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and they are ready to pull,
   a crew of pinkish wands
sprouting from the ground,

clouds of green
   flecked with mulberry veins,
the soil quite soggy

from last night’s rain,
   grass tickled silver,
pewter-rippled sky.

I grab the first,
   press down, listen
to the burst of a crackle

like the spine of a book,
   tug it out
as if a tooth.

When I carry them
   to the kitchen I think
of the crumble to come,

the smell, the spoon
   diving in, exhuming a pool
of amethysts beneath.
Written: November 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for university. Feedback welcome. Please note that title is the more technical term for rhubarb. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Mark Jan 3
Her glare has winter's icy chill within
and has through heavy breath corrupted mist
now blown the soggy air in Cupid's sin
to bite mine lips and speak none to resist.

Forgive me nots succumb to frozen shards
by love's pall-bearers, marching out her womb
O' could the coffin with the heartless guards
return and free my love? That broke to gloom.

Ah! Could such grief be warmed with mournful eyes?
The same blue dyes, which now's a deep azure,
as she did play in older, springlike guise
but has it worth; to out her iced allure?

Before the hearted tomb expels all breath
I'll plead through that I know; or spring in death.
md-writer Jun 8
i met God in the forest today,
climbing a tree
(i, not He)
clambering up a fallen trunk,
propped by a young and
supple birch
- it's not the most divine
of sanctuaries
founded and built
up by men;
but it was enough for me

i stood up, balanced
twenty feet over
soggy earth and leaves
and breathed in the fragrance
of divinity

i met God in the forest today,
climbing a tree
(He, with me)

and i'm still happy, for
He has stayed.
Lucas Feb 8
Not one foresaw such ill-timed fate
as breaking waves scattered our crew
our bodies drowned by icy sheets,
The surging tempest roared
now vision blurred by tears—defeat!
the fleet imprisoned by the storm

Torrents submerged all hope in doubt
Waves and rain mix tears with blood
a soggy lot to seal our doom
our ships to sink to ocean floors
all hope far gone as any port
stranded. lost. bring in the oars.
our happy lives have now run short
Dear Poseidon! ease the suffering!
Gather us to your murky empire!

Ahoy! Ahoy!
Dark cliffs reflected
illumined by the light
who spun round in his white refuge
chasing off the hopeless night!

Perhaps the cliffs of ebony grand
hold the keys to our rescue
perhaps some beach of silky sand
will allow death to eschew
dear thoughts of formerly dry land
grant us rest and life anew

But no! sheer walls of black
did not come down to meet us
Looking up out of our grave
Yearning for verdant meadows above
And serene waves of grain
And quiet showers in warm lamplight
The oily, inky, murky bluffs
sealing fate and stealing hope
a mcvicar Apr 16
in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory,
little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire
and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?)
(artistic was her surname)
unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........)
another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless ******* day
in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways
surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May
contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death
     [ violet haze ]
the saddened by the tragedy
have more to lose at stake
Al'Aqsa, Notre Dame, you deserved so much better
Elizabeth Zenk Dec 2018
and I will learn to tread forward

the twisting, winding, twining godforsaken roads
the endless forked paths.  
through muddy thickets,
lush undergrowth,
and soggy marshes
I wander,
and I will learn to tread forward.

the dismal, interminable, harrowing roads
the treacherous pathways
that lead straight to death.
through unforgiving fog,
cheerless sunless mountains,
and on the footprint of war
I plod,
and I will learn to tread forward.

unearthly, obscure, eerie roads
the traumatic passageways
that bring memories of the walkways before.
through the eye's rainstorms,
shrill heinous screams,
and across the self-fought battlefields,
I limp,
and I will learn to tread forward.

I will always learn to tread forward.
I'm trying to tread forward.
For a relic of honor
my onward progression and patience has to once again,
gear up for its most lengthy and wearisome, waking battle

Out beyond the center light of diving snow
And spiraling wind
Where shade sustains itself with duplicated shadows around the lake of envy

Under the hood of the forest
that stretches under serene pinholes of sprinkled radiance
Is a rehab for hollow reaches of emptying brittle skin and perpetual bubbling
Inviting fruits along with blackening kindling and timber reduce to ashes returning the cycle
A cure of open arms that create parallel warmth
the genesis of what makes fruit so inviting

If tomorrow opened path for that first step to be taken
Winds would blow so hard:
the hood of shade would push right passed the forest
splitting cracks multi directional into the pinhole for sunbeams
Allowing all collected snow to flood over the lake
Soaking all the wood
Causing any potential burning to be blackened
derailed by a dense heap of soggy innards
Consequentially taking away any chance of warmth
The initial make of comfort that raise up her open arms
Navigating through darkness
Yenson Nov 2018
The black women laugh sometimes even with other white *******
it's the joke they all know, a funny problem they all share
when together the stories are told in droves galore
much mirth, side splitting laughter ringing out
Weii, what do you say, those wigga dudes are something else

I can't stand them the chorus goes, bless their poor hearts
No, don't get me wrong, in the bedroom I mean
OK for a few dates, just let them pay for meals and drinks
One thing though, they are fine for fetching and carrying
but in bed, *** don't waste your time and try not to laugh
pale and patchy, gangly legs flat *****, hairy as ****

Who in throes, fancies a thimble or a two minutes frolick
They reveal their mini ugly chipolatas hidden in wiry brambles
Flaccid and limp, quite a bother to get it to rigid attention
Put it in and it's like soggy mash in an underfilled ******
***, give it some welly, show some passion, stoke my fire
No tight fit, no friction and no va va vroom, few jerks 'n over
Seconds, you must be joking, light is out, the droop is here

Ok, Ok..they can do the licky licky till tomorrow and next
slurping away like their lives depends on it, all spit and fumbling
But take me with fired passion, slam me down with rhythm
Burn that garden, mash me down and ride the waves
Get that hard poker stoking and hot, no! that ain't their forte they hate those tooled brothers with iron magnums
Those MEN Amazonians who enter hard and dance for the gods
Give me that lover with the slow hands and easy touch
Lynnie says, you are amazing, the best ever without a doubt
Hear, hear says all the others, that brother sure has the moves
and a hard big glorious tool fit for the job

Pale face hate simmers like roast, smarting with condensed anger
If they could, they would castrate all the brothers no exception
Ban them, block them, poison them and lock 'em up for ever
Biggest threat ever is that ****, charming intelligent brother
Just too cocksure, too cocky and silky smooth - the *******!
Make sure you lock yer mums, sisters, daughter and grannies up

As one black sister puts it, "they are *****, talk **** and lick **** from my fine behind, eighty-five percent of them would always
hate the brothers, because they don't measure up"  
The ***** will do anything, anything to destroy a brother's lovelife
Why should them **** ebony stallions have fun,
They are horses not humans, so rope them down and let us
go save for that enlargement job!
a fun poem written when I was in nursery school...hahaha
Brielle Bishop Dec 2018
12.6.18 //

I will never feel
Enough for you
Never fill that cup
Atop the shelf in your memory
Of what once was
Ceramic tainted with fingerprints
Lipstick stains
And too many coffee dates
Which ended and began
With those who wandered the halls
Who’s cigarettes lingered
You hated so
And yet I will never feel
Enough for you
To sit at the edge of your lamplight
Discussing scholarly manners
Lack of education
Lack of excitement
Flaws running rampant
But at least I’m
“The pretty one”
I possess the same paper skin
Only soggy
Wadded and in the gutter
While your pen
Sprawls across the others
B E Ragland Feb 24
We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.
Jonathan Moya May 22
The rain creates its own ballet
starting with a lone figure on a bridge
holding an umbrella in the fog
splashing teardrops with his feet,
doing jetes over the larger puddles,
until the wind inverts his shade,
plies turning to pirouettes,
approaches cascading to the portal
and the head of the street,
dancing to a cityscape beyond.

At the last turn they meet cute,
their outward canopies entangling
rib to rib, shadow to shadow,
a plastic bag covering hair and
half her face, soggy groceries
nursed to her chest, an oversized
purse dangling her wrist, pulling
her down, falling, wishing for
something, someone, anything
to stop the descent, the crash.

He catches her in perfect repose,
umbrellas twirling the pavement,
as he slowly lifts her to him just a
breath and heartbeat away,
their hands touching, a thousand
raindrops pulsing on and in them.

Her parasol dances away from her
over the edge into the swirl below,
his caught before flight is vigorously
shaken to form.  He stuffs fallen
apples and pears into the pockets
of his rain jacket.  She discreetly
stashes a box of tampons into
her coat’s hidden lining. The umbrella
is their only shelter as she holds
it over them while he carries her
in his arms to the nearest cover,
a bodega with a green awning.  

At the corner of the drizzling mist
a mother swaddles her boy
in the hems of her rain dress.
Unprotected singles cover
their heads with open hardcovers
or purchases clenched in plastic bags.
Couples step in unison huddled
under their vinyl domes.
It’s all a parade under black and white,
a synchronized rainbow of attitude,
adding  to the grand Romantic ballet
of bending, riding, stretching, gliding,
darting, jumping and turning to and fro.

The finale has the last drop crying
to the pavement, to the street,
washing the asphalt in its clarity,
a lachrymose river flowing down drains,
the mechanical traffic dispersing
the  rest in butterfly waves that
sends the ensemble to the edges,
leaving the coryphees alone, apart,
staring at each other in the evaporation,
waiting forlornly for the first trickle
to return and kiss their skin with joy.
Marlo Cabrera Oct 2018
Sometimes I get sad
like REALLY sad

Actually not just sometimes but all the time

my chest would feel like an empty grave
screaming for it’s tenant.

The gaping hole that longs for someone to cradle into the night
A lover longing for it’s beloved.

I would have thoughts of the things I have lost
like a tree wondering where it’s leaves have gone in the fall.

I have memories and feelings that I have flung to the back of my head
like ***** laundry that just waits for me to deal with it.
I know one day I will have to pick them up and shove them into the washing machine
but here I am just ignoring it.
I am running out of clean clothes to wear
and have a mountain of ***** clothes to face

I have sorrows that I have coated in caramel
like candied apples
thinking that they’d be sweet but they still taste so bitter.

My heart was burning house filled with people dancing in it
The people have grown tired have left
and the firemen have arrived.

Now it nothing but a soggy dance floor with a shattered disco ball.
A sun that has exploded and have become a super nova
reminiscing what it once was and mourning what it will never be.

I hope day I won’t feel as much sad
that one day I will have enough motivation to face that mountain of ***** clothes.
I hope that one day I will be brave enough to be happy.
But till then I hope y’all keep me company.

Cause sometimes, most of the time
One of the main reasons I sad is because
I am lonely.
Man depression is such a ***** to deal with.
here's a very candid poem reflecting what I am feeling at the moment.
Matt Shaw Oct 23
i've spent my life lolling about,
taking easy roads to pastel-colored beds
tangling limbs,
rubbing skin with the seasons.

i've slurped at the nectar of writhing ****
with the fullness of the night sky behind me

and as she swooned,

i felt the moon watch my ignorant head,
felt the moon fill with suspense as i rejected the sun:

i've poured water all over the papier-mâché goddess
and slept on top of soggy lumps
in a cement box,
an idiot vandal.

and i thought about life.
and i told you about my thoughts.

so i stay moored and safe, mom & dad
i stay
deep beneath the waves,
scrubbing months of crud from the decks.

and the moon is heading for the churning sea
and the fragile cradle of my dreams is going down...

i'm thinking it is time
to sew a new season--
and turn the rest green
with unrivaled verdance.

so i turn to the ***** noctis
and start gently
Sally A Bayan Jul 2018
The sight of rain,
of wet clothes, wet plants,
wet doorsteps, wet hopes and dreams,
and, that known scent of sadness and grief
all these...create soggy, sluggish minds

we just lost two dogs to the virus
the glum of monsoon rains affects the moods
the "yays" from cancelled classes
have all passed...
sun is shining, not too bright, though,
peeps like a tease, but,
enough to dry the ground...

i see vacant lots...almost naked now
motor's droning hum is a lullaby
that lulls the mind
a strong smell stirs the nostrils and
defines a welcome pleasance...
i sniff....and chase away sadness,
with this intriguing scent
.....of freshly cut grass....


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    July 25, 2018
I remember the T.T on the front screen tv,
I remember the wooden table outside, with perched prose inscribed
I remember knocking myself out on the door ****, **** that I am adorned.
The video games
Plastered on the monitor
Excessive violence on demand.
I remember Sunday lunches
And the soggy Yorkshire pudding bases
And the ham, bear shaped and broken out from plastic cages on demand.

I remember the late nights playing board games,
The laughter cacophony ensuing
The vivid images and 3D activity represented on the big wooden table top purview,
I can't remember what the tabletop looks like...                       A shame

I remember sitting in the car unable to breathe,
I remember the recycled oxygen,
The time we nearly died on the roundabout,
The times we looked at air rifle paraphernalia.
The times we smiled together.

The arguments,
And conversations,
The silence

And sleep...
And questioning glares everytime I asked permission to make myself a drink
The awkwardness
The times we walked to the corner shop

Or took a drive somewhere or someplace,
The time I picked flowers and got a bollocking
The skin that felt empty and conceited.

The blooded scratch marks hidden under sleeves,
The scratching, allergies,
Dripping noses, headaches,
The mass of energy in front of me.
The unconscious predispositions,
The illness that came every morning,
The return home to certainty
And mostly the fluctuating sense of existential ambiguity.

The times we went on holiday and flooded the car with gear,
I remember the constant uneasiness,
The commentaries that rounded every corner

The time you turned yellow,
The overwhelming desire for love,
I remember the attempts to connect
The feelings of rejection and isolation
The awkwardness.
And love,
And memories that die with me.

I remember you daily, live you eternally,
I find myself caught in a web spun,
And thus
I try not to remember you
Too much.

I apologise for these thoughts,
But not to you,
But to the others I love,
Whom it may hurt.
betterdays Aug 2018
tea leaves sit soggy, sad
forgotten  at the bottom

of the cup

leaching, bitter tannins
now, forgetting the life they led

no one willing to read their fortune
no spilling of the secrets
they never truly had

just detrius now
from dust to dustbin
the cycle of a tea leaf
long or brief,
happy or sad
a parable, in hot water

once green and lush in colour
in essence, verdent's liquid fame
once used and now just *******
every life has limit, every limit claimed
as we sup, we suffer the race of time
running through our fingers

clamouring at our mind

one day we too,
will be *******
waiting for the dust,
one day we too
shall leach our liquids
in the unforgiving  dust
Paul NP Nov 17
Just kidding, not into division. (timesweeper)

My Rhymes smile with prejudicion cause I'm frequently adoring a story that was meant for poor oratory Fridays. Select the mate of your worst violin, strung and rung pains, tides that share aims.

Peel back the written envelopes of a mail suggested and offered to the salient spaces of first men on the bridge. Newcomers all hearkened to up-let the steam in event of a seeker.

Don't do a little piece of writing. Don't do a small breath of typing. I'm squaring up a fools cloak with letters that feel like dying, (sigh)..

I'm lying, they-are-a sleepy Arcturian's artistic filing.
(austerity measures)

Drawn out, yawned in, super perceptible precepts of fallen identities. Christ's idolons on the pond of a simple Wednesday..(bellow)

Congregating Unity with The-Taurus of my beloved memories in witnessed 'n kissed weddings of a scholar sitting in the thymus of a souls uniquely paced sage.(Time)

Forget about the homies making me soggy, flashing glares of shadows stare at the bare minimum semicolon semi-auto corrected suggestions fouling the circumstances by willingly peeking and dismounting a worried dagger.

Green rule for the sage , resurrecting : reassuring cues... of the upper... middle fumes...ballooning the chest of a few this divine breast is be you. reassuring  reasserting  resurging might. Time well spoke.

Crafting The
Passage of Time.

Listen to your heart's virtue, let the rhymer and the seeker enloven eleven. The doorway to the chest of a soul's pure fire. Forever!

Green when you yellow your souls dusty dove. Doer's and clovers laid out like a flood.
Let the meek soldier see a soldier. Let the meek hunter see a daunting thunder. Let the seeker feel a little love bite, no shame it's a dust mite, a precious jeweled thunder when he's up right.

Seeping into the floral dynamics of the Anima, questing questions arise: "Who is governed by a whole hearing, all feeling flower?. I must be off my hinges, dark umbrella masking a holding hymn for the Greek Fin that spindles of discipline I am Yin Sim, Simulating hymns from the closeted pact of an old brittled, speakless... immortal sin! Never again, will I! contend! with a soul who knows how to shame, outside with the pin! (needle) ((Eminem, I am Smarties.)).

No worries, all plenty, I shook my head when I met me. Non Jin dreamer. Non Yin eater. Non dairy diaries no milk only honey, I'm sugary like nestle, I'm nestling with empathy resting on the balcony yolking the Tolkien talks with bruxby. I'm go feed, on the go, give em that nutrient rich sap de-tapped from the soul. My yin isn't for sleeping, smoking nor vamping it's harder for me to unwrap when noisy, so I pay some homage to the talky walky critters by living quiet and balanced, weighed in myself as your pause.

Empathy: Blue and Yellow.
And the spaces in between are Dan Winter's bigger Picture.
progress made
Shannon Oct 2018
My baby.
You’re wondering about the type of women you want to be. It’s a sad and soggy Sunday and you sit by the railing while it’s raining and the wind sighs at your presence.
You long for love, and peace, and mystery and excitement and you long to be wanted for who you are not who you could be if you were small.

My baby.
Everything you want isn’t everything you see.
Damaged isn’t pretty, my baby and maybe it looks it but the pain, oh baby the pain is like nothing you’ve ever felt.
And maybe you crave the mystery, maybe you crave the smudges mascara and the hunger pains.
But honest to truth my baby
Being this ****** up ain’t cute
Being this ****** up isn’t safe.
Being this ****** up makes you wonder what in the world is.

My baby there is nothing like the ache of being empty,
The sad and solemn nothing, the pitiless void that seldom empties but when it does you put stars in his eyes for he is the only other person with the key.
And a lot of the time the key doesn’t fit your locks,
The walls you’ve put up are brick.
And for every brick you stack he takes one away, eager to pull them down he tries and baby one day you might stop building.
Maybe it’ll be on a soft and sunny Saturday when both of you are laughing and you see it within him.
You’ll stop building and he’ll smile knowing that

My baby your walls are thick and strong,
Most of the time,
Sometimes they fall but you pick them up and rebuild don’t let anyone see the truth.
He knows.

My baby the boy you love will never quiet fill your cup and it’ll break you but it’s not his job to.
You have to try too.
Because baby I know you hurt and I know you just want out of the cruel ******* world but now no.
Now you have someone to love you.
To love you for who you are and not who you would be if you were small.
Someone who loves you so that to go would be to take a piece of him with you.
Maybe that piece is the spark you fell in love with.
Baby no now you have someone to live for.

My baby I know you think smudged mascara and running away is desirable and makes them want more but baby.
On the good days you feel like a well oiled machine, task after task focus, seem well act well everybody laughs, smooth machine yet still lack the basic humanity that should consume you.

My baby on the bad days, broken down, some days you manage to trudge your way out of bed and into the daytime, empty but there,
Worse, the days where you can’t get up. Where you open the window and stare out into the garden you’ve always seen and you let the sadness and elusive sleepiness win until you’re exhausted with sleep.
Days where blades help you feel and help the anger inside you escape when the blood bubbles through your torn skin.

My baby the overthinking will drive you crazy, where the concept of an ear is weird even when he whispers sweet nothings into them and tucks that little stray piece of hair behind them.
Where *** is a mechanism by which sounds so wrong but feels so right but baby do not use it to cure the sadness.
It will always win.  

My baby home is haunting.
The ghosts of who you used to be haunt you, taunt you, and the love you used to feel is gone. Home isn’t home. Home is a house in the hillside.
Home is the space between his arms where your head rests against his chest and he breathes in to smell the coconut in your hair, home is the way he stares at you and smiles, home is the way he plays video games with you in his lap, home is his dilated pupils, home is the weird way you hold hands on the train, home is short jokes and home is when he looks at you as if you
You my baby
Are just absolutely spectacular
Even when you feel like a fleck of dust on this pointless world.

My baby though he is home, mental illness and distress isn’t pretty.
Panic attacks and ugly crying in public isn’t pretty. The disability of breathing isn’t pretty. Being perched over a toilet bowl isn’t pretty. Not eating for days isn’t pretty. Pulling out clumps of hair isn’t pretty. Being clumsy because you are so anaemic isn’t pretty. Passing out isn’t pretty. Wrist scars and bloodstained sheets aren’t pretty.
Being sick isn’t pretty.

Baby I wish we’d stopped when we knew.

Baby I wish help meant something because though you’ve tried,
Nothing gets through.

Baby when it rains it pours, and through every storm I have you, my hand is there to hold.
So we’ll call Noah’s arc and we’ll start a new world.
I know you’re hurting.
But my baby I promise one day we’ll be safe.
No longer shipwrecked.
My baby one day
One day
We’ll be free.
“Peaceful piano” - Spotify
“For stormboy.”
Yenson Sep 3
Some one should get some chillies up these saps
they need some sense burned into these soggy brain
some steel in foamy bodies
some lead where it matters
it may blow some heat into these drips and wets
so maturity and reality could flare up
and perhaps they may know what adulthood means

Some one should get some chillies up these saps
all these floopsie woopsie materialization and silliness
no realness, no essence, no passion, no steam, no chutzpah
drop the chips and fries, get some chillies and not the milds
eat daily and watch fire light up in you, your brains come alive
all the slimy hogwash cobwebs singed and fired off
women won't have to beg for attention in beds and idle tools will up
take heed and go get some chillies and learn passion and sense

at my age, still like in my prime and a martini
anytime, anywhere, ready to go and not just once and over
brain as sharp as a golden button, have to down the fire that burns
a stallion  with fire, a scholar with wit, a sage in tune within and out
Years of fine chillies, no alcohol except rarely, skin aglow like youth
fire and passion simmer in calm grace, the inner strength of love
a men of all seasons cause of the seasoning of pure chillies..
not gangling buffoons, with no heat in hearts bodies and souls
and  wilting little sausages they compensate for, in bullying stupidity.
blobs and fobs in paleness, weak spineless dementos needs chillies
when he opts for the obvious   again
this time   I think   will be the time
I finally pipe up and say what needs saying

that while I hope this fish dinner
satisfies you   the taste of the sea creature
on your lips   that salt and vinegar mixture

it ought to be me next to you   on the sofa
smiling or laughing at some ****** TV repeat
fork skewering the gone soggy chips

tips of our fingers stricken with grease
but worth it because our hands
will be a ruler’s width apart

and so   while I wrap your golden gift
slip the fiver into the till
as you puncture a Coke

I concoct my line of choice
something about fish
or how I’ll batter your wife
Written: July 2019.
Explanation: A silly-ish sort of poem written in my own time, from a female's perspective. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
sushii Aug 2018
Clouds are on the horizon,
Forming a gray crown
On this soggy day.

It looks like rain.

The mountains off in the distance—
They glow with a bright light.
A light that fills me with unease.

And as slow as a millisecond without you,
The clouds are above me,
Their masked faces scheming above my head.

There is that silent moment—
That moment when all falls still.
The wind slows,
(So slow, but abrupt in secret)
The light dims,
(The absence of light makes you feel tired, but it does so by slipping it slowly under your pillow in the deepest hours of the night)
And all is eerie, but peaceful.

Then I am caught by surprise
As little droplets of rain fall to the Earth.

And then, I accept peacefully—
The rising intensity in what becomes a downpour.

The downpour mixes with my emotions,
Which flood out in the form of tears.

Good thing it’s raining, huh?

Good thing no one can tell that I continue to cry.

But the tears come out with a desolate smile.

And through the mist I swear I see

Someone else who exists

Other than me.

It’s beginning to look like a storm.

The storm is grueling at first—
Traversing the mountains isn’t so easy.

But then, as I reach the peak I see

Someone else who exists

Other than me.

The rain continues,
Covering me.
But it’s okay.

For you are there at the end of the day.

But just like the boats
In a stormy sea that sway,
It is hard to understand these feelings
Isabel Levy Aug 2018
One day someone will be taking care of me
When I'm sick and when I'm hurt
Someday I'll come home to a person
Who washed and folded all my shirts
Maybe in the future he'll make dinner for me too
And know how I'm feeling even if what I say isn't true

I'll work all day and get home so tired and worn
And maybe he will do, and feel, the same
We could just lay on the ground and order a pizza
Eat half of it and pass out where we lay
Wake up at four in the morning, only seeing silhouettes in the night

And hold each others hands as we find our bed without our sight

I'd make him surprise meals, maybe way too soon
And discourage myself as he's out so late that day
He'd come home and I'd tell him what I'd created
Although now its cold/ soggy/ not the same, he'd still kiss me and say,
"Thank you, baby. I'm sorry I was late, did I make you cry?"
And I'd nod and look nonchalant... or at least I'd try.

When we're apart, I'll think of him all throughout my time
Thinking of future gifts and laughing too hard at his past puns
Maybe looking like a lovestruck idiot in public
But he would know, that's just how my mind runs
And seeing each other again, I'd make sure to feel his face too much
He'd let me, since he would love my touch

He'd watch me sleeping ugly, with drool and farts and noise
He'd probably record it to blackmail me later,
Threatening with laughter to show it to all his friends
But little would he know that I could do one greater:
Revealing the albums of candid photos and videos in my phone
And I wouldn't be able to help it, he would just be so cute-prone

We may argue over something silly, something stupid, and I'd refuse to see him at all
Looking away when he walks by and ignoring him when he talks to me
He'd be hurt, and he would tell me that, my icy heart would melt away
And I'd hug him so tight and apologize for being a meanie
He wouldn't say anything, what if he doesn't hug me back?
...what if he never again placed his hands on my back?

What if I ruin everything? If my personality is immature and strong
He'll have had enough of it and he'll gently tell me he's letting me go
I know I'll cry, asking if he still wants to keep the gifts I gave
And my heart will be trembling as I fear he may say no...
Because each moment was a whirlwind of him
I'm afraid I'll ruin my future before it begins...
I have the flu currently, this poem began as me really wishing someone was here to care for me.... then I cried. Lol
Harry Bratton Dec 2018
Staring into the distance called to a halt lowly by a ceiling
With beams of clouds I have my essay planned, do the
Right thing when the morning comes, start early and lap lap
Lap it up… I missed a day will I be able to write it okay?
It’s only a draft, final assessment in the genesis of a new
Year as apocalyptic as it gets draped in gray by God’s
Gesturing arm lamp shading… why should I do it? To
Quickly bang it out before the deadline just to get it out
The way… daydream precocious bipedal insect monsters
Before the real thing moons God and his gang of whiskey
Parlour batchelors leaning on leather elbow pads admiring
The craftsmanship of the upholstery… the real thing is more
Absorbing always cutting off as I’m getting somewhere, start
In daytime and realize there’s nowhere to get, that’s the thing
Yelling stop think again, or fill every nook cranny and interstice
With feet free to walk in peace… they are antonyms I could
Never fit in, gaps that long ago gave up

Deserted wide areas of something, opportunity, you must
Agree are not expenses anymore by any imaginative feat
Dancing to deep scar/jungle depravity light reflections…
I can’t remember and don’t want to check over in case I
Get cut off -

Forget that’s true… (Something I literally cannot do)… I was
Enthralling, reading, writing, the {authorised} daydreaming -
Breakfast for dinner - dinner for breakfast - closer to the sun -
My legs have gone weak - I want to numb the static pain Spit-
Ting strangling cosmic debris from the satellite to the T.V…
It’s not that I’m not moving, I am careering just fine to turquoise
Blue sky, the bottom of a valley draped in a green screen sheet
Searching on my homepage for something more than my
Forest floor in the circular sky print of psychedelic white smud-

Ging print in the canopy tickling my mind’s eye giggles awake…
It’s that I’m not being methodical revolutions around a state I aim
To occupy, to occupy less derivatively… It’s not that… what is
This space? Living harmoniously, smiling on the front page of the
Daily Reality, not a youtube metamemetextraction everyone has
Different power to construe as well as they consume.. which, well…

Headlines to all cheer in support immaculately agreeing rather than
Memetic smearing in a forest snearing, no singing, no branches,
Hollow UVescence flood… hot sun burns ignorant eyes that power-
Point-slide nothing retinal light soggy cardboard calippo awkwardly
Bending, quivering like an Einsteinian physician’s space-time ******
You can’t see, squinting hard open town open mouth open source
Open eyes it is morning time morning square morning everyone everywhere
Square skulky shoulders and a brittle skunk twig head, not always there after
Shipping in a rectangular organisation of beds for fallen fruit everyone
Walks by, what is healthy? in society, what is homely what is dull housing
Ex-ice lolly sweet sticky strawb-red syrup marooning, baking to brown
Down backstage curtains poised in windy drapery drapery drapery…
Window hardware still there not to see any of the people, have you
Gone forever? The sun drapes savannah grapes out of place fire-soaked
Memories, temporary tent, arms and legs and back and Earth and one-
They’ve been the same thing begging to be vacuumed to a better outlook
Well away from towns bookmarking forests of knowledge seeming never
Ending turn to plywood, you can’t be in a vacuum better anywhere,
And hope strives away shooting through the replacement plastic funnel
Into a dropping everything…

Cornered - shopped - bussed - stopped - ticketed - one-wayed - one-way-
Systemed - ticketed - inspected - mauled - in the shops - for food -
For clothes - carred and parked in a roundabout way - merged in a
Motorway, by a dense grey matter, a concrete intelligence, one certified
Body of the indefiniteness of everyone's words, their words… our words…
That which is said… what people say… what we think… make a pretend wolf
Beg for a ready salted crisp at the the bar in the pub I leave the sound of
Those who hear everything better, I couldn’t hear a thing over the hoover…

A wild din falls on developing streets, silent and wide, stocky and broken,
Choking on ******* butterflies in my throat and stomach screaming… hold
Tears back while the sad song plays, that burst out of the interlude’s segue
To the beat picking up exactly what you wanted it to… wake up the pride!
I am trapped in a cage! Wake up the tribe! Is it on your webpage?

Where has it gone?
forgotten tongue-play
betwixt apostate minds
that squander reality
for relatively small fines

licking taste buds
a gentle tug of war
between pixels and reality
for a small stipend more

******* fingers,
soggy with saliva
and dust to make the stuff
of Davids and Godivas

spit co-mingled, tasted and swallowed
spit co-mingling with my brain
spit co-mingling on an airplane
this spit will drive you insane

that's why I'm ******* my fingers
I put my tongue in your mouth
I taste the Jolly Rancher cherry
it's been a favorite, no doubt
it's sour kick mingles with your spit
spit it out, spit it out
spit it out?
your saliva drips a colorful hue
i only wish to taste of it too...
Sadie H Jun 27
I am tired too of passing pleasant places,
amazing landscapes always in the rear view.
Tired of being a perpetual passenger.
Not steering but swept, blown, carried.
It must feel ******* amazing to choose,
people with no idea say ‘oh but you can!’
but for ** sake... you drive!
You don’t know!
You really don’t.

You have comrades.
You are not islands.
You have means.
You are not perpetually broke.
You work.
You are not grounded by circumstance.

At the mercy of the state

**** life.
**** this system.
******* disappointing people.
**** austerity.
**** the tories.
No actually **** all of you!

Occasionally the cosmos aligns.
Things fall into place,
a bit of luck,
A free trip,
Lovely little cottage by the beach,
Chips in newspaper on the promenade.
Swimming in the sea
(although the weather is really not permitting).

A taste of What life is about!
Being a part of it.
restoring faith.
What have I learnt from this?
Without hope .... you’re truly ******.
olivia Aug 8
I write with a pink Bic now

My phone is white and out of storage and I’m not connected to the
   cloud because it freaks me out, so every time I delete a picture, she
   asks “are you sure?” And I “delete anyway”
My high school best friend’s cousin’s husband just died and I’m
   wondering why I’m weeping for a kin I never grew akin to, a mere
   stranger, a subtle blip in my matrix. But his poetry
   is beautiful, I know that. And his music is beautiful, I know that.
I drank a root beer float tonight and the night before, or did I eat it? It
   reminded me of buying 99 cent slushes at Convenient. Or the
   “healthy” slushes I bought to accompany my soft pretzel everyday
   in middle school.
On the terrace, everyone else ate hot dogs and I looked down,
   holding my soggy French fries and wondering what else there is out
   there besides ketchup and mustard: like in Princess Diaries when
   Julie Andrews puts mustard on her corndog. I always thought
   that was so cool.
Or when Mia Thermopolis sit sideways in her giant comfy chair after
   throwing darts at balloons filled with paint aka “stupid cupid stop
   picking on me” or is it… “hitting on me”
Remember when Ben Day asked for pictures and when you sent cute
   selfies in your sports bra, he responded, “okay, but can they not be
   of your face?”
Or when Ben Wilson taught you that “hurt people hurt people” and
   had “ultra conservative” on his Facebook page underneath political
   views and you had go ask what that meant. I Corinthians 1:13 or
   something like that was always my favorite bible verse because its
   the only one I ever learned by heart.
Hail Satan.
We all rot under late capitalism.
But I didn’t know that then. I know that now, but not then.
Now I wonder mostly about the ethics behind “procreating.” I wanna
   bear fruit, but I can’t even stand the thought of myself burning in a
   fiery pit, let alone my spawn.
My stepsister is pregnant. She found out the “gender” today, “boy.”
   My nieces and nephews have had a very gendered upbringing, I
   guess I did too: barbies and bratz and Betty spaghetti.
I know everyone always says they just want a “healthy, happy baby”
But I have a crippling nicotine addiction and manic depression, I’m
   not healthy or happy.
Do you think I was the idea my parents pictured when my mom peed
   on that stick and got a plus sign?
Probably not.
I hate to disappoint.
They can live in the glory days when my cursive handwriting was
   better than anyone else’s in my second grade class. Olivia Layne
   Ulmer on that brown, dotted, lined paper.

With a yellow no.2 pencil.
Starlight Jul 2018
She holds her hand
to her heart
ears thrumming
like beating drums
from the thumping
that courses like
under her

She lets air
flood her
lungs full
her eyes
open wide as
lets the
tide of
filter down
into her

she is
monster girl
child of
is star flecked
freckles and
evening soda
luke warm and
bubbles that
like blood
down her

the tears
taste like
ruined salt
unfiltered and
like her
coarse tongue

she wails
to the
evening moon
shines with such
tenderised by the
beating down
upon her
soggy and

red paints
nails like
puffs hot
heavy breaths
against the
metallic gleam
her teeth
shine like
from the
howling terrors
of the

she howls
to the moon
which shines
with such
for she
is more
Starlight Jul 18
butterfly shells
clipped wings
the ocean curls and crashes
beyond the reef
I umbrella-shade my eyes
cast shadows over overhead sunlight
the glimmer blinds
so prettily
and I swallow all contention
like sand-crusted fried food
It's a kind day at the beach
the clouds grace us with their presence
and I spit out my insurrection, my envy
of such shrouded calm
wafts of cloud, like pink bubbly fairy floss
so sweetly
like a wind-cuffed boat
choked by destiny
we watch the sun bathe down into the ocean
submerged bleeding orange into an obsidian eye, a pearl of blue
don't say I didn't warn you, says the storm
rumbling, grumbling,
toiling and boiling
I've been on this horizon all my life, it growls
little more than petulant lightning
I've never trusted thunder
all bark and no bite
but I believe in this shark-storm if only for the palate of streaked colour
the sky is a wanting canvas
my eyes are needy spectators
the soggy chips are artesian entrees
and the butterfly clips refuse to mount and swoon
the recipe is baked; a perfect storm
a pointed knife, carved cataclysm
a catchechism of the repentant earth
we only see the sun sleep
when it knows it's been bad.
Joe Halliday Jan 3
There was once a young girl named Betty
Who watched the boats sail from her jetty
She sometimes got wet
Splashed by a fisherman’s net
That soggy little sailor our Betty
The intrepid explorer known as Betty
Set off in search of the yeti
She looked high and low
With Lucy and Joe
Then showered the beast with confetti
Cooking up a storm with Betty
Her speciality is scrumptious spaghetti
We’ll wolf it all down
She’ll feed half the town
Then wash it down with a Birra Moretti
Have you seen that beauty called Betty?
It was love just as soon as she met me
A head of silk hair
An inquisitive stare
I would eat her if only she’d let me

— The End —