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Bre Steele Feb 2013
i was sitting at the edge of the world
pondering the ocean and how i could fall off the end
time passes, and i thought of you

wide open spaces are how i remember you now
even if memories consist of tight spaces lying naked in your basement bedroom

blue eyes come home to mine
i was told i was the runner but i only ran away to you
blue eyes come home to mine
lets spend hours in wide open spaces
you know we could love forever if once again
your blue eyes saw mine


and in these wide open spaces i love you
in these wide open spaces i begin to wonder
what it could of been like if you wouldve stayed
i can see you and me in theses wide open spaces


and of i go to college when the leaves turn shades of brown
i wonder where you are in these big wide open spaces of mine
and sometimes i think id like to be in these big wide open spaces with you

blue eyes come home to mine
i was told i was the runner but i only ran away to you
blue eyes come home to mine
lets spend hours in wide open spaces
you know we could love forever if once again your blue eyes saw mine
i just want your blue eyes home with mine
blue eyes come home to mine


newfoundland, summer 2010
In these quiet spaces,
I become temporarily deaf
to the meaningless noises
that seek to define me.

In these quiet spaces,
my soul is nourished;
surrounded by silence,
my spirit soars upward.

In these quiet spaces,
my focus turns inward,
knowing that His Presence
is co-mingled with mine.

In these quiet spaces,
the renewing of my mind
occurs as my life, is…
humbled before Him.

In these quiet spaces,
His divine, sacred wind
envelops my frail essence
with indescribable peace.

In these quiet spaces,
consumed by His Presence,
I sense undeniable power
of God’s authentic Love.
.
.
.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
Matt 6:1,6; Rom 12:1-2; Jam 4:8;
Heb 13:15-16; Psa 46:10; Phil 4:7

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
  
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Ava Ayo Mar 2015
I like looking at the narrow spaces
Between houses as the train passes by.

I like looking at the narrow spaces
Because they remind me of my childhood.
The empty narrow inches of space
Between two enormous brick houses
I'd obliviously pass by while playing tag,
Smiling from ear to ear,
Leaving only a narrow space for my teeth.
Running from dusk until dawn,
Leaving only a narrow space for bruised knees and tears.

And now the narrow spaces I pass every day
Between worn out houses in the city
Remind me of my heart.
So big, yet so full of others' pain
That all I have is narrow spaces
Reserved for my own joy.
And now the narrow spaces I pass every day
Between graffitied houses in the city
Remind me of my brain.
So tagged with useless information,
Yet so little space to paint true knowledge on.

And so I stare at the narrow spaces
Between houses as the train passes by
While I'm on my way
To waste the tiny chunks of time I have left
Hoping to widen the narrow spaces
Of my soul.
Emma Holt Nov 2015
If there's empty spaces in your heart,
They'll make you think it's wrong,
Like having empty spaces,
Means you never can be strong,
But I've learnt that all these spaces,
Means there's room enough to grow,
And the people that once filled them,
We're always meant to be let go,
And all these empty spaces,
Create a strange sort of pull,
That attract so many people,
You wouldn't meet if they were full,
So if you're made of empty spaces,
Don't ever think it's wrong,
Because maybe they're just empty,
Until the right person comes along.
This is not my original, but I loved it so much that I had to share it. All credits go to Erin Hanson: http://thepoeticunderground.com/post/52503853906/empty-spaces-june-9th#_=_
Amitav Radiance Apr 2015
Spaces within a space
Small abodes demarcated
With blank spaces
Unusual emptiness
Desertification of
Fertile spaces
Once vibrant with life
Now abandoned
Strife and turmoil
Creates vacant spaces
Where love should dwell
Mistaken emptiness
Where bonds are strengthened
We widen the gap
Creating new empty spaces
Leaving it open and vulnerable
Luna Fides May 2016
i once read that
there are names for the spaces
in between
body parts,
architectural structures,
musical notes.

names for spaces
as if they are

real
concrete
solid

and not just
gaps
voids
silences

like
buccal vestibule of the maxilla
is a space between the cheek and lateral face

or piscina
is a space in a wall near an altar

and
F A C E are the spaces
in between
the lines of a staff.

spaces with names
because they are part of something.
even if technically they are
"spaces" and not just

hollow
empty
blank

so i think their names suits them well.
because at least you know
what to call them.

but there is also a space
between you and me
it bears no name
and i think

this suits us
just as well.
Emmy Nov 2014
I realized today that there are spaces in letters
Spaces in atoms
Spaces between my fingers and my toes
Between the hairs on my head
Spaces in between the floorboards in my room
Wide open space
The kind where you're standing on a mountain
Trying to catch the stolen breath, beauty thieved from your lungs
There is blank space
The spot where you write your name at the top of a paper or the kind where complete bliss wipes the ***** chalkboard of thoughts in your mind
Space where the moon floats
The universe exists
Then there is the aching space between bodies
Clinging so tightly to one another
The kind that two souls eclipse in attempt to defy theoretical physics
I concluded space is an amusing thing
It makes you **** your head
Humans try to fill it up with their bodies, their thoughts, and their emotions
Space is like time
Both are concepts
And I will irrevocably attempt to fill the spaces between my fingers with yours and think about you at 4AM
Khay Jul 2016
Im feeling spaces, dense yet empty spaces.
Spaces where you used to sit
Spaces where I used to fit
All i see are computers and tutors,
mark sheets and classlists and more empty spaces
Spaces where you used to sit
Places where i used to fit
veritas Aug 2018
red stains, fading, cracked, scented

     if i kissed your prints, would they kiss me back?

sighs, thoughts, spaces between prints

     spaces between words, between parted lips and floating thoughts the world! is so crowded with space but yours is the one i want to fill .

     but where are the lines? lines of loss, lines of lawns, lines of ink and rips and more stains and letters, in the hands and on the pavement

where are the lines?

why won't you go there?

why do you hover in these foul, indomitable spaces? why do you seek that which you should not?

     if the shadow of lines slinks in your quiet expression, then why are you still here?

     if the echo of your soft face lingers in my hands, if the whisper of your breath and the heat of your skin still singes my own, then why do you disappear?

lovely wraith, lovely memory of a thing that once was, why do you sit so alone?

because i am coming to your space, and if you can see me, of shadow and fog, then i will meet you there,

     on a line of our own.

>because it's a death premeditated and i can see it unfolding,

     sharp wounding painful

and the discourse in the sky is telling me so, yet why do i keep walking west?
lots of questions (this isn't a poem of answers. don't look for one).
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
Sensual Spaces


the slightly parted lips,
beseech your entrance,
plead for a soft gracing,
a closing grazing,
a memory of
{entice consummate consume},
complete, fulfill,
long remembered far long, far more,
than the interminable sea voyage of the ordinary,
pressing drowning locking,
rinse repeat...

half an inch, less even,
much less,
separates two dancers,
a gulf, so much more arousing than
a can't-breathe grasping embrace,
an exercise to wondering
where the real pleasure kept...

be in no hurry
tarry, slowly,
seek out the
spaces between each finger,
all an invitation, all a question mark,
awaiting filling, answering...

yours in mine, mine in yours,
lock down this connection,
valley spaces tween peaks
needy for
the rain of touch,
the sun-skin heated insertions,
does not the curvatures of her
neckline,
cry out for
hands and lips attentiveness,
a space continuum
{~}
[^]
<|>
+-+
%

t'is the almost,
the last step,
to the first kiss,
the closing connection,
of that first hand-holding,
crossing over the last span of the bridge,
the lowering of the final descent
to the shock of
first insertion,
the wooing nearness of a n'ere forgot scent,
the last step
to the first step,
that first closure,
that is the
final entrance to
sensual spaces,
hallmark passage
gateway found and instantaneous
lost,
that is ever-treasured as that
door just opening
and as fast
closing
to
love ever after...
Sarah Valentina Sep 2011
Spaces between us
Gently caressing the heartstrings
To remember the miles of distance
Pulling painfully to remind the absence

Of the spaces between fingers
Locked so perfectly in place
and how I miss that face

Moments I can hardly unlock the most important
Trace
Envision the spaces between those lips, nose, and
Eyes
the blue that I could never forget
is all I remember now

So many spaces between
Then and now
To wish you here somehow

My purpose remains
with you
No matter how many trains
separate us now
In the many spaces between
Written by SarahLydia Kiehlmeier on September 12th, 2011
seasonalskins Jun 2014
we often mistake spaces for emptiness
when we are powerless
when we are boundless

we often don't realise
these spaces aren't empty
and we can be anything
we have a finite life
with infinite choices

so that's why these spaces are blank;
the vacancy awaits to be occupied
Amanda Jan 2018
I look for you
In my morning
For the smile across a coffee mug
As I sit listening, yawning
To your chatter about the day

Empty spaces
Is all there is to see
A place in the home
Where you used to be

I look for you
At the end of day
For the hug as I cross the door
So tight, it takes my breath away
Welcoming me home

Empty spaces
Is all there is to see
A place in the home
Where you used to be

I look for you
When I‘m feeling down
For the jokes you will tell
To make me laugh, you’re such a clown
You always know the way

Empty Spaces
Is all there is to see
A place in the home
Where you used to be


I look for you
As I do each day
Visiting the grave, is my only release
So I can tell you about my day
My one and only

Empty spaces
Is all there is to see
A place in the home
Where you used to be
Ashley Chapman Jul 2018
Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but of us
I have already masturbated twice:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we **** into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other.
My mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
****!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched *****,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tenderness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful elongated face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ******* over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain ***** on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we ****,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting;
my arousal in your palm,
pops,
as you run a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying ******,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the ******* comic at me,
will you?
Beat my ******* flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your pearly naked glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a ******* puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my **** into your **** -
where I love it best.
the lone boatman Dec 2014
A spaceless canvas of a beautiful dream
Spaces to see and spaces to dream
Myriad and countless in thousands they seem;
Distanced thoughts of an uncertain kind..
The swift strokes of a finer self
A breast of pain and the womb of death..
The Rampant search of a timeless man,
The Mystique brilliance of a madder dream..
Clawing to lose a searchless path
The Maya of me and the Maya of death
Spaces and spaces myriad they seem

To stand alone and To view apart
An un-poisoned brightness of a fewer whole
froth-less waves of a mid-life's depth
kindled flames, a rocking boat
Spaces and spaces to me they seem
(needs some editing..)
Ian Miranda Nov 2012
Rubber erases
deep spaces
line traces
where her face is

Her smile cracked
lips smacked
eyes tacked
fade to black

Imperfection
turned dissection
forgot protection
late detection

She weeps
Because she hears it sleep
Fearing it may seep
the scars just as deep

Now she cries
sad lullabies
emotion unties...


Rubber erases
deep spaces
line traces
where her place is

Lost and torn
her heart out-worn
her body scorned
her mind forlorn

Rubber erases
deep spaces
line traces
where her base is

Rubber erases
deep spaces
line traces

Rubber erases
deep spaces

Rubber erases

Rubber
Morgan Apr 2016
The homeowner called up
to me as I danced across the attic floor,
"careful on the creaky boards."
But I didn't listen,

now I don't know where I am,
and everything is dark,

and I miss the way
your bedroom smelled
in the spring time,
with one window open,
and a fan blowing hot air
in from the kitchen.

I told you
I didn't wanna go back there,
and you asked where "there" was
and I said "I can't put my finger on it,
but I don't wanna go back"
and it made sense

even though it didn't.

I keep falling into these empty spaces,
void of fruit bowls & hands to hold.

I keep falling into these empty spaces,
where I can't walk a straight line
because there are only circles.

I keep falling into these empty spaces,
where mirrors refuse to turn away
& familiar voices are distorted
by the unique echoing of silence
when it overlaps silence.

Here I am,
on a bed of thorns
that hide their roses,
wanting desperately
to rip my thoughts from my skull,
scatter them like petals on the ground
and rearrange them...

Here I am,
timid hands,
wabbley knees
wanting desperately
to pick my body
from flesh to bone
til it's raw and naked
and ready to grow in different

I think that's why
they call rock bottom
the wake up call
you get when you need it...

I need it,
I need it,
I need it,

and if there's no foundation,
all that's left to do is build.

I'm ready to climb
out of these empty spaces.

Don't reach your calloused hands
out, palm up to catch my
shaking fingers.

Not this time.

I've gotta learn
where the bricks fit
for myself,
or else I'm always
gonna be leaning
in the wrong direction
r Oct 2013
Persistent places
Sequent occupations of the landscape diachronically
Consisting of Action, Search, and Awareness Spaces

Action Spaces
The foci of people comprehensively
Interacting  with their place

Search Spaces
Where people go
To fulfill specific needs

Awareness Spaces
Those places people are aware of
But do not interact directly

These spaces that appear as palimsests
Accumulated layers of action, search and awareness
Comprehending persistent places is to understand the past

r  30Oct2013
Inspired by Dr. Lewis Binford's "Willow Smoke and Dogs' Tails: Hunter-Gatherer Settlement Systems and Archaeological Site Formation, 1980, American Antiquity, Vol 45, No. 1.
EdVance Dec 2011
I look at this blank page
I see nothing there
So I start to fill spaces
Between all the air

And then I did wonder
If it truly was me
That filled in the spaces
That lie in between

Or where all the spaces
Already there
And I only traced them
To make them appear

I know it sounds crazy
But what if its true
That all is prewritten
Everything that we do

And every step taken
Is merely a print
That’s only revealed
When we step upon it
It hurts sometimes
It screams inside
Is this pain really mine?
It clenches together in my insides
Making me dream, wishing for a better time.
I'll do just fine
That's always my line.
If something's not there
You're supposed to bring yourself to it,
But what can I seek
when whatever I need
ceases to exist out of my mind?
They say my reckless head helps me,
I tell myself I can use it to encourage myself,
But still it hurts me all the same.
You see, I use it to give what I haven't got
It's of no use because it kills with a slightly stronger dose.

I can try to forget
It can't last long,
Nothing's supposed to be pain free.
However there's other things
I just can't be bothered to feel,
And if I almost do I just stop:
Because they're not the most important;
They don't come back day by day,
Just to join me in the night.
I never had a "daddy" to sing a lullaby.
For years I didn't want one,
Half convinced still I wasn't missing out,
Yet now it's starting to hurt
Then I realise I'll never find my soulmate.
The percentage isn't in my favour,
How could it ever be?
How do you find your one person
out of 7.5 billion?
If I can't have a father,
how could I get an eternal partner?
Lacking strengthens my need,
For that perfect guy in my head to love me.
He's not here though,
And he never will be,
Tough as it is, I'll never be away from him.
Lack creates need,
tries to make up for things:
This is how it feels when you can't fill either gap.

Spaces are filled by made up places.
Spaces are areas without meaning,
Places are of meaning or association, unempty.
The space is one half of a non-existing f a m i l y.
My place is where I can have a future boyfriend made of better things.
My reckless head
Is supposed to give hope and safety,
Shelter me from reality.
My reckless head
Don't they know it breaks me,
To dream of things
That can never be?

Spaces are there.
Places are put there.
Needed
Unwanted
Despair
Desired
Anyone else there?
Is there a difference that you see?
All my minor sorrows seem the same to me.
Samantha Marie Mar 2013
As a college freshman
I find myself time traveling.
I close my eyes and
I appear
in the classroom where a group
of over-confident, lazy, too smart
for their own **** good
students stood on the precipice
between leaving and staying
regretting and dreaming.
Leaving would give us freedom
Leaving would fill the creases of
our palms with sweat
We kept our palms outstretched and empty
not daring to grasp anymore of home
because the weight would only
anchor us to the vines
we spent 13 years unraveling from
our ankles.

Maybe we should not have been
so eager to leave, maybe this is a mistake.

The girl with the mermaid hair
The boy with books stacked in
a corner of his desk
They both, we all, sat dreaming
about the same thing while
Ophelia drowned herself in the river
Shores of the ocean and city skylines
Classrooms that did not feel like cages
and eyes that did not reflect a memory
every time you glanced into them
In a high school English class,
a group of over-confident, lazy, too smart
for their own **** good students,
stood terrified and mystified
stood united in there persistence to become
something more than test scores and
the ability to memorize facts.

Fact:
Some mornings I walk to class
and I can feel the girl with the mermaid hair in Los Angeles
walking beside me and when I sit down
I can see books stacked on a corner of a desk somewhere in Berkeley.
I wonder if they wake in their bed and hear airplane engines roaring
somewhere above a valley.
The engines roar with warning.
sometimes it sounds like hope.
Baby, something is coming, we promise

We all began at the start,
dreaming as one and fearing as one
Today, she is five spaces forward
He is ten spaces forward
The others are halfway down the **** board
and I find myself back at the start
every few weeks.
Four spaces forward then three spaces back--
I don't know where I am going.
But I know where I have been.

I open my eyes.
A college freshman.
I hear the engines roar above me.
*Something is coming.
CK Baker Jan 2017
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life
in basic form
Spaces
Between the letters of a word
Between the words on a page
Between each breathless sound I heard
Between those moments as I age.

Spaces
Between my eyelids and my tears
Between the sniffles of my cries
Between the drums of my two ears
Between the whites of my two eyes.

Spaces
The nothingness of emptiness
A place no physical exists
The center of all loneliness
The comfort of the pessimist.

Spaces
They’re places asking to be filled
They have meaning in their presence
To those both soulful and strong-willed
Space is where they find their essence.
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at insightshurt.blogspot.com
Buy "Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life" at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
Terry Jordan Nov 2015
Appreciate a pure sunrise
See all its glory
Yet just before Amazing Dawn
Has its own story

Before you have a choice to make
Turning left or right
First pause to contemplate the spot
Right within your sight

Body language will belie the
Loud clang of false words
Look into a person’s eyes or
Miss the message heard

What makes a brilliant orchestra
Or pastoral scene
The thing defining beauty is
The spaces in between

In the pauses, in the spaces
Feel your resting hearts
Waiting for the curtain rising
Just before it parts

All the spaces in the painting
Give it life and depth
Sea shells overlooked make precious
All the ones you’ve kept

Hold that hole in that sweet donut
Just before it’s dunk
And keep an eye right on the ball
Right before it’s sunk

Anticipating Christmas morn
Or Baby’s first step
The moment he’s still holding on
Right before he leapt

Savor that bite, unopened gift
Mere ghost of a smile
Forget the end, appreciate
Running your last mile
JC Lucas Feb 2014
It’s not a question of
who
but a question of
where
I am.

I am the median between the street and the sidewalk
I am the threshold of every waiting room
I am the space between spaces
I am shadows looming
and fumes pooling above puddles
of spilt kerosene

neither seen
nor heard,
but felt
in the vignette of a dated photograph
the border between
fine
penciled lines

I am the mist after rain
I am scars
and streaks where tears have stained the shells
of crustacean people
I am crushing hangovers
and embers glowing

Who am I?

I am the
    spaces
       between
spaces

Stairwells and parking lots
unmarked graves
        condensation on a whispered word
     floating up into
     frigid twilight

          under an off-white
half-
                               moon.
S Smoothie Jan 2014
I take a breath on a heartbeat
in the spaces of moments
I respire in these moments
lost in the sense of you
These are the spaces I live for
these moments,
between our breathing spaces
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
To loosen with my bare hands
the wide air between us
in explaining something of meaning
I almost feel
I am pulling flesh
from the living and moving moments
possible here.

It is somehow breaking
the natural order of things
to use words alone
of all viable means
in setting out the wind-waves and rivulets
of ideas internally flowing -
but I must try and get something out for once.

I circle in bad phrases
prickling with the itchiness of sharing,
I send out a few vague words
horrified and perplexed
at their translation now they are naked
knowing you too listen
and they are at last unalterable.

Deep in the brain, far back
this is my bad time
but I know where the roots go
down into me
and from the storm’s heart
perpetual agitation pumps hand in hand
with calm acceptance.
The self *****, alternately
to fan and to freeze
whatever doubts or unease are burning.
Talk travels the spaces between us
through the clear air
in the kind of silence
surviving bones may know swinging in a wind.

But I know stillness can become alive
when living mouths bring their hearts to bear -
ears can well hear
what the breath has to say,
as the eye sees
the body’s smallest noises -
face to face we are a field of listening.

The warm comes without sound.
This is only the edge of a becoming.
We are not trapped in the lips -
already we lean inward
to know of each other and to give
not words for the wind
but a dance at ease with all that flows.
Terry Jordan Dec 2016
Appreciate a pure sunrise
See all its glory
Yet just before Amazing Dawn
Has its own story

Before you have a choice to make
Turning left or right
First pause to contemplate the spot
Right within your sight

Body language will belie the
Loud clang of false words
Look into a person’s eyes or
Miss the message heard

What makes a brilliant orchestra
Or pastoral scene
What defines their beauty is the
Spaces in between

In the pauses, in the spaces
Feel your resting hearts
Waiting for the curtain rising
Just before it parts

All the spaces in the painting
Give it life and depth
Sea shells overlooked make precious
All the ones you’ve kept

Hold that hole in that sweet donut
Just before it’s dunk
And keep an eye right on the ball
Right before it’s sunk

Anticipating Christmas morn
Or Baby’s first step
The moment he’s still holding on
Right before he leapt

Savor that bite, unopened gift
Mere ghost of a smile
Forget the end, appreciate
Running your last mile
An edited repost
Mary McCray Apr 2017
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 25, 2017)

There are many small spaces
where poems come from
like a vortex in the room
or the far deep of the brain.
Early in New Mexico
was all about fermenting
with disasters of toys and monsters
living in the wall. Music fed
the core from a stereo console.
St. Louis was the smart house,
flower papered walls for things
Jessica Lange said in Tootsie.
This is where the poems came
if I sat under the window,
warming on the heat vent
between the foot board
and the bookcase my father built.
The dorms of Kirksville were vacant
and Maryland Heights was about collecting things
not words. Massachusetts, off the Great Road,
near the colonial stone fences and the old world woods,
was transitional, with suitcases
stuffed under the bed.
Yonkers was the second vortex
in the basement corner.
I wrote my way into morning while Helga
growled at the ghosts in the closet.
The nightstand light turned on by itself
while I slept and beautiful Mars things
were imagined. The river place
was a reading place, always flooding.
We invented our Internet spaces there.
In Pennsylvania, I wrote above the garage,
reading to stave off the sink hole
of misplacing myself. The first zine.
Playa del Rey was during a rainy season,
but the early morning sun on the balcony
was a small, shining vortex in a glass of water.
My only writing in the melancholy outside.
California was a renaissance,
poems abandoned on the carpets.
Mar Vista had a converted garage
down a shallow step into a plush ****.
This is where we planned books and courting ads.
The second Zine. The genesis of cowboys and zen.
Helga died here. John came here.
Venice was all about making pots
and domesticating on threads of ideas.
Redondo was dubbed Mayberry
with its shade and birds.
I couldn’t write in its beautiful spaces
so I planted budding bushes.
Back in Santa Fe, we made a makeshift office
out of the makeshift dining room.
The ceiling had hundreds of trees.
The third Zine. The first book.
Down in Albuquerque, there are cowboys
on the couch. The same twister of books,
poems and pop songs. Every piece
of every piece feeding into its space.
Every poem belonging to its home.
Napowrimo 2017: Write a poem exploring a small defined space.
/
Thou Create Spaces
Within Thou
Barren Fields
Garden
It is born
Many trees
Flowers
Fruits
And do Thou
A mistake,
When thou plucks
The Flower
From the tree

The lesson of
Nature
Moves you to
Open Sky
Into the waves
Of Sea
Into the Black Shale
Of Paleozoic
Ripples
And reach the
Thoughts
In the home
Of Star

Now thou have
Learned
To count Stars
Move to
Get beyond,
Of which
May be found
The Edge
Of the Spaces
One Day
/*
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
edge of the spaces/
That  discover the destination
Luna Jan 2015
tight spaces
make me dizzy
tight spaces
with many people
will make me die

trains are okay
trains with lots of people
give me panic attacks more times than not
the fact
that i'm trapped
in a moving vehecle
with no means of getting down
until the next stop
which probably isn't my stop anyway
just *****

tight spaces
make me dizzy
but when you hug me tight
it's quite the opposite
it's like i want to live
in the small space between your hands and your chest
in a train full of people
i don't mind feeling the heat your body emits
amongts a hundred other people's which i don't particularly care for

you make the me dizzy
but the kind of dizzy
that makes me feel good
and safe
i don't like tight spaces
but i don't mind being in your room
about two of your wingspans in length
as long as you're right next to me
you make the panic attacks go away
please don't go away
Caitlin Drew Sep 2012
I guess it's time to move on.
Because this is that
and that is this.
Without words, there's a shift.
Our disposition sways.

The sentiments and gestures
it all festers
in the small space between us
because it just doesn't
have anywhere else to go.

No matter how busy I make myself,
it's still there.
Pounding on the cage
in the back of my mind.

I never wanted to let slip
the anguish
which was breathing through my pores.
But it's there.
Emanating around me.
In the small space between us.
Amir May 2011
when i get lost
i find myself

in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reach outer spaces
i delve inward

like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple
touching the banks of the pond
and defining itself by them
i am
utterly interdependent
externally anchored
and implicitly bound
to the web of meaning
spun around me
and when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward

and i found me,
my lost self,
all around me
in everyone
and everything else

(it astounds me
how the pronoun 'he'
implies that
which surrounds the
not-so-isolated subject.)

so when i found 'me'
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward.

i delved inward
and saw outward
myself
a shard of glass
reflecting and refracting
the light bouncing
between so many shards of glass
and i shattered

and i dissolved
and i splattered
so many dots of paint
in an impressionistic painting
that got smudged
and delved inward.

so when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces.

and when i
delved inward
i found myself
outside myself.
like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple.
Katherine Oct 2018
the spaces are growing
i'm stumbling
there's too much momentum
i can't catch myself

i'm falling into the spaces between my happiness
i look behind me and i can't see the last time i was okay
i look forward and it's blank

i'm falling into the spaces between lost innocence and last chances
between father and mother
between flesh and bone and hate

i'm falling into the spaces between us
because you're someone i don't know yet but i long for your presence
i need you to pull me out of this nothingness

"no one can save you but yourself," they say
try telling that to the spaces
Morgan Mercury Jan 2015
I can make you feel loved,
I can take the weight of the world off your shoulder,
but only if you ask me to.
I can take you places,
fill all your blank spaces.
This love is silent,
so I don't speak a word
Because I am nothing like the moon.
My light will never be as bright.
I'm nothing that you'd admire from afar,
gazing at with wonder.
I thought I understood it.
That I could grasp the reality of it,
but you make it hard
because you're the stuff and dust dreams are made of.
2015
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    


He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!


Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
i am a mere word of this page
and you are the phrases i admire most that i can't have.
at least give me a proof of sentence,
that i am still part of your paragraph.
i've never thought that this boundless sea of whiteness
can be so lonesome.
the large gap between us and other words,
feels like the vastness of the ocean,
drowning me in and out of the pages.*

©IGMS
the untold story of the lonely word

— The End —