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King Panda Mar 2018
winter’s rust,
my tongue smudged with coal,
snagged with the bug I rise,
crawl my stare across space to where you lie
perfect in ashes,
un-spread and boxed,
I plant a kiss on your screaming lily.
King Panda Jan 2017
I wish I could find
One plucked from a
Chicken or
Snagged to a line
But all I have is
Like a drunken
This momentous
Rise of horns
And the little
Spittles of foam
That froth at
Our legs
The sea
Creates you
A scarf
And you turn
To look at me
Your eyes
Through the notes
Around me
Who are you
If not mine
To keep
Autumn Jul 2016
Abandoned, round, and a beige off-white--
gallivanting along the curb, what a random sight.

One strong gust of wind, and oh Lord!
The yoga ball will shimmy head on with a Ford!

Will it pop, bounce, or cause a heart attack?
I should've snagged it for my future 6-pack.

Thank you, oh rogue yoga ball, that dwell in the street--
for a smile in my soul and this random sight here on the concrete.
Thankful for something to smile about.
L B Sep 2016
...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?

My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!

of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds

What happens after ecstasy?

Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?

...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….

As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!

If only I could be—

more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy  

But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!

I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....  

Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart

The Ancient Flood was jealous....

Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...

a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless
Of course it makes a sound.
I will always believe this.  Why I still write.
I'm so thankful for HP.
saige Mar 2018
no count-downs for birthday parties
no arm wrestles, no jump shots
no go-cart donuts
not even a snowball

where did we go?

blond hair
up to my shoulders
surrounded by jewels
some empty-paned picture frame
couple sprouts beneath a pine
saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak
red clay on your feet
pink frosting in your teeth
me, sheathed in my favorite shirt
"I'm the big sister!"
with a butterfly depicting
what I've yet to become

how wrong have we gone?

well, I'll be twenty
once spring rolls around
and brother
you're not far behind
I can't tell time
to change its mind
but I promise you
it won't be changing mine
from the photographs, scrapbooks
I'll forever feel your laughter
just like goosebumps
the brail I'm reading into
let's gaze past glares
straight through white sunbeams
spiking your brown eyes
twice as deep as mine
the truest shades
on the face of the earth
to this very
foggy day
this mirror, this moment snagged
before shutters snap
and capture us, splatter us
on matte paper, or cell screens
with brown hair
up to your shoulders

way to go, little brother
but I'm still keeping that tee
because the only thing
I've always been proud to be
is your big sister
Bobcat Nov 2018
Rip off the band-aid, get it over with
I never thought it would come to this
Clear mind, clear eyes
Walking straight, no more lies

Don't rely on me and I won't let you down
You can't count on me, I'll only let you down
Don't reach out for me, I'll only let you drown

These feelings are getting harder to fight myself
Pulling teeth to admit I need some help
It's cutting deep on the webbings of my hand
Eyes wide open in a pile of sand

Tell me how is it I can fix this
Walk around the house feeling like a misfit
How can I numb this without a drink
Emptying bottles in the kitchen sink

Clean my wounds with a bottle of Jack
Drinking my way to forget the past
You followed me into the pits of hell
Just to show you that I can't get well

Don't rely on me and I wont let you down
You can't count on me, I'll only let you down
Don't reach out for me, I'll only let you drown
J J Sep 10
Weeping sonatas haunt the patio
Underlined with your twisting fingertips
Once ablur and tracing Beethoven Debussy
Mozart and Bach and it's all gone now—
I still recall your grey eyes as clearly as the rusted
and snagged red wood that forms the old arbour
Where we use to sit and trade stories.
Still here and seeming
A relic that should have been forgotten.—
I  watch the sun turn the wood white
Then crackle crisply into night, I can still
Hear your spectral steps from the day you
Left us.

I slept in the bed that used to be yours wondering
Written about two years ago.
Simon Oct 5
Emotions have cracks in them. Totally in dependable when reacting to flaws uncertain for regular eyes to see. Cracks hide you see. Maneuvering between rough outlines of outskirts that cut awareness too short. A fishing line snagged a sudden position that wasn’t its destination. Prize was a few paces all around you. Surrounding your visage. Clearly don’t seem to notice. Warping every visual that can’t be in reach. Not the outer boundaries fault. It’s yours! Your impatient. Selfish! Impenetrable to experiences outside yourself. Cracks becoming mere targets to your undoing. Something still convincing you is all but diminished. Obvious signs one isn’t aware of what is outside themselves. The rough outlines become more edgy. Rigid! Complacent among desires without conquest. Never being a deed well nourished for choice and claim. Reasons are faltered. Balance is futile! No constraints steady enough to admit which is to blame. Or which one succeeding this entire time. Isn’t obvious, because it’s logical. A well-oiled machine fueled by cracks making decisions. Cringing in glory! Never an upset to potential. Cracked emotions offering more pendence to a variety without notions. Options shooting up on selfish highs! Opinionating one flaw to open one crack. Releasing the selfish highs those emotions needed. They get off on it. It’s their coping mechanism. Keeps them feeling soft on there toes. Grounded to a halt! Fixating a claim without remorse. Opinionating another flaw to act without self decency. Decency sinking too low for one to hoist back up to the clearing. Another crack starts to open without force. One being stretched far as one’s awareness is outlining the real issue. Structuring the inside like the outside. Rough outlines can’t pass short for outskirts never crowding enough issues to what is performing inside. Reality becomes toxic! Which is which? What is why? Why never having a claim. It’s already too late to fasten the logical seat belts. Rough outlines cracking up on the seams. Everything becomes distorted. Showing multiple fractions of law and order switching places with different cracks. Opinions urge the inside to act. Creating more cracks! Never outlasting the stretched-out limits leaking foreign material across developments. Developments offering solutions to. Crisscrossing the maneuverability of emotions raging with claim! Selfish highs breaking records from deep inside crusted depths. Environmental concerns aren’t operable. Being pulled into the cracks with joy. Becoming more of the collection that’s always dry to a crisp. Pulling a snagged cause further into the unknown depths. Producing a balancing act. Being kind without focus. Determination of instinct displacing emotions without cracks. Cracks never influencing you to the cause all together. You’re in luck. Having an anchor sinking into the rigid depths. Decisions start negotiating a little splice of different grins. Never noticeable for suspicion. Keeping it inside there inner circle. Pleading all works for the desire of knowledgeable surfaces. Surfaces now having an edge of there own. A bold disposition reclaiming victory over itself entirely. Decisions watching the fishing line creep more and more into the depths of uncertainty. Depths stretching too far to be any ordinary cavity in the construct that is raw emotions. A plan? A claim? Decision making unfiltered correctly? Nothing more accurate then letting the snagged line become eaten by the cracks forming into one gaping pit!
A somewhat stable consistency to stay active on a cracked edge. A slow free fall that doesn't consent me to actually fall. It's an illusional trick you see. Plain and simple.
Travis Green Aug 2018
Above my home where the dark clouds
curl into the sky clinging for a home to
rest their sleepy depiction, shadowed
trees hum sweet lullabies, lonely leaves
breathe in the sad song of fallen dimensions,
letting its lifeless view roll upon their frame,
the chilled breeze sailing in the skyline,
as I scramble my way out of a filthy dumpster,
a mountain of disintegrating mess covering
my broken body, hovering flies surrounding
sticky strips of spaghetti, moldy mashed potatoes,
and moldy chicken *** pies, while my mind sunk
into traveled thoughts, bruised hands pressed against
the creases in my forehead, allowing my existence
to feel the stranded scars streaming in various mazes,
dull eyes flushed with a burning disorder, aching cheeks
and chests nestled in darkening chamber corners, buried
hips and thighs uprooting in somber blades of grass,
thorned, torn, and destroyed in different worlds.  As I stood
on the slippery pavement staring at the ruffled scenery
in my sight, spinning streetlights thickening into slouched
positions, screaming sidewalks spilling sadness and madness
in the drenched air, razor-edged buildings inching into crushed
centimeters, jumbled meters, ****** yards.  I replayed the sober
images in my head, the way my young brown-skinned mom said
I would never amount to anything, how I could hear the raged
noun ****** sift into the distance, its flaming mechanics
accelerating into screeching sounds, the way she hurled
her fists at my smashed face, every vibrant language
breaking apart, slamming shut into closed infinites,
snagged contractions and gerunds diverging into
shuddering double spaced negatives, the way she threw
my lingering body inside the trash dumpster, her sharp
scarlet words, You are no son of mine, ricocheting off
savage surfaces, sparking my soul in a calamity
of choking diction.
Under a shady Banyan tree,
i am a unicorn, my lone horn is shining,
front hooves raised, set to gallop, to help
dreams and desires to materialize...
on another day, i'm a silver-haired erudite,
amidst scrolls and volumes of  tomes,
pondering on THAT, which ruffles my waters,
and defies what i've known, what i believe in;
i'm challenged, i pursue the topic.....i write,
and when pleasance rules.....verses swell...
however, when my mind is drought-driven,
and my days fail me, i become a banshee,
wailing my inadequacy,
warning myself...of worst days coming...
there's nary a line, or a verse to celebrate
when exists, this poverty, in poetry......
i see a poet sailing on either one of two rivers
one always moves on...wind tiptoes on its
surface, its ripples are soldiers marching on...
the other river is snagged...flows off and on;
but, water always finds, creates new paths,
eventually, it times, it overflows...
the urge to write is water to the poet,
touching his/her toes...always reminding,
there's plenty to write, out here...
you suddenly hear rain hitting roof like nails
or, the neighbor's car revving up, the smoke
and noise ruin your morning irks you,
giving way to an angry 10-word....or haiku...

in poetry...bad and good days occur, whether
near, far, or under a shady Banyan tree....


Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 4, 2019
( "Under a shady Banyan tree" is a cozy, comfortable place,
   where i write, or just reflect..where inspirations are birthed.)
Third Eye Candy Oct 2018
when all the bells have toppled silence and on the breeze rides a summer of stammering stunnery the likes of the color blue on stilts
snagged in the sun’s corona.
like a fish on a hook of sunshine, thought he saw a worm of real life
but got caught in the vaporous torrent of his weakness.
savoring the dawn like a mushroom mottled in fresh dew
twinkling in the circus of  fecundity where the thrum of glory
spoils the view of a curmudgeon and marches on into destiny’s *****
in the clutches of our habits and rabidly
living the dream that’s killing us.

how real can it get?

and is that real enough?
Wk kortas Sep 2018
They’d found him, emaciated and tick-ridden,
Down near the docks on Smith Boulevard,
Surrounded by several fellow tabbies
Possessed of the apparent inclination to disregard any taboo
Enjoining them from enjoying one of their own as a hors d’oeuvre.
He’d weighed no more than eight pounds or so,
Closer to six if you scraped off the mats and vermin,
But he’d gotten over that in short order,
As his diet consisted of fried chicken livers
And any bits of tuna sandwich his owner might leave lying about
(Though Jerry Kiley was not a small man himself,
And philosophically opposed to the notion of leftovers as well)
So before long he became utterly Falstaffian
(As Father Maguire from Sacred Heart tut-tutted,
Why, that tom is three stone if he’s an ounce;
He gets any larger, and I’ll have to insist
You kick another two bits into the plate
And Kiley had to fashion him a bed from a milk crate
Buttressed with sheet metal
Taken from a vat at the old Beverwyck Brewery.

He’d lived well (Better ‘n me, Jerry often lamented)
Though too well, perhaps,
And he’d fallen prey to the maladies of the leisure classes:
Gout, diabetes, a wheezing which sounded for all the world
Like distant cows lowing in a fairly stiff breeze.
The vet had given him any number of pills and potions,
But it all was no match for his appetite,
And he’d ended up taking the gas before he turned five.

It was decided, in the course of conversation and consolation
At the North Albany legion post bar,
That such a kind and devoted soul
Deserved a send off befitting a noble gent.
A collection was scraped together in short order,
And a viewing-***-wake took place at Jack’s Lunch
(Just up Broadway from Jerry’s place.)
Vittles Tuomi made a jerry-built coffin
Fashioned from the now-vacant cat bad,
And John Itzo snagged some fake flowers and a crepe-paper bird
From the brim of his wife’s old hat
(They being perched on a can of tuna soldered to the box
With the intent of nourishing him on his trip to the afterlife,
Jes’ like the pharaohs, according to Vittles.)
As the services progressed, some of the boys floated the notion
That the guest of honor should (under the cover of darkness, natch)
Be interred at St. Patricks, but Father Maguire,
Attending the do as the feline’s ex officio spiritual advisor,
Gently reminded the prospective pallbearers
That His Grace the Bishop had denied burial in consecrated ground
For lesser offenses, and it was finally decided that burial
(It was assumed that he’d been responsible
For an unknown number of progeny, and it was also rumored
That he had a brother or twelve up in Watervliet)
Would be private and at the convenience of the family.
(AUTHOR’S NOTE:  This piece, such as it is, is built on the foundation of
an anecdote entitled “Langford, Prominent Cat, Dies” which appears in William Kennedy’s Riding the Yellow Trolley Car.  The anecdote is pithy and witty; this piece certainly is not the former and most likely comes up short on the latter.)
Transcription, my heart.
Loaded questions, self doubt
festering memory
tragedy included merely as folly.
How dare they disguise my infirmity.

Songs my soul.
Mystic disc notes for pain,
inscription the faulty tears
no relevance with no discourse
in chorus.
Like psychotic emotion,
what semblance have I for
Random seems better than
knowing how each track will

Broken my wings.
Dizzying heights, clipped
intrigue, grounded experience.
Aspire for perspective.
Engulfed in crosswinds,
cold rain blotting out
my shadow upon an ascending
ground, a falling risk taker.

Tantric words hypnotic.
Episodes of mouth spasms,
diatribe of the Angels, and demons
Who's who?
A serrated ceremonial knife,
meant for sacrifice,
penetrates, I can feel the tearing
flesh, each thought like
barbed wire, an encapsulated weary
warrior snagged, hangs on display.

Hunger in love.
Consume all parts once partly
me. Eat around the rot, the
discerned ailing heart.
Revive upon breaking,
no vibrations, no impulse,
no beating only awake
for emergency.

Welcoming erosion.
An altered shoreline.
A crevice cut beneath their
Wayward pirates, patrons,
and puritans alike.
A fingernail moon makes
shadows of jagged
rocks, but only when the clouds
occasionally part.
Where has the light gone?
Flailing full vesicles heard by
an empty one watching from shore.
Truly where has the light gone?

The one spoke of before.
Well rested analogies,
everything being said by existence,
it feels as though I am being
conspired against, simply for
the sake of living.

I call it love.
Nothing else makes the sounds
have colors, filling them with
hate once removed.
Too many to tabulate, but you
will anyway, regret has it's
nimble hands upon you now.
Breaking promise after promise,
doing things you swore,
"I'll never do."
Insert any mundane, or terribly
important instance of,
"This will work, it has to."
I tell you I'm being plotted against.

The left click of a mouse.
Window titles read like a how
to of ludicrous ignorant naivety.
You know if you were the
practical, confident, self assured
you, you'd see it,
hmmmmmmmmmmm but wait a minute.
"Do this if you want to make...."
Yep this is the one;

Where has the light gone?
The imprinted one resonant
upon my eyes. A deeply creased
smile in sincerity, where
has it gone?
Lonely, retracing the whimsy,
the beauty, the dancing wonder
filled child like exuberance,
before it was snuffed out.
I tell you I'm being plotted against.

Torturing others who listen/read vicariously.
No, you tell me what's fair,
and where the lights been taken!
A pillow of soil,
the poison unrequited,
the sound is silence,
the pen a bone I have to pick
with you, but I can't write
light when smothered by

"Where's the light gone?"
If they knew this they could
never take you back. Burning
a candle at both ends,
time to win yourself back.

— The End —