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September Roses Feb 2018
Imagine a Person
just like you
living parallel to you
their life a parallel line to yours
a Person who finds the same thrills as you
loves nothing more than your favorite artist
your passions exactly the same
living your life
singing your songs
painting your paintings
a Person so uncannily made for you
someone that you would instantly click with
someone that would watch sunsets with you
someone you would never let go of till the day you die.
someone impossible
because you just never quite meet
someone you just miss by some cruel circumstance
and you'll always miss them
because you see the thing about parallel lines
they never meet
Rafael Melendez Jan 2016
I may not remember the names of the songs we used to sing together. Regardless, I adored them as you did. And as much as you can deny now, they once belonged to us.
Traveler Sep 19
Neon lights
Bleed my eyes
I've lost sight
I can only rhyme
Whispering voices
Long day gone
Residue of life
Where’d we go wrong
Giving we gave
Taken we took
Sinners and savior
All in one book
And so we read on
There's no end
To our songs!
Traveler Tim
..........................
...I have left this ****** nightmare
In my wake but out of sight
All I want is deviation by design

Out of all the past confusion
Out of all the common spite
Just tell me I am yours 'cause you are mine

Song #3
s Oct 2017
I think it's been four hundred days
since that innocuous defining phase,
But that's if we were keeping count,
and if numbers meant a thing at all.

For isn't time just ornamental,
perhaps even incidental,
when the commodity is sentimental,
or like love, a hypothetical
fundamental ?

Same page?, I ask,
tying to gauge flipping thoughts;
As if I knew where
my book was marked.
But pages, I can dog-ear,
to hold onto a moment
that would otherwise disappear;

An excerpt that I can savour
many moons later,
when love turns to favour
and leaves
a bittersweet flavour.

It's today
I'm looking for,
among shuffling tenses
but the focal lenses
are blurring
And my words
are slurring
for I'm too close
to your near perfect nose,
to find a reason
for why we chose
this.

I'm afraid this poem has turned
into a rhythm & blue,
or maybe it's an untimely cue
to write that song about you and me -
One that's been due
for a month or three.

A nonsense rune
with an infectious tune;
in the four chord beat,
where the lyrics
unfailingly repeat.

A rhythmic monotony
of a romantic comedy -
a stanza about you,
and a chorus about me -
a few things kept true,
and some made up for story.

Something about
wine pink shirts
and warm maroon shawls,
with just a few words
about unsaved phone calls.
A yellow lamp here,
an airport kiss there.
a night spent in fear,
of doubting you'll be there.
A white wall washed
in cinematic glory;
Two kittens tossed in
to make trouble & ***.
And then a pre chorus
about card tricks and foreplay
and the time in the bus,
we talked about a good day.
A few bits borrowed
from the last rhyme I wrote
and that could be followed
by one even before;
For what could I say
that I haven't already proclaimed
in ten odd poems,
gushing with love, unashamed
july hearne Oct 2018
i like to listen to bobby womack
singing "fly me to the moon"
and think of jeff's blue origin rocketship
exploding in the air

all his pride
crashing down in pieces
recorded for the whole world to see

because i have walked
unhappily down the streets
of soulless south lake union
where clueless people walk by
dumbly raising rents
congesting traffic
thinking they are off to change the world

crying about peter dinklage
yellowfacing herve villechaize,

their stupidity knows no bounds
always hard at work in south lake union
producing nothing that won't be obsolete
the second it is completed
purposely designed to make our lives unaffordable

**** jeff and all his tech bro henchmen
who do nothing but steal the sun from the poor
a white european actor
a white european actor
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2017
~for Bex~

when a lost muse is no excuse,
when the mundane and the profane
are away on summer holiday,
and the divine is currently on your
'u **** no write list'

nonetheless the itch in the private
spaces is driving you crazy,
write a poem, write a poem,
in the way a grandmother
(or a mother to a grown child)
whiny nags, its a nice day, go outside and play
with a strange man,
whatcha ya gonna do, the walls are all painted,
the good bad boys are out of town, all with the  
other bad good girls, who got there first,
but we will write of
******-rings and other crazy songs you sing

it is not important you the reader understand every verse,
like Patton said, "it only matters that I know,"

which line is a joke,
which is the yoke around your neck,
which the plaintive wail to no avail,
which is the regret that never can be sated,
which is the frustration cratering inside the chest,
which is just, just enough to make a satisfactory smile
upon the lips appear

whose lips?
who cares?
as long as you don't have hear me sing my poetry
but hear me smiling at the power of whimsy
and the return of my no longer muzzy
Muse Amuzeme
<£>
2:13pm
a poem in reserve for you, the Canadian girl
1st verse:

I know what it's like
To be completely
Incomplete

But I don't completely
Know what it's like
To be with me

But I know it's hard
And you do it well

Yeah I know it's hard
And you do it well

Chorus:

And I can't stop
The tears
From rolling
Down
Your face

But I can
Catch
Them all
Inside
Our Teardrop
Vase

And when the
Tears have
Finally
Stopped

We won't
Have to
Pull out
The mop

We'll just
Go to
Our special place
And see the flowers
In our
Teardrop
Vase

Our
Tear
Drop
Vase

2nd verse (her):

I know that it's harder
Than its ever been
before

I knew it when I saw
You lying curled up
On the floor

And though it's hard
What I've learned

Yeah though it's hard
What I've learned

Chorus
1st verse and 2nd verse
Old song of mine
Feeling relevant
...
Mindy Gledhill
Q Jan 2017
Candy-sweet ballads
****** heartache arias
Undying
soulmate
anthems

Everywhere I go
The soundtrack never changes
But no one else
seems
to notice

Red-rose shades of white noise
Heart-shaped confetti stuck in my ears
Jangling
omnipresent
sound waves

The song everyone is singing
Grates against my inner drum
It's not
the kind
I'm looking for
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”

nuts, crazy peeps

whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped

me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included

the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)

they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline

though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs

so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!

so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

guessing must be something in the water and the wine
K Balachandran Nov 2015
Don't ever ask me what am I, an ancient story
of a battle lost to remain in the realm of the sublime,
unmitigated grief that visits, again and again,
reminding the journey of pain though galaxies,
far of yore to the days of present.

In a moments of desperation I discover  the bard,it could
be rather told thus, he meets me at last, as was his wont
Bard, celestial lover, before my eyes you appear thus:
I see you holding in your hands a magic lyre, so rare.
that goes on strumming non- stop, to bring birds, the tunes,
that lives in far parts of the universe,even unknown  to most,
they do vary,have colored feathers;memories living in
different layers of my consciousness,always buzzing like a beehive.

I am the single, magic , potent, word, a mantra
that in it's kernel carries the , seeds of eternal, "I am that"

I hear the speakings of the words,that brings to life
experiences of different kinds,on their beaks some one
carries ripe fruits, the result of long days of sweat and tears.
Each fruit has a flavor distinct,each word carries a seed
that will grow to be a mighty tree,many birds would roost.

Bard you are a wonder,tying past and future with one string
of a lyre converging in the heart beat of the ebullient present,
you easily transcend the three, and every other dimension
of time that mingles in your heady brew,unrivaled it stands.
In this journey through unknown paths, what really is the possession
of lonely human being?
(C)  K.Balachandran ([email protected])
Harley Oliver Feb 2014
that familiar look in your eyes
that wakens my passion
in watching your pupils grow-
dilating into
the shape of my world

in your eyes i hide
in your shadow i find comfort
untouched by a warmth
that blends with your soul

i am weakend
by those big brown eyes
the ones that
could show me
all there is to feel &
i don't ever want to live
to see them shed a tear
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)

<•>

familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence

but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy

so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love

what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
compote
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed

now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...
<•>

I,
but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:

selvage
late middle English, from self + edge

how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”

the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin

all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head

a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape


all daring you to say

I could
love
it  here
A Love Song
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
heavily
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—

you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Verse 1:

I didn't think
It could be true
It's not the girl
I thought I knew

The one I thought
I knew so well

Well I guess I
Didn't know

No, I know I
Didn't know

That this all
Could turn to
He e ell

......
But he's a
Beautiful boy
A beautiful boy

Who stole all my joy
Who stole all our joy

The joy of the world
A world full of sin

That I didn't think
Think you were in

But you were
You were with him
You were within
....

Verse 2

What about me
What about us

Enough about him
Enough about lust

How am I
Supposed to trust
You anymore?

I'm holding to the doorframe
So I don't fall on to the floor
I can't believe my eyes now
You're such a ******* *****

Oh but...

Chorus

Was it worth it?
Was it worth it?
You and your
Beautiful
Boy
Ouch
Melissa S Jul 2018
I don't need a time machine
to take me back to that moment
The songs take me back
back to when I was trying to
figure out myself
figure out life
I get lost in the songs
close my eyes
I am content to just pretend
that I'm wild and free
and yes that I am young again
The songs take me back :)
Happy Friday HP :) xoxo
trf May 2018
i rest my head gently
against wooden beams,
cigarette smoke clouds
pillow case dreams

on a star spangled night
dangling feet off a ledge,
the moon bends light
along a noose i've pledged

the devil calls my name
the weight pulls me down
the angels aren't to blame
ignore their siren sound

i kneel beside my bed
and shake my fists above
this reckless life i've led
sings blue cobalt love
Overlooking Star mountain, my backyard's landscape; I like to have a break, dangle my bare feet over a 60 foot drop and try to smile. It's a sight to behold.
Kale Apr 2015
Goodnight my love,
Even though the moon's
Greeting comes
to separate us,
I will always love you.
Our bond that was
Formed by Fate
Can never be broken
Because with each
Setting sun
You enter
My dawdling mind
And my heart begins
To sing songs
Like the birds of
early morn
Tawanda Mulalu Oct 2018
(for children)


(1)

I heard a big word once. 'Armamentarium'.
It's a word with old parents. It means things
like medicine and how doctors feel your chest
for beats that don't quite fit. It means red
and the things inside your body that need
hands to help you. My hands help by wandering.
I tap my hands on tables, I comb my hair,
I pick up flowers, I hold up faces
of people I love when I feel blue. But my favourite
is red, because it is inside me, beating.
I learned a big word once. It was my name. I said it and it sang.


(2)

If you peel me you will find songs
as thick as grapefruit. I am red inside.
I take some time. I am always late.
I am best in the mornings but at night awake.
I'm from a place that is not as green as here.
Our grasses are yellow and say so with the wind.
My mirror is both my best friend and enemy,
sometimes a lover, often a bully, either way
hands are caught. I like to read. I read
so much that I think of my skin as grapefruit.
I don't even like to eat it. I just like the red.


(3)

Planes have mouths. They swallow people.
They fly them away. They spit me out.
Sometimes I do not know whose stomach I am in.
Inside the planes I dream of reds as dense as
roses. When the planes land I give them to
me as myself. Let me explain this better:
my accent is a grand liar because my
country is blue. It never rains there
but when it does you will find my mother's throat.
I croak with such dryness that the sounds turn to words.


(4)

When I see me I see soil. I grow roses
in my skin. People who don't look like
me first brought those kinds of flowers
to my country with ships. Kind of. We do not have
oceans. They must have walked so far for me
to speak with things they then planted. People think of me
as oceans reflecting the sky. I say I want the sunset
petalled perfectly into soil. My skin. When you see me
you must adore me because of your planting. I am not
your garden. I bloom.


(5)

When you hear words do not forget that someone
taught them to you. Maybe your mother
who read books about cats in hats to you
at airports. Maybe your father
and his stories of his childhood with feet
twisting through thin sand as roses dancing.
Where I am from we do not have soil
for those kinds of flowers. My father still grew
and my mother still grew me. Peel my skin
and you will find that sort of red beneath. If you ask me
where it came from I won't say. I will sing.
A better singer: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluets_(poetry_collection)
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