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Megan Jones Sep 2015
“Put pressure on it, it needs more pressure”
Holding your wounds shut
That senseless force is what took you away
Pressure- to be... whilst not desiring to be
You saw the clouds moving in greyscale
I saw the hills below scattered in shades of green,
Cavernous, shadowed, cryptic, familiar-

We were advised to go as the crow flies
I cried to a nameless God that your crow’s feet
Were from insurmountable happiness, not the pressures endured
I’ve forgotten much since the storm some-178 weeks ago
Though my body remembers yours over and over again
My skin has yours imprinted, correlated
Forged into one point on the axis between here and there
You the X, I the Y

The Earth crept between the crevices, curling
Through the distance between the Right radius and ulna
Elbows breaking knuckles, blood remains to be spilt
Blood doesn’t connect, if anything it merely separates

Scarecrows don’t help much when the crops won’t grow this year
Ants crawled out of the barrel of a shotgun
Observing the process of cleaning bones after tragedy

Follow the moss to find your way North with no direction-
Sometimes on the other side it’s not greener,
It’s more terrifying than ever before
Terrain untouched, unspoiled, sacred-

Climb up the trees with me, find your quiet
We won’t carve our names but we’ll find our niche
You’ll have quills and I’ll have armor
Not even the thought of stolen arrows,
Lost time through distance,
Or perhaps a slew of chemical imbalances
Can reach us up here
I chose to glue your pieces back together with mud and straw
Taken from the fallen, the loved and now distant memories

You may be an abandoned military base offshore
What was once used by many-
Witnesses life again, life of a different kind
The vegetation will ease its way into the cracks
Constructed when the foundation began to decay
It has a beauty of its own, one of self-sustainment
An everlasting beauty that connects itself
To the surrounding extravagance, often times ignored,
Death isn’t the only way to be forged into nature, remembered

Fear doesn’t always win, nor death do us part so soon
I hope your skin and bones remember before the end
Sam Hawkins May 20
Calling long and deep
into the bottomless well of me,
my heart, I posed a wordless question
that water--free--be invited to speak.

So I listened I paused I listened--
opened and dissolved
fear in me.

Water of my hands
woke up, sprung up.

Water of my feet.

Water of my eyes,
my brain.

There were no parts of me
my invitation was not reaching.

Little baby faces all that water was--
and each, an innocence,
a living breathing star.

And therein
other starry lights.

Green and azure golden
shot high and all around me.

Rainbows spinning, under and over-lacing,
composed a heaven's tapestries.
Hussein Dekmak Aug 2018
I closed my mouth,
and spoke to you in the language of the rain drops,
I whispered to you in the language of the flowers,
and chanted 'I love you' in the language of the melody birds.

I  closed my mouth,
and voiced my feelings to you in the language of the ocean's waves,
and delivered my message to you in the language of the Wind breeze,
I conveyed my feelings to you in the language of the twinkling stars,

I closed my mouth,
and spoke to you in the language of eye contact,
and expressed myself to you in the language of smiles,
I shouted to you in my sacred language of tears,

I closed my mouth,
and whispered to you in the language of heart,
and recited to you in all of nature's implicit language,
I spoke to you, softly, in God's silent language.



Hussein Dekmak

Copyright.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2aaT3NfuM5Y
lifeonLSD Aug 5
‘Tis night: alas, that i have to be night! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!
‘Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain, -for speech do i long.
‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
‘Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.-

And thus spake Zarathustra
- Friederich Nietzsche
one of my favorites
jonni inferno Mar 2017
shhh -
in this sylence
i do listen
to the words
thou hast written

of the nyghte
there was spoken
true heartes' devotion
an 'dayes that followed
brought laughter
now sorrowe
an' in the darkness after
beats a hearte
that is hollowed

what one mustte bare
when the hearte be torn
be there a one that cares ?
'twas all for naught ?
'tis all love forlorn ?

shh -
in this sylence
i do listen
to the words
thou hast written
of true loves disaster
an' the mourning after

i send this note
that alle may read
an' it matters not
if none pay heede
as long as
She Does

.
Pic Poem
http://oi60.tinypic.com/rti2aw.jpg
.
.
this piece was inspired by the poetess "She Does" -
from the now defunct - poets.com site
(it was bought out by another poetry site
and no longer has the same format...)
CK Baker Feb 2017
There were dividing lines
between springfield
and mariners gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the pleasant street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
emily mikkelsen Jul 2018
recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.
Bryce Feb 6
Zara, love of life,
Spake in curtled call
Allfather, lover of light,
To bestow those "ants of the earth"

And arch-bound as the sinew of bowstrings
Howling as the volley hertz roped
Along the celestial violin
Pluck souls from their bodies
In symphonic prediction

Ascende! On the wings of love's Valkyrie-- in her shining eyes will you greet the stars of the Otherworld!

________


Cleaning hide chunks from Buffalo tusks
There is a stranger, who knocks upon my door
The fire is wide and welcoming,
Borea chides the earthenwork
Outside, the stranger calls
distant through the door.

___________

A last heartsong,
The cup overflown with honey
A facsimile of symmetry
And not distinctly human
There was something to love in that,
Just the simple inclusion
Of all the other animus
Being formed in their conclusions

And following the arrowpoint
Floating by the bolt
What losses there to seek
Beyond a veiled humanity

We strike the fire one last time,
She to travel the mountain passes
Ashen eyes, holding viscous memories solidified

I to gather my quills
My thoughts and brush quickly the embers of love.
Into flame, carried deep into the hearts of the world and explored in violent disassociate
Particles red and hot

Then would Zara Spake again,

"with his eyes on the earth, will he never see but the stars."
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
How I Observed the Day of Atonement

If you are unfamiliar with day and its observance,
See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur

In a place of perfect solitude,
No crowded synagogue within to hide,
No cantor to intercede on my behalf,
I spoke words of mine own creation
To my creator who wisely empowers me
To judge myself, for knowing, none harsher,

We two,
Old travel companions,
Upon worn grayed, adirondacke thrones,
We overlooked,
A natural prayer place,
Bay and breeze, white-clouded and sun-laced.
Only the full time inhabitants, the animals,
Grayling butterflies to match and contrast,
Eavesdropping on our Greek dialogos, in this,
Palace of Perfect Solitude.

Amiable did we chat,
I of family, this and that.

He, wearied from recent travel,
To Syria and India,
Was glad for a day off,
For he had little to do,
But wait for twilight,
To then close the books.

For us no formality, easy the going,
No prosecutor no defender in residence,
For we exchange these roles intermittently,
The incriminatory, the penance, all deeds displayed,
No adult games of winking eyes, and
Hidden heart, secret chambers,
Rabbinical or angelic intercession.

He does so love his Bach,
Adagio on strings,
My soothing gift to him,
This music more than divine.

He returned this courtesy.

Warming sun to expose my chest,
Cooling genteel breeze offsetting,
The bay emptied of wayfaring skiffs and yachts.

A cooling beverage proffered,
But sighing, he said that he had yet to find
A beverage that his kind of thirst could slake.
For his eyes, tho shining, did not effervesce,
As when we shared this day in years past.

Too much killing, this year,
It tires me so to tabulate human excess,
Spoke not a word, for my critique would
Comfort him less, if at all.

Thanks for Kol Nidre, he plainted,
So I too can disavow,
The best intended oaths I took and take,
For each year, I fail more than the year before.

If only I could sit with each,
As I do with you,
Where what needs saying,
Is said, understood, undisguised as praying.

A schooner to the dock did appear,
For him it attended, for him, it waited,
Sails, both black and white.

He stood to depart, my arms-grasped, taken, he graphing,
Measuring my fortitude, my strengths, my divinity.

I do so love this day in your company.
I shall sit with you again one year on,
Bach sweet when next we meet, please.

Soft spoke, as almost I should not hear,
Your time is nigh, no thing I create is forever.
He spoke with such sadness,
For well I knew, the intent, his meaning.

He, for-himself, saddened, for he loved
Sitting  beside me in this manner,
Since my inception, never deception,

Only He resting easy, when he atoned before me,
And I gave him his absolution conditional,
As he gave me,
mine
September  2013
MeanAileen Jul 2018
It must be so nice
to be as cold as ice
and live with a heart of stone.
No need to think twice
in a fools paradise
when your head is so overblown.

Existing so high
you can touch the sky
from your pillar of ivory and gold.
Everyday you lie
just to pacify
an ego which can't be controlled.

You don't play fair
nor do you care
who's heart you might break next.
Another sordid affair
caught in your snare,
treating women like they are objects.

You made love a joke
with vows you broke,
that golden ring is sure to rust.
One day you'll choke
on fallacies you spoke,
and your empire to fall to dust.

Looking down on all
like you're 12 feet tall
does not make you a bigger man.
Laughing as they fall,
watching them crawl,
forgetting where your own life began.

Just keep living in excess,
desperate to impress,
and surround yourself with cool ****.
Cause what you possess
when dead from stress
in purgatory, won't matter one bit.
Ya...
Ferns Jul 2018
Is it not easy 
 to greet to someone
whom you never spoke
for a very long time?

Among all people,
I am the only one
you've always bypass
to talk to

I know the hindrance
why we ward off each other
just to make ourselves
escape the stigma

Curiosity gets bigger
Each time I look at you
Should I wait patiently
Or take the wheel further

One thing I could do...
All what I wanted to say,
all my thoughts about you,
are profoundly veiled


You and me
are the only ones
to know what's in...
where people shouldn't know

A storage box
of unspoken words
a birthday bag
of sweets

If you are reading this
do not assume
that I did them
Marianna Jan 20
He who is feared by many, stood before me
as the faint moon light glimpsed on his scarred face.
His shadow swallowed me whole,
a monstrous creature with an aura of excellence.
He stood there for a minute that felt like decades
and stared down at my useless body.

I felt my bones cracking and my limbs shaking,
his eyes - a void filled with complete chaos,
pierced right through me.

I saw red flowers and dead trees grow out of my head,
dead horses and ****** deer running around in my room,
shadows and screams, tsunamis and hurricanes,
drowned voices and muffled prays.
I saw red skies and blue forests, black seas and green deserts.
I saw myself falling off planets, being thrown off constellations, unwanted in the vast universe, uninvited at the celebrations of the stars.
i saw it all happen in a mere second, a far too long second,
as it all crashed and disappeared on the cold floor.

His shadow, taller than ever, filled every corner of my room.
He raised his head and inhaled all the air that was left in one breath

                                        "YOU CALLED?"

His deep voice made the walls shake and the earth tremble,
and i was left there like an empty shell,
naked and exposed,
as his words filled the room
                and filled my head.
Chris Neilson Jul 2016
Attended a dinner party with poets departed
secured a place in a fantasy scenario self created
Dylan Thomas did not go gently to the event
discussion with Yeats was heaven sent

Conversation with Shakespeare was ***** and lewd
even brawling Brendan Behan found him crude
Wordsworth wandered in as lonely as a lakeside cloud
faced with his eloquence before me I bowed

John Cooper Clarke's showing brought mouths open wide
Jim Morrison spoke, "You've broken on through to the other side!"
The Salford Bard looked dead so they let him in
as refusing him entry a gratuitous grave sin

Heaney was asked for his views on Brexit
a number was taken for dear Seamus to text it
"Here come some female poets?", exclaimed Sylvia Plath
as Browning, Dickinson and Rossetti walked up a path

When I shuffle off this mortal coil
with relics scattered in suitable soil
eternal musing with all the above
would bring evermore everlasting love
Chris Lazzaro Mar 28
My thoughts are the hammer
My tongue, the trigger
My words, bullets to be sprung.
For I am a loaded gun.

Delicately pulled to a click
Gums and lips, greased and slick
The barrel has already been spun
For I am a loaded gun.

Pressure between my cheeks
Words spoken, ejected from my teeth
The invisible lead is still warm
For I am a loaded gun

I reek of smoke and Ash
Fire is on my breath
There is nowhere to escape or run
For I am a loaded gun.

They do cry and choke
Not accepting those words I spoke
Realities something to be forlorn.
For I am a loaded gun

Penetrating through their chest
that iron lays on their every breath
Hearts ripped and torn
For I am that loaded gun.

Something to be feared
Something to be adored  
I am often met with scorn
For I am a loaded gun.

Pointed at their nose
eyes tight and closed
Contentment, something to be warned.
I am a loaded gun.

A gun under your chin
Is enough to make you think
to never go unsung
For we each should carry a loaded gun.
LeoGreene Jul 2018
Never what you were,
my retina dulled your rays.
Optics adrift in poetry, prose,
charity shop sweaters.

I spoke of dreamed ambition.
You nodded, morose.
Eyes chasing space.
Never what you were.

Bookshelves, potted plants, a bicycle bell ringing.
Coffee steam clawing New Zealand winds.
This and more flickered in our hazed tethering,
only snuffed when the tap of illusion ran cold.
Ormond Jul 30
.
On winsome plains of dusted origin
Gods spoke: “Let fresh, sensate flesh
Incarnate, let questioner, move lost —
Come.” And in birth was live funeral,
Wrested body of spirit, seer of mercies.

In a story set to flame for children —
Old man poet writhed on a new cusp
Betwixt madness and old firmaments,
Where spinning globes set time adrift
And mankind undulated like sad song.

Hush poet would never know in sight,
That meaning shared time with industry
And all the buildings that vibrate are cold,
Where tall suits shimmer and music dies,
Death knows it’s place among the wreaths

For tall tales are sodden by rainy graves.
It is better after — that poet was shaper
Mostly in death, like shining Phoenix,
Like concrete angels haunting chapels,
Or mythical creatures populating fable
As ancient groves of tree reach skyward.
.
Angel Turner Jan 13
COLLAB. WITH AUSTIN DRAPER

It’s little more than a quiet thought.
The impending feeling that the loneliness
was a creation of my own imploding self-conscious.
I wouldn’t have hurt you voluntarily,
so what outside force could know my mind so well?

It’s little more than a spoken word.
The rumble of the oncoming storm could be felt
from as close as 1.6 miles away,
where the darkness of your room invaded the
not-so secret spots of your heart.

I’m prone, to the truth in your words.
I’m not used to the idea of confronting my thoughts
And sorting them out to you.
Is it that I spoke wrong words? Or I stopped before they meant anything?
You mean so much, and now you are out of my reach.
I did the first two stanzas and Austin did the third. I really like it, it's the first poetry collaboration I've done.
***
Bre Marie Aug 2016
My brain was clouded with all of the smoke.

I took another **** laughing at the stupid jokes.

Forgetting the promisees that we had once spoke.

I felt as if something was broke...

So I took another ****.

To forget we ever spoke
I loved her but I loved Mary Jane a bit to much she kept me sane
I'm living in my mind,
walking a road I have paved.
Listening to the pounding,
of my heart that can't be saved;
an empty hole I had caved,
long before my journey started,
long before my hope strained.
Waiting for a fleeting step,
wishing for a second thought,
but still emptiness lurks,
where the love had fought,
from how the voices talked.
I'm waiting for a different place,
of what my mind is not.
A saddened memoir,
that spoke forgotten loss.
I'm falling deeper down,
where all the pain was washed,
and the guilt caught.
In a hidden valley of emotion,
of punishing thoughts.
Still I'm walking onward;
following the road.
People told me to hold caution,
for it should not be condoned.
I can't call it my own,
because this road that I am taking,
can never be my home--
An older poem fixed.
All feedback is welcome!
ryn Apr 2015
It's beginning...
As my day matured into the tangerine sun.
Familiar feelings effortlessly conjured as the same old tales were spun.

Some came in hues of marmalade
Traces of citrus that left in haste.
Initial sweetness on the palate that would fade
Only making way for a bitter aftertaste.

A few were wrapped in tints of ******.
A jolt-like sensation that spoke...
Intense and unmistakable in nature.
Like glowing embers engulfed in latent flames and smoke.

Several bore the colours and scent of marigold
Boasting of orange petals whimsically waving to the clouds...
Whispering hints of rumours from days of old,
Days of when mine was the only silent face in a boisterous crowd.

The ones forged in bronze were few and hardly said.
Like the only compelling excerpt embedded within infinite chapters.
Hidden words in plain sight strung together boldly in
red.
Rubies cast carelessly in the swiftest of rivers...

It is beginning...**
The end of today as the sun grew redder...
I'd bide the sands of time as it slips away into forever...
Carter Ginter Jul 2018
I started writing a poem about them
And the beginning sounded like ours
The one where I told you that
Words aren't enough to define us
And yes words are limiting
But
They also have a way of telling you more
If you pay close enough attention
When "I love you endlessly"
Turns to "ILY" and
"I can't imagine my life without you"
Turns to weeks of sitting alone
And all the "I miss you"s
Turn to "how are you"s
As if you even cared
Your actions never matched your language
Were your words too limiting for you?
When I was still always there for you
And all you did was break promises?
Were the words you spoke too constricting?
At least that would explain why you broke them
Though still not why you said them
Maybe you were afraid to let me down
Or afraid to really be seen
Or just so self-absorbed that you didn't care
That you couldn't care
About yourself
Or about me
Yaser Oct 2017
I met a man within a dream
He spoke in odd and broken words
He said "All's not what it seems"
and that reality is absurd

I met a man within a dream
he had so many eyes
but the one he could not see
sat through his mind's own lies

I met a man within a dream
with neither tongue nor mouth
I asked him if he'd never speak
He said "Without a doubt"
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