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Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
The seats are aging
Orange leather with
Cracked faces the
Lines of wisdom
Of ninety
Thousand sitters.
Entire ecosystems
Live on the shining
Polished silver of
Handles dulled
By sweaty palms.
Sightline through
A window
A passing loco
Blurred brief
Images of
Unknown faces.
Sightline to the
Chamber behind
The metal snake
Winds down the track
A touch of vertigo
From uneven motion.
Sightline to
Cascades of light
Brown curls
Flowing over
Porcelain shoulders.
Smooth skin
Sweet as aspartame
Skii ***** neckline
Heavenly form
Yellow dress
Slight movement
To the heavenly forms
Pouring through
White earbuds.
Sightline to Sightline
Meet in the air
Muddy brown
Graced by
Kaleidoscope
Greens yellows hazels browns
Electric charge
No other passengers
Perceive.
The doubled thump
Wump
Picks up speed with a
Coy smile
A sunrise blossoming
Over Eden
The birth of an
Angel
The thirst of desert
Sands
Quenched.
Beauty erupts
From the shared gaze
Held 6 stops
Past hoyt-schermerhorn.
Immediate
Immaculate
Connection
Fire through the air
Static charge
Primal lust
Infinite joy
If I could just
Say hello
Hi
You've enraptured
My soul
The epitome of
Beauty.
I sit instead
Stuck
Deer in headlights
****
My twisting insides
The grey says
Such monstrous
Things to itself.
Her stop.
****.
Broken gaze,
Disconnected
From the maze
Of her eyes.
I lament.
Sightline back
To page:
"Those that have crossed paths are not memories
Nor is the yellowish dove that sleeps in oblivion..."
I lament some more
At the poignancy
And the loss of a stranger
Made just for me.
She probably would've
Broken my pumping
Gears anyway,
Sayonara, c'est la vie.
"Those that have crossed paths..." from 'There Is No Oblivion (Sonata)' by Pablo Neruda
Daniel James Feb 2011
Somewhere between the age of 12 and 13
Kitty became a make up queen
Each time she turned up at the door
She’d more make up on than before
Her parents could not figure out why
She slapped it on, she piled it high
From orange ears to blue shaded eyes
From red lips to black butterflies
After a while her poor little face
Had more layers to it than a wedding cake
So she made some changes to her routine
Got up each day at four fifteen
Skipped breakfast, hopped in and out the shower
Which left, for make up, a mere three hours
This worked well for a little while
Until a teacher remarked she’d lost her smile
At which point in her heart she knew
She’d need an extra hour or two
To don her make up every day.
So she started arriving at school quite late
At nine at first, but soon midday
Light’s nice at that time anyway.

Then one day, a rather dashing lad
Offered to help her carry her bags.
Now Kitty thought he’d cussed her eyes,
So she slapped him and ran home to revise
Her make up routine, before she cried
And ruined her mascara.

Now this rather dashing handsome lad
Could not help feeling he’d been had
He stood there red as blush itself
And swore he’d fall for someone else.

Kitty meanwhile, back at home
Was swotting up on her skin tone
And trying every shade of white
To hide the scars of sleepless nights.
“I’ll teach that lad, that dashing lad –
I’ll be something he has to have
He’ll want me so much he’ll carry my bags
With weights in them that break his back!!!”
And with a slightly evil laugh,
Her plan was made, the die were cast.

We rejoin Kitty five days on
After a five day make up marathon
Her skin-tone matched, her bags are gone
Except her school bag, which weighs a tonne –
But at the school gate, something’s wrong
Hang on, where is everyone?
Oh Kitty, Kitty, oh Kitty cakes
That is an embarrassing mistake
You’re not early, they’re not late –
You’ve come to school on a Saturday!

Ablush with embarrassment and all alone
Kitty’s mascara ran all the way home
And all the foundations and eye-shadow pens
Couldn’t put Kitty together again.
But just at the corner before her own street
Outside the corner shop, who should she meet?
But the boy, not the boy, the rather dashing young lad
Who was sat on the fence by the shop looking sad
Looking sad, looking blue, looking ever so glum
Like it wasn’t that long since he last ****** his thumb.


At first as their paths crossed they were both destined
Not to look in each other’s direction
But luckily old cupid used light and reflections
To swap left and right with two moment's intersecton
The arrow was fired, the sightline was true,
Said the boy, "What a perfectly red shade are you!
Without your mascara, without those lips too -
You look even hotter than you usually do!"

"Am I bovverred?" Said Kitty, looking bothered as could be.
"Well you do look a bit bovvered if I’m honest," said he.
"Well I am a bit bovvered if I’m honest," said she.

"Why don’t we make up and then I’ll walk you home?"
"Then we can hang out and we won’t be alone"
"I’ll give you the pin to my blackberry phone"
"We’ll sync up our wardrobes and match our skin tones"
"I’ll friend you on Facebook". "I’ll call you at night".
"I’ll take you nice places." "I’ll treat you right nice."
“You will”, said Kitty? "I will," said he,
“But first let me start my repeating my offer
To carry your school bag if you can’t be bovvered.”
“My school bag said Kitty,” repeating the offer
“To carry one of my school bags if I can’t be bothered?”

Now this time, Kitty had understood right
So she took off one of her school bags, and put it down by her side
“Long story, don’t ask…” She said with a pout,
And she gave him one, of her bags, once she took the weights out.
PJ Poesy Nov 2015
Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****

Snapped **** with teeth

Then grizzled grin at me and spit up

I poked at my chile relleno

Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs

Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque

Between my own fangs

I spit back scalding ****

Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"

Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see

Flashes his gleaming grill

I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle

Chattering ivories
Life in the neighborhood.
Mike Bergeron Dec 2012
Like,    
Just   the  way  I  make    away.    
I know    time    maybe    left    air    
For    my    face.   I   feel    my    eyes,    hair.  
Really    got    right    today,
Cuz    old    Night    means    good    love.    
I    told    myself    inside,    
I     guess   the     mind   is   ****,    
I    think    life   is  this    house,    
I    want    water.    
Smoke   makes    that    little    *******    ****    feel    like    skin.    
I    Say   I   saw…    they're    light.    
Home    looks    roomy,    
Head    hits    bed.    
There's   a    window    that    falls,    
Tried    a   street    man   that     couldn't    walk.  
My    blood   is    red.  
I    need   a   real    past,
My   hands   are    cold    sweat.    
Isn't    hell   watching    people,    years?    
Brain    feeling    American.  
Apartment    doesn't   feel   gone,
Hands    trying   to    be    dead,    
Getting    rain.    
Stop    waiting,  
Wind.    
Black   in    place,    
She's   always    happening!    
Let's   see   sense,    
Better    forget   the   dark    morning.
Heart,    feet    are    open.    
Sure,
Passing    fat   looked     ******,  
But   walking   guys  
Hear    wet    dust.    
In    came    sleep…    
Remember   laughter?    
Arm,    hope,    
Newly    broken.    
Burning    hard,    
Standing    on    the    floor   with     the     rest.    
Going    knows    gold.    
Heat    sounds       escaping,  
Sit    outside     instead.    
Car    going    ‘thump’,  
Best    world    forever.
Alive,    
God    comes    white.    
Asleep,    start   asking.    
Thoughts,    believing    in    far.
Beautiful,    moving,    
Turns    kept    the   road    long.    
Falling    father,    dirt   on   a   red     neck,  
Dropping    flames.
Eating    pressure.    
You'll   lose     things,    
Dreams    break.  
Set,    lost,    close    cut.    
Oh,    no     matter,    
It     has    been    brought.    
Making   songs    leave     the   mouth,
Sights    of    a    child     shrouded    in    blue    lights.    
City,    ok?    
Windows,    
Kids    are    expected,
A     pulled    stomach,    
Point   was    took.    
Pearson    sent   his   parents    to     the    big    ground.
Wall    of     energy,  
Cloud    of     glass.    
You've  (  ).    
Won't (  ).  
We're (  ).    
School    makes    the    soul   smile,  
Green    ones    full   of    glee.  
Hot    body,    lips    breathing,
Taking,
Using,    
Playing    lives.    
Stand.    
Lay.    
Lie    girl,    
Different      things     can    happen,    
Small    teeth    fall.    
Nothing     happened.    
The    river   has     seen   its    worth    in    leaves,    
The    sun   is    fine.
Drive.    
Fingers    carefully     fly.    
Heavy    riding     heard,    I     knew    the     figure.    
Probably    picked    an    older     man.    
Walking    near   the    door,    a    dog     howls.    
Chest    plan:    free   space.
Yea,   a    plastic    throat,    
Spent    ears,    
Children    drunk,    screaming.    
Stove    ---sightline----    cool     to     the    touch.    
A     cigarette   is     replaced.    
The      roof    fills,    
We'll    say     it      wouldn't,
But    it   spills.  
Kettle     is     shut.    
The    crowd    lies.    
I    get    in     my    cheeks    that    dream    taste,  
Wake  with    it    forgotten.    
I      held    a     human…    wait…..    
Just     rotting    money.    
Truth.    
The    sea    uses    sunlight;  
Think    of   that   fact.    
Coming,    living   sick,    
Wishing     the    weight    of    boys   grew    high.    
Pretty    pass    growing    mold,    
Pull     it,    
Then    explain.    
The    sidewalk    has    grown,   I’m     talking    blocks.  
Looking    hurt,  
In    a    memory    corner,    
I     wonder     why   I     painted    filled    *******.    
Follow    me,    shirt    brother,  
Rise    from      ripped   yellow    faces.    
We’re     all    scared.    
Eventually    the   men    say    spring,    
The    snow    turns    grey,    glowing.    
Sounds    paid    for,    blame    runs     deep.  
I    bought    an    adjusted    flying    weather    cat.
The    stretcher    is     *****,
Uncomfortable.    
Thoughts    do    magic     with      clouds,    
Just    a    paint    job.    
Kiss,    hold,   for    hours.    
My     desire    torn,    the     pieces    hide.    
Run.    
Drink.    
Fear  
Death.    
Die    in     the    year    you’re      supposed      to.    
Wrong    garbage,     cabrón.    
Reading,   I    realize    I’m    quite    sane.    
But     beauty   is    slowly    ending.    
The    town    watched    us    holding    our    work.    
One     burned    word:    FUTURE.    
Kind   paths,    catching    ears,    displays.    
Glowing,    
Burning,    
Paying    attention.    
The    reality:    I    miss    *******,    crossed    noses,    
Sand,    fruit,  
Wearing    smiles   I    barely    felt.    
Case    for     infinity:   double    humanity    lives.    
A     woman,    with    bones    rippling,    
A    rock    lot,    
A    circle    grave.    
View   it    filling.    
My    baby    looks    tired.      
Tie   her    too    soon,    watch    the    grass    laid    dry.    
Colored    boxes    rolling    uphill,    
Police   under     brown   cover.    
I    adjust   to   the     necessary    gaze,    
Shoes    are     half   in    the   &nbs
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2022
scavenger bride,
she counted periods
before the children came along,
but never suspected
eyes like bottles
beginning to blue,
a tangle of scars
hermetically sealed,
the new order of
a broken romance,
dead love cassettes
in the glove compartment,

her cold and empty
constellations,
like cold breath
passing through a beam of sunlight,
grid of points, pendulums,
the ratio of freckles to stars,
no subtle countenance,
martinis and bikinis,
soft ******* and ice cream,
slight, elusive things, on a beach
with no more meaning,

the repeating pattern of
her mistakes and reliefs,
a preservation of decay,
sustained by the tiny
human fault line
in that oneiric hinterland,
between dreaming and waking,

she draws around the noise
and the clearings,
she creates within that sightline
the way her sadness can feel
comfortable,
an extension of loss that turns
her ruins into a home.
Chloe Apr 2014
Stars are history lit by lightyears of time
There is one for every being that ever lived
Every blade of grass, every greatest mind
That is why they are uncountable
(The value of life cannot be measured)

Light travels in years and years
Faster than cars every drunken day
It’s no wonder that it starts the planets spinning
Sets the universe in a haphazard dance
(Though music doesn’t conduct in the absence of air)

We don’t see stars like the dinosaurs did
We see stars as they existed back then
A lightyear is a tower with a thousand floors
On every one there’s a doorway filled by glass
(These lives are not yours to live, not yet)

You and me, we’re all condensed explosions
Speckles of supernovas and molecules of galaxies
Humans are a thousand sparks of history
Condensed into one hundred years
(The past repeats because it is always reborn)

Dreams are a symphony played by chance collisions
Seconds in a blink of eternity’s eye
Yet a single thought can flash-bang a revolution
Save a life or take a future
(No matter how you’re small, you really do matter)

We can map space to the edge of our sightline
Make quadrants for fire and roadways for brightness
Though it’s hard to draw lines through thinner than air
To hold electricity in a loop of motion
(Mastery over kinetic does not a monarchy make)

Every day we walk through echoes of motion
Fading into combination and reflecting forensics
Don’t dust for fingerprints, dust for enlightenment
The inspiration in the flowers of a fairy ring
(Eternal dances with skeletons always have the best music)

Shake hands with the ghosts of every stuttering memory
Life is a game played with actions, not words
We the people has always meant people, not person
That’s why East Coast waves echo on West Coast shores
(Midwest sings salt ’n dust chemical rain)

I’ve met people capable of infinite kindness
I’ve been beaten down by unconscious hate
It’s always a game of chess in this world
No one has less than twelve reasons for what they do
(Except with love, which is madness, which doesn’t count)

Every star has a person to belong to
Every past holds hands tight with the future
Every spark has a little bit of kindling
And the crescendo of dreams shifts the world on its foundation
(Burning bright means so much less than helping others catch flame.)
Written for a contest run by the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. I won nothing :) A girl I know did though, which was so cool!
Gregory K Nelson Apr 2013
Irritable.
A tree worked by weather.
Future growth a clown's myth,
like all recorded men.

The lie.
Pregnant present's daughter.
Boxes bark square questions at
round chemical bonds.

Reflection.
Blind from a glass table.
Solutions with assumptions itch
echoes of ticking time.

The hidden.
Frustration peers permanent.
Sightline from locked rooftop to
rain curled hair styles.
The wallpaper on my profile goes with this one.
Timothy H Dec 2016
I need to backpack again
not to get away
but to go in – deeply
to sightline’s ample expanse
that builds with one’s willingness to look
in light that blankets itself across the breathing canvas
that differs in concept and perception
more than in different months and minds
but as an elevated mirage
these inaccessible peaks and valleys of the rockies
have trails few travel this time of year
at altitudes that invite only a few birds and critters
and serious mountaineers making their preparations for their
“conquering of the seven summits”
I would gladly join either group, if there are openings
but would also be quite content with
my earbuds in my pocket
the chilled alpine winds through my wool beanie
trekking slowly over rock, ice and snow

I need to backpack again
to see the shades that would present themselves
to reflect in all reflection
to breathe slower
breathing out toxins and anxieties
that have been allowed to enter my humdrum, my rhythm
effecting and infecting my organs
to allow my lungs unfettered access
to all the fresh altitude it would like
to blind my eyes on the snow-capped cloudless afternoons
where tea and coffee are most pleasant
where a sand county almanac can be read
where my muscles gain power, endurance, fortitude
where thoughts of loved ones fondly skew themselves
where I am neither king nor extra
but a small dragon – limitations and capacities equally known
where emotion and temperament need not invent themselves
in the electron exchange within, but arriving from the west
I can see it all, I start to desire it all
from the front door of my office
it’s calling now, I need to go
©
Timothy H Dec 2016
I need to backpack again
not to get away
but to go in
immersion!
into the elements
like sliding gently into a hot spring pool
I will go!
going in – deeply
to sightline’s ample expanse
where I am NOT a small fish
but a star, in my corner of the darkness
a sun – that builds with one’s willingness to see it’s place in the universe
a light that blankets itself across the breathing canvas
that is perceived and conceived
more than in different months and minds
but as an elevated mirage

I need to backpack again
beyond accessible peaks and valleys of the rockies
to shared trails rarely travel during winter seasons
only inhabited by a few birds and critters
and mountaineers preparing for their
“conquering of the seven summits”
I would gladly join either group, if invitations were sent
but would also be quite content now
to leave the earbuds in my pocket
to feel, to hear the prickling of the chilled alpine winds
through fibers in my wool beanie
even as I traverse slowly over rock, ice and snow

I need to backpack again
to scope out shades that would present themselves, and say hello
to reflect in all thy reflection
to breathe slower – and slower – and slower
breathing out toxins and anxieties
inadvertently allowed to enter my humdrum, my rhythm
effecting and infecting even my organs
the fresh altitude air now needs unfettered access to my lungs
and the snow-capped cloudless afternoons
give permission to much desired snow-blindness
coffee and tea take on new meaning as well
and each sentence of a sand county almanac can be read
and my muscles will gain power, endurance, fortitude
and thoughts of loved ones will fondly skew themselves
and I will be neither king nor extra
but a small dragon – with limitations and capacities equally known
emotion and temperament need not invent themselves here
not from the electron exchange within, but arriving from the west
I can see it all, I start to desire it all
from the front door of my office
it’s calling now, and I need to go
This is my second attempt at this poem. I am actually leaving to backpack tomorrow morning...this is happening now!
Kay Ireland Jul 2017
Pulsating track lights.
Resonation.
Sunlight trickling down my neck as it set,
following the same pattern as your fingertips
that afternoon in your kitchen,
dripping like morning sweat.
When there was nothing left to say,
we filled the silences.

I adored your friends before I knew you,
yet my gaze drifted
to your shadow
as you stood behind a sheer black curtain;

no bigger than a toy soldier in my periphery
but I'd already memorised your shape.
I'd know you anywhere.

Sixteen thousand other people saw you,
but none like me.
She asked why I was blushing.

I had no explanation for the way my heart raced
as I remembered whose body I would sleep next to that night.
There you were,
in my sightline,
and yet I ached for you.
Chloe Jul 2015
I lie facedown on the tallest tree branch, hair bleeding into greenish-brown wood that tastes like dark rain. I reach my hand up and curl it, ring finger to thumb, just within my sightline. My fingers feel soft against each other, slick with moss and the places between the bark that glisten with last night’s rain. The circle I form with my hand fits perfectly around the edge of sunlight melting over the horizon and I stare until my eyes begin to burn.
My grandmother once told me that the cure for anything could always be found somewhere in the world. “It might not be five minutes away,” she had said, pinching tea into bags that had gentle embroidery along the edges. “But it’s out there. Be careful what you give away to find it.”
I close my eyes. Open them. Smile at an aphid making a home for itself on a twig near the sun between my fingers. I like this silence before my house and my friends wake and take away the light. I like the cadence to the world, the light between my fingers, the water against my cheek and the rhythm of my heart slowing down. I put down roots with the old oak tree, drinking in the medicine of the mineral rain.
prose-poetry
Dana E Jul 2014
Falling feels like slingshotting your body from metal birds
At colored patches, verdant, oceanic, supposed Earth
That comes so slowly towards you, at fifteen thousand feet
That falling feels like flying then, like floating,
Like dirt is fiction and what you know are only facts

Fact: your eyes were never made to be binoculars
You can’t make them focus on something so far away,
Can’t make them telegraph up the brainwires,
Shouting incomprehensibly about fear

It’s too far. They won’t do it. Sky divers call this distance illusion.
I call it sanity when an ending comes howling across the sightline,
Unavoidable, solid, unfeared
Inside your head is the lie that you aren’t really that far,
That this distance is tame space,
That you are impossible and airborne
this is a work in progress! one day it will be amazing
sammy Sep 2018
love
love is so easy
with you

my fingers trace the corners of your face,
relishing in the rugged and fuzzy sightline of perfection.
twirling your soft hairs between my calloused skin,
i could do this forever.
curled up in bed, your warmth is a fireside flame of protection.

in the most difficult days of my life you’re by my side
in the most horrific experiences you show me the way
with your hands outstretched and your gorgeous smile

i think i could accomplish anything in this world.
written in 2018
Astor Nov 2016
rosie for you i am stuck in a state of limerence
i count daisy petals for you in my head
picking the light home grown baby softs
reminds me of  you moisturizing your hands with your
lotion and rubbing them on mine when you took too much
the abstract will you wont you concept
gives me hope and a knot in my chest
trailing into my tummy

I wish i could count the times i held your hand
in the dark
the same way that i tick tock those knock off floral fingers
rosie you give me some life back into my brittle bones
I wish you weren't a world away and I wish you were instead in my sightline
you are my horizon
push me into the future so i'm not stuck in your arms anymore
e
Ayn Jun 2020
What lies in the eyes
That stand just out of sight?

The void is endless,
But who can see that far?

If one is set to leave,
Why bother looking back?

Just because you’re out of sight
Doesn’t mean you’ve left my mind too.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
There exists an area between hurt and healed called scarred
it's a place that isn't found—but revealed
tectonic plates protecting the core
my vibrating feet split the earth
forming my fault of separation
passive plains give way to cliffs and valleys
your seismograph detected  tremors
so you escaped to safer ground
outside my sightline from inside the trench emerging
memories are all I need to dig deeper
so remembrance goes through a grainy filter
glorifying the other side of my grave of grime
engendering assumptions of purity lying
beyond the fresh dirt door
where the undead hold their light sticks and disco *****
creating light without illumination
I stumble into them like a moth at night
bumping into the last vestiges of light
they say multiplying two negatives equals a positive
but this whole keeps going deeper
we just acclimate to the depths
making a competition of going furthest down
excavating our descent by expanding the division in the land
until magma erupts
lighting the voluminous pit
revealing the hell we've dug
trickster shadows dance along the sides
hypnotizing the feral demons staring
slack-jawed at the empty canvas of the cave walls
attributing the beauty of what they've missed to ghosts
telling ourselves our horns make us unique
until the lava starts burning us
as a reminder of humanity
continuation ensures incineration
yet this cavern has become my home
after convincing myself I belong here
so everybody hysterically huddles together
to protect themselves from the consequences
oozing from the pressurized center
I squeeze to fit into the middle of the crowd
putting bodies between myself and the nothingness that awaits
watching fellow spelunkers burn
while hoping the inevitable doesn't reach me
the liquid flame consumes my carcass
there's so many directions to fling the fire in
but I benignly accept my fate
knowing this is all my fault.

— The End —