stone then
I’ll take it back home then
To keep as a archive of truth
It can’t hurt me at all now
To at last come to know how
There is love in the meaning of you.
A Song of sorts ... sung to the metre of 'To Ramona' by Bob Dylan (almost) - The first time I learned a chorus wasn't necessary.
Vexren4000 Aug 2018
A glowing tide,
Cerulean and cornflower,
Emitting bright ethereal light,
Lapping sandy shorelines,
Crashing and slowly flowing,
Filling the night with an otherworldly glow,
Of some alien place.

Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
--- as a boy, I explored a hermit's lair
--- the hermit was not there, he'd left nothing but a tin box
--- of charcoal pills, a panacea for curiosity, I was told.

This old bearded fellow who lived at the foot o'thumb butte,
by the burro's water hole,
other side o'the hill from Doug McVicar's Jasper find

Tidal shorelines from my child hood
swirling through the softed rocks

Boulders on the bottom, roll on, crustal waves rise and fall

it all goes back to that 13,000 year mark
when Gobekli Tepi,
was in the building,
long long before
the Hopis were on the Pollen Way, leaving land marks on

Rocks risen above the desert floor

Some thing came from space, something very cold,
a snowball so big it tugged the ocean of magma
through the crust of the earth

nuclear glass, same time. nano diamonds

The younger dryas-

melt water pulse, fire from the sky, men could see that, with their own eyes.
and then they saw the clouds of witnesses

Rituals learned, the story heart seeps from mother to child,

at first touch some say.

Specialized touches were included in the 2.0s.
Holistic wuwu Randall Carlson laughs, why lie? Evidence, see.

What did you see when you passed through hell the first time?
Nothing, you kept your eyes shut.

Are you really
Experienced? That was the question. Ask the experts,
but some of them lie.
Never trust their clocks, that's wise. Time is too temporary to make
much difference
in the long run. Time, least of all powers in eternity. Chronos,
Chaos shattered him, and some story teller on a journey
saw the event
while his tongue was being tamed, a task no man can do.

Fire and Ice from heaven to earth,
whole peoples saw it,
with the eyes in their head

Hope is the key to the heart's lock on reality

The younger Dryad's oak burned,
Drought killed all the others, bugs killed the elms.

Ah spirit to spirit, compare. The heart of the world is weeping
for the ignorant eaters of poisoned poems and stagnant stories

speed kills when it comes to cosmic notes on rocks

patience, under stand the canopy of heaven can, filter
poison from those
stagnant stories's idle words, redemption draweth nigh,

count on it. Keep counting, patience finishes what she starts.

Sacred Geometry, scale invariance, I saw the Mississippi
Carve meandering ant canyons in the dirt
while watching the rain
Nothing's secret anymore, that's a reality that may be beyond

your thought. Textbook in stone. I know geometry Mr. P,

can I come in? She who builds, who destroys, who rebuilds, suggested
my bombs have a Nobel role,
in energizing

the ark
the earth is the ark, but you knew that already, right.

Acacia bush visions from a medium
of messaging the master builder,
who, you know, made this
happen, used to heal with ashes.

Healing war, study it no more, it is
possible man, alone, can imagine.

The Godhead? What's the big idea? You a heretic, Mr. P?

Come and see, leave the clock/phone.

This is big momma story, little clay doll with pointy feet
sticks in the dirt, stares at the fire,

the story mamma, shhh

Stands, and lifts her hands up high, pointing
all her fingers to the skies where ashes, glowing
like we can imagine the stars once scattered by God
and his sons's servants prepping

origins of human conflict taught
Tubalcain by fire light, while Jubal
Sang the very umph umph song from
Taj Mahal' 1970 with Jerry, Fillmore West,

A message to Garcia, from on high:
the imbecility of the average man—
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it,
That, resist. It is evil.

Angels, imaginable, you know, mere messages, nothin more,

so great a cloud of witnesses
there was a times when  all
imaginations men were imagining heartily
were evil, altogether.

Enki left and went to the moon, or that's the story grandma's
sisters told me
when I was a little boy lost and found from time to time

The serpent on the staff, where's that story from?
Who says their mammy saw that happen.

Time, Hosts of Heaven, time is one of those.

Fan tasty taste, see, the truth is good.

Freedom, responsible freedom, take as granted,
intend good and go.
Seed of the Dream,
I planted that. It contained this fact,

we reap what we sow.

Ambi-Dios, ambit-ion with no hope for something just beyond
the best that I have ever done,
that'll make a child mean as hell, on the average,
according to the data Google smuggled into China
through those super phones,
unavailable in the USA, protected by the wielders
of destruction who eat the world up,
and drink its very blood.

the bread of shame, is fed to slaves to keep them in the queue,

BTW que-eee was the word I used for ****, when I was a child.
I took that word to school.
Nobody knew what it meant. I considered that cool
and kept my secret until just now.

I feel so free.

A builder sees a building and the builder in a single glance.
None may enter here lacking geometry, that's no secret now.
The cultivated Pythagorean mind, simple as pi.

'Cain't get to Romans eight, which is here, now, I think,
with out going beyond Hebrew six.

The measure of a man that is the angel. No comma,
just a jot, then this means that,
to the mind
listening for mystery in beauty found lying around.,
glistening in the sun.
The charcoal pills I found fifty three years ago, these wandering thoughts I found dancing the trail earlier this morning.
In the summers when you were a boy,
you would take a mattress to the roof,
you would wake to the stirring of
leaves, the blue hydrangeas, cashmire
persimmon sunsets,
when you were a child your mother
would take you, her callouses running
like rivers over your skin,
her green eyes on fire,
don’t you remember?
It’s the same spot they buried your father

remember, the narrow lanes
where you could see dust gather
underneath bare feet,
people from the east in
their white cars;
in Belsen where
you could find god in a *******
and in Eurasia where we
steal like clever thieves,

in the night when the lights shone
for you, how you would hold your head
as the ache deepens within your skull,
maybe there is more to life than just the physical?

The moon is in Taurus,
you lie awake next to your mother
and you count the lines on her face,
in her aging you find your history,
in the filth there is always beauty

the world starts to erupt,
there are people whose voices like
molten cause revolution

this is the part you do remember,
the bombing, the deaths, the bodies.

you remember how faces of your neighbour, of mothers with their children
like apparitions of Venus,
can be glimpsed peaking out with their
azure eyes dying underneath
pillars and railing and soot,

you learn how to turn gas into midnight fog,
how you can turn empty shells into rocket ships that take you back to your mother,

you learn how bomb craters can become home and house warm bodies,
How clothes can rip like paper
when you are searching along shorelines
for home,

you realize no one wants you,
not you - but the idea of you,
the idea of who you could be

They have not seen the way your hands
shook when the sun caressed the parched
skin of your mother’s body,

now, you’re eyes close in prayer
your cheeks brushed with the godly red
of childhood,

but you do not know, child, that the
world does not work on prayer,
and has the ocean ever listented to the drop?

You forget how many centuries deep the ocean is,

but for you I pray,

I turn to God to atoms, to energy and divinity,

that the waters
their sails masting half way,
and you capsizing in hope,

I pray the ocean knows

I pray.
been a while.
Pleasure is to paint horizons on your smooth canvass
Privilege is to trace constellations across your milky way
Swallow me whole and let me live under your skin
Plant a million kisses along the shorelines of my body
Drizzle me with warm honey, your lovin’, my majesty
And forever these fingertips will sail across your arms
Driving me crazy, driving me lazy, you’re a poisonous cherry
Come rest in my cotton lullabies, come surrender your tired eyes
Let’s bridge this thin gap between dreaming and reality
Tomorrow will be another day, but right now I’m a slave
To this sweet, enchanting gaze
To the architecture of your face
To the weight of your bones
To this embrace, I call my home.
Heather Moon Sep 4
Tonight drums beat in the after world
As my ancestors sing loudly for the ones coming home.

Tonight the sky painted herself the deepest blue I have ever seen,
Winged creatures cry out to this spreading landscape.
Stars shoot brightly upon mothers canvas.

Tonight my breath is heavy
So steadily I fill my lungs and watch the vapor freeze into the night air.

I am melting between realities,
dripping slowly into the unknown.
Tonight I am anxious and alive,
I am swallowing myself whole.
Awaiting calm to let her voice be heard through the silence.

I can feel the world shaking,
The moon turning her tides,
As ancient oceans lap against shorelines...
As ancestorial songs
Pulse in my heart.

Tonight I can feel the drums beating in the afterworld...
My blood carries their song.
Despite your small willow frame,
You gracefully took each step,
As a mark of your humble pride,
Your sweet and gentle face held a smile,
That only heavens angels could dare mimic,
Your shimmering blue eyes glistened,
Like two shorelines meeting at the edge of a cliff,
Glimmering blues and teals,
Your Reddened cheeks and the hint of blush,
Yet that sad longing eyes gave away,
Like the winter bitter wind you long to be free of its cold.
Heavy Hearted Sep 2018
Close your eyes and open your hands:
See through aperture & nocturne, invented sands-
With the glistening shorelines of imagined lands,
This, my ten minuet creation, foregone of all plans...
Is perfect in itself, alone(ly) it stands
Clear in my minds eye, contrived through my hands this a contemporary tapestry?
with threads sewn into strands?

Or is it a song-  melodic and pure

verse chorus refrain- all sung strong and sure

with my keys and strings and drums and things; Ill

make pretty noise
over which I might sing.
Leonard Green Oct 11
If eye could ♫c
the melody in your words, would it be apparent
as a little child’s heartbeat or intentions?

If eye could ♫c
the color in your skin, would it be radiant
as a dawn's sun beaming the skylines?

If eye could ♫c
the quiver in your soul, would it be vigorous
as a wave crashing against the shorelines?

If eye could ♫c
would it be me, would it be you
shedding the ties that bind us in life?
If eye could ♫c
would it be me, would it be you
mastering the songs to the keys of life?

If eye could ♫c
the marvels in your means, would it be arousing
as a chorus from Bach’s or Beethoven’s work?

If eye could ♫c
the verses in your time, would it be forgiving
as a fisherman, carpenter, or follower’s song?

If eye could ♫c
the principles in your soul, would it be inspiring
as a lyric nurturing countless spirits to rise above?

If eye could ♫c
would it be me, would it be you
shedding the ties that bind us in life?
If eye could ♫c
would it be me, would it be you
mastering the songs to the keys of life?
Sav May 5
Seaside shorelines, borderline beginnings.

I think I know what I want.

Paths between fait and faith,
forgiveness, overbearing.

Like twists and turns of tides, riptides, or undertow,
You will probably never know.

Know where you are going.

Tomorrow is like looking through a kaleidoscope of different outcomes.

Be it triumph be it trump.

Be it failure, be it sunk.

It's all in how you see it,

I suppose.

I wish I could see properly.
In which I try to write about something other than romance.
Bless Senora Aug 11
We stood on separate shorelines
But we agreed to meet halfway
I was safe on my own isle
But you said you'll meet me in the middle;
You said let's dive into the depths
So I walked closer to the sea and dipped my toe
And started swimming towards you
The winds were rough
The waves were harsh
But I kept going
With thought of holding your hand soon enough
I reached the middle
Only to find out
That you were already sailing on a boat
With someone else
Back to your own isle.
Was that easier for you?
My mind went blank
The waves swallowed me
It was dark underneath
You weren't there in the depths with me
Darling, I should have known
That you were only built for smooth seas
But I won't stop
Why would I stop swimming for someone
Who can't withstand the rough seas?
So I'll rise and start swimming again
Not towards you
But towards the horizon--
Towards the Light.
For this world is much bigger than people who can't swim the rough seas with you and for you.

— The End —