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Ciara Jones Jul 2018
Did you ever wonder why
Why the crows always sighed

Shallow sighs that seemed to signify
The broken pieces of happiness that once used to collide

Looking back at it now
I could hear a poetic prowl

A town full of memories
A land full of histories

Think simply, they used to tell me
Because with that, they said
You can take on life slightly more effortlessly
sara Jul 2018
I saw a glimpse of heaven on an old park bench
but you said the location didn't make much sense
and struggled to see the wonder amongst all the falling leaves,
so I sighed, and got up, asking if we should leave.
reflection helps me learn not to let other people **** on your wonder x
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
TOAST

"FIRE. . .FIRE!"

The house was busily
burning down.

"Quick. . .quick!"
Mum screeched .

"Go fetch the marshmallows!"

I dashed back
into the inferno

& emerged
long minutes later

my eyebrows ablaze
my nostril hairs slightly singed

The fire had greedily gobbled up
all the marshmallows

for itself.

"****!" said Mum.
"****...****...****!"

slapping me
about the head

with...each...uttered
syllable.

"I managed to save a loaf
of Mother's Pride!"
I cried.

"It will have to go!"
sighed Mum.

And so, we had
some toast
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
I caught fleeting glimpses of her throughout my night,
Like she'd wandered from a beatific dream into the half-light.

And I sighed,
For a girl had caused me to pause and blink;
Astonished by her tender magnificence,
I dared to hope to think.
What could I say?

By the Spanish Arch as daylight subsided
I sought her amongst the droves of the intoxicated.

Hanging around near the end of the day,
Waiting for the crowd to come out and play.
She lingered by the water's edge,
With another group, their tale yet unsaid.
A megaphone blared her brazen attitude into the air,
A bottle of Buckfast was her chalice to bear;
She supped the vicious liqueur,
It's contents not as dark as her charcoal hair.
Latina. Wild eyes.
What could I say?

Then the guards came
and scared us all away.

A street-party was going down in The Latin Quarter, downtown,
The tides of people made it hard to get around.
Deftly, I waded through the massive crowds
to find my friends in the tavern above.
Later, across the way in an infamous pub,
She resurfaced from the masses, megaphone still up,
With an expression that said: Wanna play?

Her eyes spoke volumes of venturous exploits,
This night but a chapter of expedition in a book of conquest.

Those pupils that glimmered
had something magic in them:
A soft disregard for the world
and calm anticipation.
What should I have said?

Hispanic allure is hard to cure,
And it reminds me so much of one other;
I'll never forget her, despite my bit speaking to her.

Anything. Anything at all.
Bants RJ Jul 2018
I’m alone, with smoke and bottles.
With an itch around my neck,
my feet kicks off the bench.

Surrounded by darkness,
a figure has come to jest.
“Did you do your best?”

Feeling hypoxic,
I try to shake my head “No.”
I look at him whilst my feet kick, longing for the ground.

Lighter by the second,
darkening complexion,
I silently scream, “No. No. No.”

With knowing eyes,
the angel sighed,
raised his scythe, ready to chastise.

Although red, my eyes see the light.
But wait, this doesn’t feel right.
Mr. Reaper had nothing to do with me tonight.

My back felt the cold of the floor.
I’m dying no more.
The ancient one cut my rope.

“Don’t.” he says to me.
“Promise me, try to live.”
But I see him nightly.
Bus Poet Stop Sep 2017
the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
zumee Jul 19
silence
pushed her on
by the boots

he sighed
the crunch of a dry thought
undertoe
Spenser Bennett May 2016
In false light reflected we stare deeply into eyes the same.
Searching for Truth and finding ourselves shimmering cold over the still lake alone unflinching in the weight of eternity and her majestic indifference; blink.
A madness of heaven reaching through the water below to stir the silent sleeper of your soul, come forth from your depths and breathe the silk air you once knew.
All is glistening in the not so distant morning where the sun roars ancient and abysmal.
Where once Truth sighed heavy into shadow she will once more open like the lily seeking her sky born love.
Despair fades from eyes now clear blue like the sky and the rain washes away anger like dust from your kissed skin.
We blossom into light petals of ultra green and hyper white and dance as the joyous breeze allows.
Soon the darkness must fall again and we shall curl away to forgive the fallacious star that drowns out so many more.
False light will search us for the desperate Truth we hide.
A waking dream that danced on the edge of my eyes into the bright warmth of the sun.
Tammy M Darby Nov 2013
He touched her with his big hands,
Kissed away the flow of tears
He offered his strength
She let the pain go.
He was the only one she could do this with

Rocking her gently
Pretending not to notice,
The quiet whimpering.
The muffled cries
Guarding her heart from all trespassers
While he stared into the night

He would never again allow sadness to befall her,
An oath he took to himself.
To the gods he prayed,
To protect her from harm
Pledging his soul
Any who dare try he would slay.
He is now and forever her protector,
She loved him,
Though some fear remained.

He was solid and hard as granite,
She was very dear to him,
His love.
His life.
Knowing of her sadness
He saw lines of violence
Written upon the small face

After a while the shadows disappeared,
From his beloved’s world
As he held her close, stroked her hair and sighed.
She was oh so very dear to him this damaged soul
His love,
His life.



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Emmanuella Jan 5
With eyes upturned to the night's starry sky,
she drew in a deep breath and sighed,

"You know..." She began.
"I wish I could grab a handful of stars
and throw them back into your eyes."
"They've been missing their sparkle lately..."
ryn Oct 2014
Elated to see you aloft in the night sky
To what do I owe this enchanted boon.
In the merry company of winking stars,
Enthralled by this sight as I admire my moon.

Bathe me in your streaks of translucent silver.
Accompany me through my sleepless nights.
Watching over me with unwavering vigil.
Swathe me in whispers of peaceful respite.

Oh how you govern the raging tides of my soul.
Rest your gaze as the waters break upon my shore...
Erode and weaken the load strewn over my burning shoals,
Sands drowned breathless but craving for more.

Few nights now... Smitten as you coyly turn away.
Thick strands of shadow clad hair in gentle cascades,
Alluringly obscuring a slight fraction of your face.
A tiny crescent blanketed away; into the blackness it fades.

More nights pass... Now I see only a lesser moon
Leaving me with only half; darkness so had claimed.
Please make yourself last; you mustn't leave too soon,
I'm not ready to be left crippled and maimed.

I silently look up as more nights go by.
I watched my lunar love dissolving into space.
My heart too, torn away a morsel at a time...
Finally she had gone; without a sliver or a trace.

Every nightfall since is rife with emptiness and despair.
I asked the stars if they could soothe my gaping void...
But they'd only twinkle in indifference...
Regardless of the pleas I've employed.

Unsure of how many rises it has thus been.
Nights only brought the onslaught of mocking stars above.
Still I toy with the promises made overhead,
For the awaited return of my crazed elusive love.

I know it's frivolous to think I'm the only one...
There are others who pine just as I do.
But I yearn the most for your sought after attention,
For our hearts have sung in every colour and every hue.

Anxiety at peak, dismayed almost broken,
Then I hear a sweet song sung; distant and far.
A song that shared the words we once had spoken,
Again enveloped in translucent silver, with relief I sighed...,
                          *"There you are..."
Inspired by the lunar cycle...
jul Apr 2018
My reflection stared back at me,
Saying the things I’ve yearned to hear.
For the longest time, I’ve hid myself,
Imprisoning my fear.
I was scared to be imperfect;
My reflection simply sighed.
“You are everything,” it said,
“I can see it in your eyes.”
Sanjali May 2018
13
-Somehow-

“It will be okay.” you said.
“I doubt that, somehow.” I replied,
But I knew you wanted to help,
I understood how hard you tried.

“It’s falling apart.
Crumbling sights I can’t overlook.”
I said and looked in your eyes
You looked back and your heart shook.

I looked away and sighed
I realized it was no good
That you don’t see through my eyes
Even though try you would.

It was despair!
My eyes stung with tears.
But I couldn’t cry yet,
Not with your pure heart so near.

So I lied
Or maybe it was hope
I told you I’ll be fine
That you don’t need to worry anymore.

You smiled a little
I knew I had to try
There is still good in this world
For which I could stand up and fight.

“I’m still brokenhearted,
I’m still in despair,
But I have a little faith,
Enough to tell you that I care.”
It is hard for people to truly understand you, but it matters how hard they try.
Calliope Aug 2018
As he rode his motorcycle towards me
my legs grew weak
As his hair flew in the wind
my heart fluttered
As his smell drew my breath short
my lungs sighed
As his stare pierced holes through me
I tried to hold myself
And as his hand touched mine
I knew, I was in trouble
Every little thing he did that night has rooted itself to my brain
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