Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
zoie marie lynn Oct 2017
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
spills from my tongue,
and makes up my lips.
because everything feels right when we're laying down in bed like this.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
shakes in my bones,
and folds over and over inside my head.
because we're both in wedding dresses and i fall in love all over again.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
smooths over my skin,
and makes an extra layer of love to drown in.
because this is my life and a girl makes it worth living in.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
i know i could have called her and i know i could be bolder but i'm thinking less and less
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
1
 
Here’s a sunny card to cheer up your hospital room.
Kate’s Flowers c. 1936 by Winifred Nicholson
So glad you’ve got your own room
And can therefore do a bit more of what you want to.
Take it easy though!

 
This painting is not what it seems.
Taking the long long look
that Jeanette Winterson recommends
there’s this abundance of orange
and its close friend yellow:
plenty and laughter
joining hands with
wisdom and calm.
Sometimes known as Kate’s Bunch
It’s an oil on plywood,
painted in Paris.
Two vases, daffodils and lilies,
the latter’s petals fallen on
a polished table, mahogany possibly,
and spread about by a gust of wind,
or perhaps a passing child. Kate
her first born, her miracle child
just seven when this painting was made.
 
2
 
There, sitting in front of us
in the stalls in the Town Hall,
was Stockhausen himself,
resplendent in the orange jumper
he always seemed to wear
in the last years of his life.

Because he invariably wore
white shirts and white jeans
an orange jumper, scarf
and jacket seemed sensible
garb for an angel from Sirius,
particularly when working in his garden.
At a concert he’d been known
to sport a purple scarf.
Orange and purple:
two colours that defy rhyme
but clearly not the reason
of this genius from another planet.
  
3
 
This Orange is Ecstatic.
Its theme of six quick notes,
almost never leaves the music.

Composer Michael Torke
slows it down, smooths it out,
it’s so quick and catchy
momentum builds up quickly;
it simply sounds (almost) unstoppable.
It sure is! Such fun,
and so good to listen to
because you never loose the thread.
Ok, the tune cycles round your head
but the instruments change
and there’s lots of extra tunes
playing away like good buddies.
This is music you can’t help smiling to.
It’s Ecstatic and Orange.

4
 
Did you know there’s a Music of Colour?
It is so new that few people,
except those who are creating it,
are aware that it exists.

At all.
 
Colour has seven degrees
of depth intensity.
With Orange it's
Alabaster
Apricot
Fire
Fox
Copper
Tobacco
Black coffee
 
Colour has seven degrees
between the shade of its hue
to its neutralization.
With orange it's
flame
sand
ochre
bistre
fawn
dun
mud
 
Oh Winifred, have you any idea
of the song your colours sing?
How orange and yellow
and blue and white
and almost purple
with a little green
make music become a picture.
 
5
 
I bought some orange tights! X
Oh Gosh! X
I’m not wearing them though . . . X
There’s a time and place for orange tights . . .
wait for (poetic) instructions please . . . X
Curiouser and curiouser . . . X

 
You see I bought this frock
in a charity shop.
Folly green and Pointing white
it was pleasantly patterned,
though a small fourteen,
and knowing he’d like it
I put it on one night
before we went to bed.
And he said:
‘You know it would be just right
with a pair of orange tights.’
And so it is.
Just right.

6

Dearest,
don’t let me touch you
yet, above the knee
where this warm colour
flows towards that centre
of your movements’ grace,
where lower limbs join
to kiss and stroke each inner thigh,
those quiet smooth planes of softest skin
that inviting so the caress of a hand,
daring so the intimate touch of a cheek.
Let orange keep you close to the possibility of passion
to the glow of your beauty’s length and line
where the firmness of your standing self
will shine out and speak of purpose
and of love’s sweet gift.
Composers often use quotation and/or sampling. In these six poems I've used short extracts variously from a get well card, a newspaper article, an Internet review, an essay by an artist and a text exchange. These extracts are always marked in italics.
guy scutellaro Mar 2021
the red glow of her cigarette.
the fingers of her left hand
yellow  with nicotine
clutching dying flowers

"buy a rose for your lover," she says,
"buy one for your wife. buy 2."

"the flowers are wilted."

"maybe it's your eyes that are wilted.

she had black hair
black as the night
the violent night
and gray eyes
the shade of ***** ice

"you must love
someone,
some of the time, no?
put a rose on
your father s grave, then."

"love is like lost pennies
falling from a broken jar."

she smooths her hair with one pale,
long, fingered hand, "you re crazy."

"my mom says so."

i was born to
have adventure

I followed her up the steps.

i was born to chase the night
through the forest
of dead roses.
I would not always reason. The straight path
Wearies us with its never-varying lines,
And we grow melancholy. I would make
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness
Around me. She should be my counsellor,
But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs
Impulses from a deeper source than hers,
And there are motions, in the mind of man,
That she must look upon with awe. I bow
Reverently to her dictates, but not less
Hold to the fair illusions of old time--
Illusions that shed brightness over life,
And glory over nature. Look, even now,
Where two bright planets in the twilight meet,
Upon the saffron heaven,--the imperial star
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn
Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe,
Awhile, that they are met for ends of good,
Amid the evening glory, to confer
Of men and their affairs, and to shed down
Kind influence. Lo! they brighten as we gaze,
And shake out softer fires! The great earth feels
The gladness and the quiet of the time.
Meekly the mighty river, that infolds
This mighty city, smooths his front, and far
Glitters and burns even to the rocky base
Of the dark heights that bound him to the west;
And a deep murmur, from the many streets,
Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence
Dark and sad thoughts awhile--there's time for them
Hereafter--on the morrow we will meet,
With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs,
And make each other wretched; this calm hour,
This balmy, blessed evening, we will give
To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days,
Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.

  Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet,
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.
The dog-star shall shine harmless: genial days
Shall softly glide away into the keen
And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears
The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams,
And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air.

  Emblems of power and beauty! well may they
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw
Towards the great Pacific, marking out
The path of empire. Thus, in our own land,
Ere long, the better Genius of our race,
Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes,
Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west,
By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back
On realms made happy.

                        Light the nuptial torch,
And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits
The youth and maiden. Happy days to them
That wed this evening!--a long life of love,
And blooming sons and daughters! Happy they
Born at this hour,--for they shall see an age
Whiter and holier than the past, and go
Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts,
And shudder at the butcheries of war,
As now at other murders.

                          Hapless Greece!
Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained
Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn
Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice
Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes,
And reverend priests, has expiated all
Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights
There is an omen of good days for thee.
Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit
Again among the nations. Thine own arm
Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine
The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,--
Despot with despot battling for a throne,--
And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms,
Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall
Upon each other, and in all their bounds
The wailing of the childless shall not cease.
Thine is a war for liberty, and thou
Must fight it single-handed. The old world
Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race,
And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,--
I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale
Of fraud and lust of gain;--thy treasury drained,
And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs
Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand,
And God and thy good sword shall yet work out,
For thee, a terrible deliverance.
Julie Oct 2012
Contemplation for days and hours
As all the beautiful flowers devour their worst enemy
Trying to defend me, no decency cause I tell myself I’m horrible
Gravity slams me to the floorboard of a moving car
Let me go, let me breathe
My reality deceives the truth that you and I were once meant to be
I overlook, my eyes force me not to see
All the pain, all the lies
Just *******
I despise you and your ******* *** ways
And I’m still sitting here in this haze
Of my sweet mary jane, that takes away the pain
Because she actually gives a **** about what I have to say
And she don’t question me
She smooths the depression out of me
There’s not a doubt in me that I won’t see better days
You’re in the past
There’s no way we would have been able to last
But I be me, I do me
I don’t give a **** about what your eyes want me to see
They see what they want to see and I be what I want to be
I laugh at your failure to attempt to change me
I’m invincible, not dispensable
You can’t just use me, I’m insensible
Good luck finding someone as valuable as me
There’s no next time, there’s no meant to be
Dave Martsolf May 2015
let’s go back a
hundred-thousand years

to these ragged edges
torn rains
raw greens
biting seas

to the first sunrise,
now understood.
tears of calm joy –

a return.

we find ourselves
in this,
a kinship;
our brother is
our keeper,
and we
its’ guardian,
walk the edges
and the smooths;
our planet,
Earth’s children
Melissa S May 2012
For Her
She looks in the mirror at herself
and smooths out a wrinkle on her waistline
Feeling pretty anxious about tonight
but also floating on cloud nine

She comes down the stairs
thinking don't fall now girl, please do not fall
Then she says to herself I got this
As she sees his face and suddenly feels ten feet tall

She loves to play dress up
and loves to please her man
So she puts on the little black dress
As all part of that strategic master plan


For Him
He looks at her and thinks wow so stunning
as she stops at the top of the stairs
For a moment he forgets to breathe
He forgets that he has to have air

As she comes down the stairs he watches her
and he knows she is waiting to see his first reaction
He hopes that she truly can see what he feels  
Way more than just any mere physical attraction

That little black dress is so hot
as it is hugging all those luscious curves
but the best thing about that little black dress
is watching it fall to the floor so he can worship her and serve
Leila Valencia Apr 2019
I turn my head to the most beautiful sight of all - the sapphire, green-brown, grey ocean.
(Breath In)

The thick blue ocean that rolls, churns, and glistens.
And the glisten slices, the glistening currents. The ripples that move the ripples that have no ending or beginning.
(Breathe Out)
_

Every shape, form, and structure captured in the liquid.
It smooths out.
It rounds out.
It rolls out, it crashes down.
It’s smooth clarity. It’s smoothness it beyond me.

Its beauty is truly found within its movement. It’s constant change, exchange between all forms;
Connections throughout,
Different experiences of the same object throughout,
And out and out.

I see this giant blue gulp, of sea of truly magnificent bodies of water held in a single space.

As I see the land overturn over:
In new shapes, colors, lengths, and everything that contrasts one thing to another

I just see so much brightness, dimness, and something that overturns into another.
,,,,
I can not believe this sea
How it makes that sound

And when nothing is around
It just profound,

How every jewel of the dancing ocean
is a collection of drops
connecting forms throughout
__

When I feel the truth of this beauty
I see,

the ocean, something I never created
It was there to touch us
To hold us
This ocean was made to believe in us.

Without realizing it I just fell into a deep sleep.
I fell into something so deep.
I felt the ocean's arms
embracing me
I love the ocean. This is my ode to the ocean
Iska Oct 2017
A puppet girl, all dressed up, with painted lips and lined eyes, stands on her toes as she spins and glides.
Guided by her puppet strings she swirls and twirls around the ring.
Round and round this dusty stage she gets up and dances day after day.
The hands that hold her gentle yet firm show her just how much she must learn.
The hands grow fierce, music harsh,as they pull and push her into a perfect arch.
A string then snaps, poor puppet goes loose, abandoned and alone as they tie her a noose.
A puppet girl, all banged up, with chipped paint and bleary eyes, slumps alone as she starts to cry.
Musical laughter fills the ring, as she hears someone begin to sing.
Clanking clattering across the stage, she drags her limbs out of her cage.
She topples and falls tangled in string, trying to find the source of the singing.
Kneeling before her, with beautiful wings, is another girl living her dreams.
A puppet girl, just like her, moving with ease, unburdened by the need for strings.
"Are you an angel?" she rubs her eyes trying to see if this girl is a lie.
the girl before her smooths over her dress, before gliding into a curtsy and saying "yes."
"I wish to be an angel like you, then I could be free to move."
The angel tilts her head, her smile sly, before opening her mouth to reply,
"As you wish it, it shall be so."
then with terrible grace and ease, she cuts off the strings...
and with it she holds the Poor Puppet Girl's head,
her body lays crumpled up,
shes.... dead.
"Shh." she whispers as she cradles the head,
she spins and glides claiming shes been naughty,
and attaches the puppet girls head on an angels body.
And as the puppet girl blinks her eyes,
she realizes she's back to life.
in a form now free of strings,
she can dance and spin as she may please.
then she sees her body crumpled where it now lies,
and with a shuddering sob she begins to cry.
the angel takes her hand in hers
and with a crazy smile and mad glint in her eyes
she starts to sing:
"hush little one,
now we are the same.
don't worry baby,
no more pain.
Now listen to me child,
let blood fall like blissful rain,
and we shall free those who remain,
free them from these awful chains."
beware the puppet masters.
for they will drive the puppets to the edge of the stage,
until they snap,
and the puppets lie dead
on top of the body pile.
Lora Lee Oct 2016
You are the
         liquid sugar
I rub into
       my skin
soaked
through to my
pores so
deep within
on a cellular
level as I
gulp it down
swish in saliva
in liquid love
          sounds
washed through
my system
in textured
              spin    
you balance
out the thickness
of my insulin
           you
pique
          hot
energies
into blush-fused
                crush
swirling
endorphins
and hormones
in maelstrom rush
my cheeks
on fire,
ripe fruits
drip
          juice
I must
    breathe  
in staccato
to control
         this
  sluice  
But when I
get peak-high
and then
            *****
      so
           low
you harmonize
the taut,
        slick pull
of my
       undertow flow
It's just a matter
of a few
words, syll-a-
bles spoken
velvet-voiced
             cool
smooths
the rough      
of my
     broken
So please
        inject it,
fresh
into the river
of my blood
     Bring it over,
   hot sugar,
before  I
surge
   into
        flood
A little lightness to break up the heavy  :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMICD3aMZpw
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANyWGZ7mj_U
David May 2018
Ice crystal image genuflection upon the ground
Frosted wind passes around you it speaks with a howling sound
Sleet smooths your surface your body of crystal mirrors portray your soul
Sun light captured within you speaks a language of answered prayers
Rainbow whispers of reassurance to this purity of soul, the woman who kneels upon the ground of freshly fallen snow.
Michael Allen Apr 2013
Spring creeks born from infinite knowledge
gaining speed
riding cloaked horses that show
Peter in the stained glass surface

young creek
carry
salvation price televangelists can't match
melt bullet proof screens between altar and flock
wash the old mans feet

Summer river border
bring
fresh water to stagnant minds
earthly limits can yield no nutrition
salt smooths David pebbles to fly straight

Journeys from the Abaddon threshold
(leave the salt behind)
riding
clouds like the cloaked horses to stained glass Peter
past our own existence watching self hematophagy
all things are one

Fall crosses river styx  
until we are wise enough to take the coins from our eyes
see
his lonely gold coin fall from the mast
economists miss the beauty in a negative *****

Cold winter brooks
forget their age
babes no longer baptized in ***** whale heads
no longer giving squeeze to oil that fights the freezing point of time
no longer running from the mouth that carries you west
are we anchored to god or do billions of monkey ropes join to give him life
judy smith Oct 2016
Marisa Mayeda's tiny hands are steady as she smooths the fabric out in front of her and examines the stitches, checking for bunching or knots.

“Lay it flat, so you can see the whole thing,” suggests instructor Joyce Blaney. Mayeda obeys, spreading out the gorgeous patchwork quilt she’s almost finished creating. It’s one of five she’s making for the babies at Torrance Memorial Hospital.

“It’s her Girl Scout project,” explains Blaney. “Each kid got to choose what they wanted to do, and since Marisa loves sewing, she picked this.”

Blaney’s studio at Sew Creative in Redondo Beach is colorful chaos: bolts of fabric, scrap baskets, ribbons and lace. Pincushions dot almost every surface, and the hum of Singer sewing machines underscores conversation.

It’s unhurried and something of a throwback that most post-baby boomers would recognize as a home economics class—a part of American curriculum that has dwindled over the decades. It’s where Blaney herself learned to thread a needle 50 years ago, fell in love with it almost instantly, and made it a part of her life.

“I learned in a classroom of 30 kids and one teacher. She must have lost her mind,” she laughs now. “It was very crowded. I didn’t realize how challenging that must have been until I started teaching my own students.”

The previous owner started Sew Creative in 1989 before retiring, whereupon Blaney—who had been an employee for several years—bought it and has run it for the past 13 years. Any kid—or adult —can join classes, starting from age six and up. “I primarily teach classes every day after school and on Saturdays. It’s a great opportunity for kids to have a creative outlet.”

According to studies from the University of Missouri, an increasing number of millennials and younger kids don’t know basic home skills, including sewing, cooking, or doing laundry. Only 30 percent of young adults know how to properly boil an egg, according to one study.

Learning by example, such as watching your mother hem a pair of pants, has become less common with each generation. We microwave our food or eat out a lot more. Convenience has made it easier to forgo learning how to cook, and with home economics classes gradually disappearing in the education system.

“Schools are so much more about academics now,” Blaney observes. “This gives kids a chance to make something with their hands, to feel confidence and have something to show for their work. One kid even said that sewing helps her relax, to focus on the moment. I mean, that’s pretty important. She gets it.”

The Queen Amidala costume that Ava Brunner is making for Halloween exemplifies that sentiment. Resplendent in flowing white fabric and a complex pattern of scalloped ruffles, it’s an intricate and challenging design. Brunner, who has been coming to Sew Creative for five years, is now a pro seamstress at age 11, and plans to be an actor and fashion designer.

“There’s no deterring her. Once she decides she’s going to do something ... ” Blaney shakes her head admiringly. “Nothing stops her.”

Mayeda, working diligently on her blanket, just started sewing two months ago at her mother’s suggestion. She had never sewn anything before, but she had a goal and dove in with enthusiasm.

“I wanted to make a new bag for my birthday, but I didn’t know how. So I needed to learn,” she said.

Like her teacher, she’s found a new thing to love—plus a brand-new bag for her birthday this week. And come this January, five newborns will get handmade, hand-stitched blankets for theirs.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Picture a man’s solitary stroll on a sandy seaside,
Early time of day, just a short time after low tide,
Water almost calm, gentle waves lapping the shore,
Early morning sun brilliantly blazing the horizon.
Feel the wonderful breeze…smell the salty ocean air…  
See, hear the jaegers, gulls and terns flying without a care.

The soothing sounds of the wind, water and gulls
Are suddenly intruded upon by the sad cries of a small child.  
"What's wrong?" the man kindly asks, as he kneels next to her.
"Someone knocked down my sandcastle," is her reply, tears flowing.
"Don't worry little one, I'll help you build another."
To the little girl's delight, the man smooths away the sand,
In preparation for a newer, bigger, better sandcastle.

Soon his concentration is broken by frantic cries for help.  
Looking out over the water, he sees a tiny figure,
Desperately clinging to one of the buoys marking the deep-water.
Running to the water’s edge, he clearly sees another little girl,
Close in age to the first, whose swimming has carried her too far,  
And now she perilously clings to the buoy, unable to swim back.

The man returns to the first girl
And continues to build the sandcastle.
"The girl in the water is safe for now", he assures himself.
"As long as I can hear her cries for help,
I know her head is above water.
Besides, this other little girl's problem came first.
As soon as I am done with her sandcastle,
I will most certainly rescue the other one..."

And so, the man does build the sandcastle,
One more magnificent than the first.  
All the while he builds, he continues to hear
The desperate cries from the second little girl.  
By sandcastle’s finish, her cries have become weaker, less frequent.
"Are you happy now?" he asks the first little girl.
"Oh yes," she cries, "thank you sir...."
As she joyfully dances around her new sandcastle.

With that, the man springs into action,
Just as she slips off the buoy and goes under.  
He reaches her in record time with all the strength he can muster,
Expertly positioning her on her back with her face above water.
Wasting no time or effort he makes his way back to shore,
As more and more people gather to cheer on the savior.  
He gives CPR - after several coughs, water clears lungs, a life is not lost.
As if on cue, the rescue team arrives, transporting her to hospital.
Extremely grateful parents and the city honor him as a hero.

So what say you?  Is such a man deserving of honor?
How would the parents react If they knew the rest of the story?
Especially since he was the lifeguard assigned to beach patrol!

Now, friends, after considering all of this fuss,
The question bears asking, what about us?
Are we making sure of more important things,
Or are we busy building castles in the sand?
5/23/2018 - Poetry form: Narrative - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
'Lay me in a cushioned chair;
Carry me, ye four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.

'To stable and to kennel go;
Bring what is there to bring;
Lead my Lollard to and fro,
Or gently in a ring.

'Put the chair upon the grass:
Bring Rody and his hounds,
That I may contented pass
From these earthly bounds.'

His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Falls in sleepy streams.

Brown Lollard treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,
And now the old man's dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.

And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands,
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.

'Huntsmam Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay wandering cry.

Fire is in the old man's eyes,
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies
They hear him feebly say,

'Huntsman Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
'I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh.'

Servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow wrung;
Hounds are gazing on his face,
Aged hounds and young.

One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune with his heart:
The moments pass and pass:

The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in;
The hounds wail for the dead.
Riley Nov 2021
1)

don't forget to keep breathing
cradle-rock your heart
soothe your ribs
don't forget to breathe

2)

the cold is natural
bundle up now
you can always shed
your skin
when the sky turns

3)

don't linger
in the places you once Were
keep moving else
your blood settle

4)

late night parking decks
hotel rooftops
yourSelf a whisper
honeysuckle blooms through
concrete wounds

5)

don't think about waking
ripping out of your body
clawing through the coffin and up
and up

your gravesite is spotless still

6)

dream
cool rich earth
lilies and lavender
whisper rustle of leaves
dream

7)

dream
heavy water
lake mud and rock ****
desperate silence
dream

8)

dream
hunger
Hunger
H u n g e r
dream

9)

dream
slow opening
granite doors and damp moss
spaces between absent heartbeats
wake

10)

the hollow is natural
the brain craves familiarity
the phantom mirrors the physical
the hunger will fade
for a time

11)

when eating cherries
don't forget to imagine a tongue

12)

remorse with me
may the living one day
bestow our graves with offerings
we starve in silence

13)

hollowing may beget holiness
but it doesn't denote such
divinity must be earned
few buildings have managed

14)

you can almost smell his skin
stomach rising and falling
best not to dwell
his life is no longer yours

15)

phantom petal flesh
teeth and thrush
rosethorn oleander s e e p ing black
curses and
sinking
  forest rot
    deep
       soil


16)

do not follow
when the wind asks your counsel
when the moon thorn buds
when the night screams bruiseblueblack
do not seek the woods alone

17)

don't dwell
it's natural to feel exposed
keeping space beside you
will only make missing them worse

18)

let the ceiling fall
it is beyond your power
stars make fairy lights
through the frame of branches
as it should be

19)

Death is a story keeper
an archivist
a library of everything
from the first atoms
to the last sparks

20)

don't worry
the house hasn't moved
since you last saw it
though the tree seems closer

21)

press yourself into
the size of a fist
wrap clockwise around
his heart
cherish the fleeting creature

22)

there is always
my s p a c e
left in the bed
when I come home to
haunt

23)

there is
My space
left in the house
when I come Home to
Haunt!!!a

Zombie

24)

missed exit
streetlights smeared by rain
vacant hotels
liminality made nostalgia

25)

tracing paper kisses
early spring thaw
did I melt away too

26)

isn't is strange
your shadow doubles
film printed over film
light runs through you
heat waves off pavement

27)

time will slip off you
don't cling to it
you'd have better luck
holding the sun
time is beyond you now

28)

the hunger doesn’t fade
it twists itself into sickness
an unfillable void

29)

let your heart fill
with paint and
dust
like the nail holes in plaster
last remains smoothed over

30)

there is no place
for you here
why do you insist on
lingering

31)

this house is a heart
you
are a phantom gunshot

32)

do you remember
a sharp pain where your lungs should be
the pressure of blood stagnant

33)

molars, incisors, canines
rigid and Real against
the memory of your tongue
a sharpness drawing blood
staining the sidewalk beneath your false feet

34)

your body is
wet rot and beetles
a collection of rooms
teeth and stomach and hollowing all disarticulated
a knife in a box

35)


sunlight breaking dust layers
the curtains wave lazily
someone has tracked mud through the halls
a splintered attic door hangs off
its hinges
the air tastes green

36)

when you finally become hollowed
the space between houses
the space between ribs
the space between teeth
the light that pours out
you will be made holy
in your Own image

37)

thick ozone at the back of your throat
rainless thunder rolls
the old piano shuffles untouched
a discordant funeral keen
the air ignites

38)

elevator doors close
open
close
stale cigarettes and cleaning chemicals
fluorescent buzzing
vacant sobs in an airy tomb
of concrete

39)

parking decks remain
a kind of home base
for those of us lacking liminality
every one is the same
and as such becomes intimately familiar
no matter how far it means you are
from home

40)

how many eyes are you supposed to have
what about teeth
count them in the mirror
again
again
Again

41)

beauty is in the eye
gnashing teeth
silent weeping
love lies not in the heart
nor head
but in the stomach

42)

skin peels back
muscles made of embroidery thread
birch bones bleeding
indigo
flesh transmuted

43)

you move through the world
as it moves through you
silently creeping
swirls of smoke and fog
filling up to your sternum

44)

wander
for a time
everything will be unfamiliar
on your journey and
return
to a stranger’s home

45)

dust to dust
and ashes to ashes
your headstone crumbles
your bones are meal
the world in which you haunt
will one day be far removed from
your own

46)

study the web
the winding and stretching of gossamer
collapsed in on itself
clustered with dew

47)

study the shell
the crests and smooths hard as bone
fragile against your fingers
an inner matrix of holes

48)

study the nest
the braiding weaves of branch and thread
fractured to one side
feathers slip asunder

49)

study the desk
the crags and slopes of precarious inkstaining
spilling frozen towards the floor
fine filtering of dust

50)

remember
what Precisely is a
Haunted
house

51)

Congratulations on Completing Part I of Your Introduction Handbook
Please Continue onto Part II

52)

fallow hearts sewn full of seed
bones with the crack and bend of trees
pressed petal flesh bruiseblack at the knees
when building a new body don't forget what it needs

53)

liminality is a current
riptide in some places
burble in others
watch for waterfalls
death doesn’t mean you're a strong swimmer

54)

builders write messages
on the innermost workings
of their buildings
behind the plaster disintegrating and
the wallpaper peeling
a belly button
a birthmark

55)

when the moon calls your name
listen
when the raven screeches warning
heed
when the voices of a house offer deals
Run

56)

kitten-footed fog
follow it through
the tall thin trees
until you see lights
then follow it
home

57)

tell me about humanity
does it hurt you
is it heavy to bear
or is it just breathing
one foot in front of the other
a faded photograph

58)

rivers slip blue
through the land like veins
cornflower and cobalt
cold tissue paper flesh

59)

missed connection
you left flowers
three graves down
I was in white
under the maple tree

60)

missed connection
you look so lovely
in blue
I'm right here
just turn around

61)

missed connection
every sunday
you walk
bakery library home florist cemetery
you talk to yourself
I always answer

62)

missed connection
you talk in your sleep
do you sense I'm there
deep in your bones
do you know you'll never
be alone again

63)

missed connection
I smashed a plate
and spent all night playing
in your wires
can you feel me now
in the light bulbs humming

64)

missed connection
you haven't spoken since
it's so silent I could be heard
I'm sleeping in the walls
singing for you

65)

missed connection
you were up all night
researching the supernatural
I'm right here
just see me

66)

missed connection
sunday you started talking
to me
we took a new walk
library shopping district cemetery home
notes and candles and blacksalt
a rubbing of my gravestone

67)

missed connection
nothing we tried worked
you still can't see me
you can just hear
my humming in the power sockets
my singing in the walls

68)

missed connection
I wrote you a letter
with leaves under your staircase
you swept them without noticing
singing one of my songs

69)

missed connection
you found a picture of me
framed it
sometimes you leave letters
my name on the front
hidden in the table drawer

70)

missed connection
I tried writing on glass panes
whispering in your ears
you tried spirit boards
seances and divination
I'll never stop
as long as you live

71)

missed connection
you stopped leaving letters
sunday walks abandoned
for living friends
I shorted out the tv
you don't come home much
anymore

72)

missed connection
you started driving
to nowhere
I tucked myself
between
the back seats
you locked eyes with me
through oncoming headlights

73

missed connection
I broke every mirror
ran screaming through the wires
the curtains are catching fire
can you still feel me
do you still know I'm here

74)

missed connection
you look so lovely
in black
just turn around
please turn around
I'm right here
always
a long-form poem about being a ghost
Back behind Gianni's bar
The Bluesman sings his tunes
To all the local n'er do wells
And to the stars and to the moon

His voice is coarse as forty grit
His playing smooths it out
He plays upon an orange crate
Comfort is not what he's about

Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One sung just for me
One that paints pictures in my head
A song that I can see

Buskers, lined the concourse
The street where he was not
This was just a place for tourist fare
He was where the world forgot

His tunes were sung for no one but
Himself and to the air
Out front, that was another world
Bluesman, did not live out there

A crowd has gathered slowly
More of a group, than a real crowd
They heard about the bluesman
And out front was too **** loud

In back, you heard the feelings
Felt the music, heard the strings
You experienced the atmosphere
That a good old bluesman brings

Out of the crowd of fandom
Working his way through the mass
Was a young, tousled haired boy
Everybody let him pass

He rocked in one position
He felt the music ebb and flow
He looked where the notes were airborne
He saw the music go

The bluesman sat and watched him
playing stories, telling tales
Of drunks in old Las Vegas
And of sailors fighting gales

the young boy stood and rocked some
always looking at the air
He wasn't looking at the bluesman
He didn't know that he was there

He walked up to the old man
staring out into the space
that streamed the bluesmans music
right into the young boys face

the bluesman watched intently
As the young lad touched his hand
And he held the bluesmans old guitar
He became a member of the band

The boy moved even closer
If that were possible at all
He was feeling the sweet music
He was having quite a ball

The crowd watched as the bluesman
and the boy became as one
The boy resting his head now
On the guitar, having fun

He couldn't see the bluesman
But the music, it was there
The boy was blind, autistic
He saw the notes that filled the air

The bluesman kept on playing
For that was what the bluesman did
He was playing for the starry sky
And for this wondrous little kid

His mother came and held him
She took the bluesman by the hand
She said thank you for the music
For letting him be in your band

In a voice as smooth as Bourbon
The bluesman told her that her son
Could come and feel the music
The music makes us one

Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One that's only just for me
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
That only I can see....
Terry Collett Oct 2014
Elaine folds
and unfolds
a flowered

handkerchief
in her lap
in the bus

(the school bus)
her sister
beside her

talking to
her best friend
Elaine knows

the boy John
sits near by
she can see

him if she
leans over
the seat top

but she sits
where she is
feeling down

and depressed
she'll tell John
when she can

what they say
the others
Old Frumpy

they call her
her hand smooths
the flowered

handkerchief
in her lap
corners neat

edges straight
it is John's
handkerchief

he gave it
when she cried
the last time

it was clean
and unused
when he gave

smelt of soap
and fresh air
it absorbed

her wet tears
when held there
and John said

at that time
the kiss was
meant to show

what I feel
and she can
(if she sits

quietly)
feel it still
on her lips.
A ******* A SCHOOL BUS FEELING DEPRESSED IN 1962.
Ron Sparks Jun 2016
(note - This is a haibun; a Japanese writing form that combines haiku with prose.)*

Two days on the road, two thousand miles on my motorcycle. Hard miles; my *** so sore that every bump in the road brings biting pains up my back and down my legs.

I’m riding alone. No highways. No hotels. Camping in fields and eating in greasy diners. Seeing the America not available to the Interstate. The real America. I’m rough riding across the continent and this isn’t a mid-life crisis. I’m on a mission.

There’s been a ghost haunting me for five years. And yesterday, somewhere on the back roads of Nebraska, I left that ghost, the ghost of my cancer, behind. The specter of death that lingered on me, over me, and around me after excision of the tumors is finally gone.

Contrary to opinion, ghosts are heavy. With mine gone, I ride through the night – the stars and my newfound peace my sole companions. I stop only when the false dawn begins to turn into the real thing.

serpentine road
​curves into the sun;
  my throttle opens

The country diner I find myself in front of welcomes both me and the morning sun. I’m tired, sweaty in my leathers, and covered in road dust as I enter. And I’m deaf, the roar of the road is still loud in my ears.

I tell the waitress I take my coffee black – as black as my soul. My joke falls flat; what comes from my mouth is a rough growl, thanks to a dry throat. It earns me dark looks from the other diners. The ***** biker with no manners.

I have a moment of tired reflection and then I get a visitor to my table. An old lady, dressed in her Sunday best, moves with slow deliberation and takes an unexpected seat across from me. Her frail hands wrap my grimy ones in a cool and gentle grip.

Her eyes, framed by a wrinkled face that smooths as she smiles at me, capture mine before she bows her head and prays loud enough for all to hear. “Lord, please help this young man find his way. He’s lost, alone, and needs your guidance to help cleanse his heart and his soul.”

She kisses my hand and, without another word, stands again. There’s a reverent silence as we all watch her sit back down at her table and take a bite of her breakfast as if nothing exceptional had just occurred.

I look out the window as the rising sun reflects off of my bike, thinking that, here, maybe it wasn’t really that exceptional at all.   And thinking; lady – I’m not lost; I’m finally finding myself again.

red cardinal
alights upon my bike –
  notices me
This is a haibun; a Japanese writing form that combines haiku with prose.
Camilla Green Mar 2018
After years on this earth, I have weathered and grown.
As a child, I did things, I had joy, love, and goals.
In early summers, my life was a canvas for scar tissue:
hot pebbles burned soft skin into calloused glory,
the sun beat down and leathered my skin,
chlorine and dirt turned my young hair to gray.

When I was young, I etched tunnels in my bones,
with crayon and marker, I forged deep ivory valleys.
Some see this as cruelty, a sad deterioration,
but this atrophy is experience, the catalyst of life!

Years later, I sit here next to a painted sunrise.
With jell-o, gray matter rots on my styrofoam tray.
I wish for the summer, hot pebbles, and crayons,
for the laughter of youth and its calloused adventures.

But I've retired, so I sit idly in this plastic wheeled chair,
watching monitors beeping with ebbing heart lines,
grieving for my gray hair as it turns back to brown,
mourning, as my unused bones fill with marrow to the brim,
watching, heartbroken, old age clutching my hand,
as my wrinkled skin smooths away.
I can think of so many ways to ask you to stay. I feel like I’ve already emptied out my mason jar of them to the half-way mark. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what anything means. I just know that you’ll never feel for me the way I feel for you. I know that you will find someone that will love you in every way you need, and I know that person may not be me. If I said the idea of that made me happy, I’d be lying. I can’t be the ever-positive ex, I can’t promise you that someone else can know the right moments to touch your back. I can’t promise you that someone else will force you to open up to them when you’re upset. I can’t promise you that they’ll be able to hold your weeping head to their chest and they’ll feel the heartbreak I did every time you cried. I can’t even promise you that you’ll wake up holding another girls hand and it feel the way it felt for me. I can only promise you things I know. I promise you that every time you hear a song off of take this to your grave you’ll remember the night we all sang those songs drunk and in love with the worst and best of each other. I promise you that when you read these things you won’t look back at them and they probably won’t really even phase you. I promise you that you’ll always do your best to get to Moe’s on Mondays for your burrito that you won’t most always don't finish. I promise you that you’ll always have the best taste in whiskey, and you will always love the playlists I make. I promise you that the sun will rise every morning just for you, and you will smoke a cigarette to welcome it. I promise you that you will wear a striped shirt at least six out of seven days of the week, and blue jeans five out of seven. I promise you that you will have a soft hum of my voice in the back of your head every time you buy a new pack of marlboro smooths, better yet I promise that you’ll never buy the 100’s because of that. I can promise you all of those things, I can promise you myself.
B Elizabeth G May 2018
Loving you was a winter full of summer, and a pocket full of purple wildflowers.

Your smile was a warm breeze in late October, and your touch, the cool grass on bare feet.

Your kiss was the taste of raindrops on a July afternoon, and your voice the water that smooths the river rock.

You were childhood without the sting of the bee.

~B. Elizabeth G.
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.

It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.

My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.

I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.

Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.

Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’

‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’

Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’

‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!

And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!

David Lewis Paget
Wordforged Fool Feb 2021
I'm caught in a forest
My glass frame is jagged and shattered
I give in to a distant call to rest
And I search for somewhere to lay my head
The forest is quiet
A whisp broke me and left
And I'm alone to care for a grove
I am broken, I am scared, I am upset
Something ahead of me
Trapped in the overgrowth
It can't be!
My armor, my friend, my beautiful cog!
Oh! What have I done to you?
I check it's inner workings
Gears clogged with vines and branches
Iron rusted through
Until I wander deep enough
And I find the source of my distant whisper
My hearth
Once a great and burning flame
To move my cog so powerfully
So patiently
Subserviently
I climb in
And flames long dead begin to burn once more
It melts my glass
And smooths me out
And I lay my head to rest
I close my eyes
When I open them again
I see through the juggernaut's eyes
And I burn so hot from my pain
The overgrowth burns away
Rusted parts shatter away
A plume of smoke billows from me
I am a cog once more
I feel so heavy
So tired
But oh so powerful
A great machine finds me in this grove
And offers me a place in it's inner workings
Other cogs inside, made of shining steel greet me
We grind and toil away
And I feel so at home
After harming and being harmed by a beautiful whisp
Who I now understand never truly understood me
Nor did I understand them
They fled from me
Left me so alone
But I am strong once more
I am so tired
I feel safe and complacent
So I will rest and let my body fall into routine
I will sleep
I will obey my new machine
I will dream
New experiences aren't for everyone. I hurt people and was myself hurt by my confusion, fear, and ignorance. I was then abandoned and now I do nothing but work and rest and while I'm not happy, I do feel steady. I feel safe.
Paige Anderson Nov 2011
A darling girl of three
Violet ribbon cradles golden hair
They fuss over her porcelain skin
Blushing cheeks and baby blue eyes
“Eyes you just want to steal,”  say They.
She crayons pictures of castles
And heroic princes.
Her little dolls are played
Then locked in their little dollhouse

A fair girl of fifteen
Mornings she is taunted and condemned
By the mocking mirror.
She stares
And draws a smile on the vacancy.
Head, shoulders, knees and toes-
Strings attached to all.
Puppetted by the fetters of Expectation,
She smiles, and acts,
And dresses in little outfits
To please Them.

A charming girl of seventeen
Immured little fingers cradle the wiled world.
A Crayoned face fronts the masquerade.
Mangled in tangled strings,
She offers her heart and scissors to a little blonde boy
And cries, Kiss it better.
He smiles and smooths her brow
As his honeyed whispers tear her open
And he ties a heartstring.
He stitches her up with the thread of Promises
Leaving ribbon-scars delicate as lace.
Blueblack bruises blossom across
And stain her porcelain skin.
She shatters
While screaming his innocence.

Thieved eyelight
Makes for a jaded girl of eighteen.

A darling girl of three
Plays with toys
As They toy with her.
Just another broken doll to be.
Lillith Foxx Mar 2014
There's a poem hidden on my tongue
but I just can't find it,
my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,
this city is colder than your bubbler ****;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,
and I like how you take them at full throttle
playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;
like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,
because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm ******* high,
because I'm a ******* child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,
I'm the age old dragon,
I'm the youthful sprite


I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,
I'm the pipe that you **** when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction
I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,
I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,
I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,
but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-
it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our ***** and starve our feelings,
But my belly feels full like the waxing moon,
and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

*Naked and hungry-
we share your bed
-searching for the words, in each other's heads.
Jill Davidson Dec 2011
The beach stays here all day when I am at work and does its thing.
Waves back and forth.
Birds on the water.
Surfers.
People taking pictures.
Walking.
Throwing ***** for their dogs.
But the beach stays here even if I am not here to see it.  
Waves like breaths in out in out.
So alive.
It has its moods. Has its rests and is quiet.
Changes the sands like brushing its hair.
Flat and smooth sometimes and messy and ruffled when the wind and the people feet mess it all up.  
Then the tide comes in and smooths it down again.  

It reaches towards me at high tide beckoning, calling me, reminding me it is there.
At low tide it goes back into itself and takes care of business.
Maybe the tide pools are exposed maybe not.
It doesnt care.
The beach the bay is taking care at low tide.
Reconstituting.
Recycling, reclaiming itself.
Jay Jimenez Mar 2013
I got a  little canoe
and set sail to the moon
I took my bandanna and pulled it tight.
Grand Dads bottle of Makers Mark was my good supply
some Marlboro Smooths and a old swiss army knife incase I got shipwrecked.
I cashed in my last paycheck and told my boss I wasn't comming back
I had a Full Moon to catch and the sun was already setting.
I ran into Johnny **** Eyes at Holiday Gas Station and asked if he had any of them mushrooms still and if he had a extra couple hits of acid..... "Infact he replied I just got myself a quarter and about a 10 strip of acid for myself but your going to the moon right... in that old *** canoe your Grand Dad gave you when he passed away. I replied " Yeah Johnny I got a Harvest Moon thats not gonna be waiting long mind if you just toss me a deal and give me the whole shabang." I pulled a friend card and mentioned the time I hooked him up with 4 double stack X pills back in the day and also cut him a deal on a Rothbury ticket. Needless to say he handed that **** over. So back to the river shore where I began the tale I was scared of what was to come, I was scared to just leave without anyone knowing.  I put on my old converse sneakers strapped up my suspenders put a little engine oil in my hair to slick it back and rolled my sleaves up in my flannel said a little prayer to Grand Dad that his canoe would make it... I remember watching him build it with his strong hands before the parkinsons kicked in... I remember him telling me that this ****** could go to the moon and back.... so I popped 3 hits of acid took a big swig out of the Makers Mark, Lit a Cig and said to the sky well Grand Dad you better be right.... You better be right
Molly Apr 2017
Soothing, mothering hand of a soft day
smooths away a wrinkle in my head
pressed there by the grimace of constant self-reflection.

The warm rain offers me solace, the grey
sky seeks to calm and I notice now for the first time
the leaves unfurled and the dandelions ticking.

A coffee and a glass of water, a cigarette
and some poor-man’s lunch shape my day
until another slips away into the furnace.

I’m seeking affirmation. I keep asking:
“do you think I’m coming off the rails -
Or was I always running off the sleepers?”

It’s met with a **** of the head, usually,
or a ‘hmm… you’re great fun though’.
I know but that’s not what I’m asking.
Unpolished weathered wood plays on my palms,
I pull and reach and pull an even beat
Attending algae'd oars aqueous psalm
Altered by the tangled grass I meet,
in counterpoint  small waves percuss the prow
Accentuating the pause before I cull,
Mellifluous zephyrs bowing across my brow
Enhance the exposition of the gulls,
Above the hem of heaven's dress the bright
Cerulean bodice trilled with Cirrus lace
Beguiles regard, but maddeningly polite
She smooths her skirt across the score of space

Eclipsing a poet's want to read the ruse,
This lady only lingers to amuse.
I like the challenge of writing sonnets.

Copyright 1998 JB Marshall
Emily Overheim Oct 2014
Dry white pills rattle
in their dark green chamber.
Large and hard and pure,
they leave soft dust
where they clack together.

The cap spins free easy
when I fumble the bottle
and they trip eagerly
into my hand, so that
I must select my savior.

It takes hold of my muscles
and releases their grip on me,
fills my hanging head with its
whiteness rather than my red,
and gives my grinding teeth peace.

It ushers in sleep,
who has circled at the door,
smooths the sharp edges
of my breath in the
darkness, and tucks me in.
Grahame Jun 2014
A beautiful angel, sitting on a cloud,
softly playing her harp,
Was suddenly frit by a noise so loud,
and hit by something sharp.

It’s Concorde, travelling faster than sound,
that is so very sharp,
The angel tumbles towards the ground,
while Concorde flies off with the harp.

She thinks, “No longer shall I sing
while on a cloud I’m sat,
That flying machine has broken my wing,
I’m falling fast, and that’s that!”

The wing though’s, not broken, and causes no pain,
so she thinks, just to feathers, is damage,
However, she tries to fly in vain,
it’s something she just cannot manage.

By spreading her wings slightly she manages to steer,
and thus, stops spinning around,
She is greatly filled with fear,
and still falling towards the ground.

And then, far below, she spies a small plane,
climbing into the sky,
The sight causes her some hope to gain,
and towards it she tries to fly.

“If I can land on the plane,” thinks she,
“that’s grand, cos my fall it will stop,
I might be able to ride it down safely,
and when it’s landed, off it can hop.”

She glides down, the plane flies higher,
and about halfway they meet ,
And though, for a moment, things seem dire,
she grabs on tight, and makes it her seat.

She sits there, astride the plane,
waiting for her panic to subside,
And realises, as plain as plain,
she’s in for a bumpy ride.

Then the plane levels out, her heart calms down,
and things are looking better,
She smooths out her lily-white gown,
and thinks, “Today’s one for a red letter!”

And then she hears a clunking noise,
a door is opened wide,
“Oh no!” she thinks, nearly losing her poise,
“There must be people inside.”

Inside the plane, the pilot had fretted,
he’d felt it pitch and yaw,
And though its balance had been upsetted,
he’d straightened it out once more.

By skydivers, chartered plane had been,
they’d all jumped out, except one,
They were experienced, she was green,
and now she was left all alone.

She’d thought that she should exit last,
’cause she’d never jumped before,
And her static line she’d made fast,
and followed the others to the door.

The door had been opened, they’d got ready to jump,
and finally it was her turn to go,
Then something had caused the plane to bump,
and the door had swung, and closed to.

The pilot had struggled to regain control,
he’d used the joystick and rudder,
The plane had pitched and tried to roll,
then yawed, and finally did shudder.

Eventually, the plane had been levelled out,
and the lone skydiver was shaken,
“Do you still want to jump?” the pilot did shout,
She’d said, “Yes,”  though she was mistaken.

When the plane had tossed, she’d banged her head,
and blacked out for a while,
So she should have stayed in the plane, instead
she thought she’d jump out with style.

She opened the door, and fastened it back,
her training however, had slipped
She didn’t realise her static line was now slack,
no longer safely clipped.

She got to the door, and outside leant,
and looked down at the ground,
Then blacked out again, which unfortunately meant
she fell out, and was earthwards bound.

The angel was still sitting on top,
starting to enjoy the flight,
Then, seeing the girl from the doorway flop,
realised that all was not right.

The girl was spinning around and around,
and falling out of control,
She rapidly fell, not making a sound,
she’d be lucky to get down whole.

The angel now knew something was wrong,
and that something right had to be done,
So she threw herself from the plane, headlong,
knowing that she was the one
Who had to help, or the girl might die,
so she tucked back her wings, to go faster,
The girl was in peril, so she had to try,
even though it might end in disaster.

Like a stooping hawk, down she did hurl,
cutting through the air,
Rapidly closing up to the girl,
until, she got to where
She realised she had to be,
right underneath the skydiver,
Correctly placed, just where she,
the proper aid could give her.

She rolled herself over, her wings she spread out,
the right trajectory she had guessed,
Then caught the girl, the waist about,
and drew her to her breast.

By now they had neared to the ground,
there was no time the ’chute to release,
And the angel kept her arms tight around,
the girl, her rescue she would not cease.

And dropping, with her back to the ground,
with the girl held tight on top,
She sensed a large hand, around them wound,
and their downwards plummet stop.

They were gently lowered to the mold,
and laid there, side by side,
The skydiver was still out cold,
the angel’s eyes opened wide,
Because, as she lay in that place,
a mighty presence seemed
To be looking down on her with grace,
and around her, angels teemed.

It was then she swooned, and knew no more,
until she woke up in a bed,
And to her surprise, on looking up, saw
no halo was over her head.

A nurse sitting close by her bedside,
smiled at her and said,
“You’re really lucky to be alive,
and so’s your friend, who’s in the next bed.”

Just then the ward door opened wide,
and four people clattered in,
They stood around the skydiver’s bedside,
and made an awful din.

“Tell us what happened up there, in the plane,”
the angel heard one of them say,
“I really do not know how to explain,
or what actually happened that day.”

The girl continued, “I was ready to go,
when the plane seemed to receive a bump,
And then I thought, everything’s ok, so,
I decided to make the jump.

I do remember opening the door,
and looking down at the ground,
And then, I remember nothing more,
’til I woke up here, safe and sound.”

One of the crowd said, “You gave us a fright,
you came out of the plane, spinning round,
Of your parachute, there was no sight,
we were sure you’d crash into the ground.”

Another one said, “Something else wasn’t right,
we were certain that your ’chute was red,
Then one seemed to appear, that was lily-white,
which broke your fall instead.”

A third one spoke, “And another thing,
which I just can’t get out of my head,
It seemed as though I heard angels sing,
as I ran over, to check you weren’t dead.”

Finally, the fourth one said,
“And my mind’s still in a whirl,
We saw that not only weren’t you dead,
lying next to you was a girl,
Your parachute hadn’t opened, and
of the white one, there was no sign,
Though the girl by your side was holding your hand,
and wore a white dress of archaic design.”

Then all of them chattered together,
until the nurse made them leave.
The angel and girl looked at each other,
neither knowing what to believe.

Meanwhile, the Concorde had come in to land,
and when it had rolled to a stop,
The ground staff simply could not understand,
what, off its nose, they’d seen drop.

Things falling off planes can be serious,
so they got over there pretty sharp,
And then, they thought they were delirious,
cos, what had dropped off was a harp.
And a label, tied tightly to it was,
with a message upon it inscribed,
Send it to the hospital of St. Thomas,
the owner’s recovering inside.

The girl, to the angel, held her hand out,
and giving her a fond glance,
Said, “I’m really glad you were there about,
we don’t often get a second chance.”

*Grahame Upham
3rd January 2014.
It is in this hour,
as the exposure of day gives way to the intimacy of dark,
when all plans cease to matter
and the very air relaxes from reverberations of days clutter.
darkness smooths out the bumps of light,
softening annoyances
and lending much needed contrast to things that matter most.
We behave truest in our darkest hour
Anksy Oct 2019
Paper, it even sounds cool
Remember Paper Mache at school
Paper is a versatile beast
Paper can be folded and creased

Paper can hold your chips and cod
Paper holds the words of your god
Litmus paper turns a different hue
Paper you use when in the loo

Newspaper to get all your lies
Paper comes in many a disguise
Paper anniversary first year gone
Blank paper ready to write on

Sand paper’s rough but smooths things out
Paper cuts, paper tickets from a tout
Paperless office never to be
Remember paper comes from a tree

Rice paper, sugar paper, paper that’s embossed
Printer paper, blotting paper will absorb the cost
Carbon paper, gold leaf paper, cotton papers too
Origami, baking paper just to name a few

Paper for your love letters, notes to her indoors
Old discarded wallpaper to line your chest of drawers
Paper table cloth and napkins, paper plates and cups
Paper when your computer fails you, just for your back ups

Paper planes, Christmas decs, sticky labels to remind
Envelopes and stamps, paper roller blinds
Wrapping paper for presents, to make someone’s day
Fivers, tens and fifties, to help you pay your way

Paper mills keep turning, magazines and books
Paper muffin cups for bakers and for cooks
Paper bags to shop with, bunting to celebrate
Fancy tissue paper, paper to laminate

Paper for all of mankind, paper pocket diaries
Paper trails and shredders, papers for your enquiries
Paper in the wastepaper bin, paper piles so high
There’s nothing like a piece of paper 1,2 or 3 ply
Sherlock Dec 2010
The willows crack, windfall wheat swaying cattails in the solar wind of my lively heat. Scrounge these pieces pock marking the oak floor. We may just have enough to eat tonight.

In my hand I hold all that I own, yet all that I own is that from my hands made. Soft, this light, glass frosted in empathy smooths spiteful dusk.

Take this wishful ape from my teeth and chew those cresting bows until they break. Feast of your own knowledge and naught but your own will can surface.

I have enough ice for the two of us. It melts into memories, traces raw in my mouth dissolving cleanly.

Let me draw you up a shape, so that I may see your fears and quell them with warmth. In mocking phrase you lend passion and we in acknowledgment grow.

We have more ideas than space allows and make extinct time laughably so. Our conceptions spill over and serve to saturate each following encounter. Even excitement is surprised.

Take my hand and run with me through woodland desires. Lets plant new willows and raise them to drape and make secret our delightful passions.
Gulishta Apr 2019
A perfect poem...
   Is it the one that's well written,
Or the one having a greater meaning.?
   Is it the one with perfect verses,
Or required a perfect rhyming?
   Is it the one that speaks to all,
Or the one having hidden mysteries?
   Is it the one that let you vent,
Or the one with you wouldn't deal?
   Is it the one that opens wounds,
Or the one that makes you heal?
    Is it the one that came out of a chaos,
Or the one describing the peace?
    Is it the one that told the tale of the chains,
Or the one giving you freedom wings?
    Is it the one about the Prince charming,
Or the one exercising the demons?
    Is it the one describing the vast beauty of the nature,
Or the one about havoc of disaster?
     Is it the one that makes you smile,
Or the one that bring tears in the eyes?
     Is it the one that's written with the ink,
Or the one that bled through it all?

I'll say perfect is overrated. ..
  A poem is what that smooths an ache within the soul you never knew existed.
Just being able to pen down the thoughts gives an immense joy that you can't buy anywhere in this world.
And being brave enough to put it out there to be judged and commented that itself is a perfect poetry!!.
CA Guilfoyle Jan 2015
Love silent, falls
it touches soft, invisibly floats
unseen by the scope of eyes
comes brushing by, or comes in a down pouring,
wet washing the soul, unwavering, wordless it unfolds
travels most rugged terrain, smooths the way
there is no season for its efflorescence
it sits, a silent bud, any moment to flower
always we know it's fragrance
it is the way, the path
a flitting, ethereal flower
one, that we can never grasp
Matalie Niller Jul 2012
He should have called the cops-
saw the crime take place
a robbery, not so well-devised
to many eyes it was unethical
though stealing typically is
when you're an onlooker with money and other ways to sooth your writhing soul-
he should have pretended to be contemplating the wall
its cracks, smooths, colors
stains
he couldn't, though
he couldn't be an innocent bystander
wanted to be a heroic action-hero
took a brick right from the wall
it flew
made home in the robber's face
but he was made of steel
only stronger
He should have never come around
should have felt the danger in the air,
known his nature
he should have worn a bullet-proof vest
Roland Dulwich Dec 2011
The afternoon light filters in through the shutters,
that look out towards the quiet cul-de-sac;
festooned with houses and quiet green lawns.
My room's walls are licked with yellow slashes
and lattices. Evening smooths the afternoon
into darkness with its brittle fingers and those yellow
slashes are interchanged with a diffusion of white neon
from the buzzing streetlamps. Oh how noisily they buzz
next to the flowerbeds! And people fold their lawn chairs and
go into their warmly lit houses and house pets roam blackened
curbs amongst the hedge delineations between homes and old
clocks wind down throughout the houses in cul-de-sac laced with
bitumen and broken glass.
Cadence Musick Apr 2013
He loves
She takes
He folds her heart
into neat patterns
careful all the days
She fiddles with the fabric
so it stays in disarray
He smooths it gently,
always.
CA Guilfoyle Dec 2013
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;

The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.

The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.

Archibald Lampman
One of my all time favorite winter poems

— The End —