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Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
HIS WOODEN LEG STARES AT ME...

Grandfather Gordon
scratches his wooden leg
insists: "It...itches!"

always a different explanation
how he lost the leg
enough to fill a book

Grandfather Gordon
scratches the air
where his leg should be

Grandfather Gordon's
wooden leg now
a tommy gun...a sword...a unicorn's horn

"Give me back me leg
ya daft wee buggers!"
pleading for his leg back

Grandfather Gordon's gone
his wooden leg lives on
dusty in a corner
veronica Mar 2018
countless stares and empty chairs.
a newfound solace in this empty space.
this was my ig post’s caption. i got inspired with the photo i took yesterday.
Thom Jamieson Jul 2018
"Over here"...
but nothing.
The scene continues
unabated by my presence.
Plastic smiles and lustful eyes
bountiful but not for me..never me.
In the mirror' s unforgiving gaze
I am unrecognizable
Replaced with a crude rendering
of my previous likeness
fashioned by children
with lumpy imperfect clay.
Silence replaces loving laughter
that used to follow my witty banter.
Silence and stares.  Sympathetic stares
tinged with smugness and fear.
"Over here...over here..."
still nothing.
I recently received a message from a composer named joe drzewiecki who was interested in putting this poem to music.  Here are the results.  I didnt know my words could sound so good. Thank you joe drzewiecki, I am flattered.

https://soundcloud.com/jomama-2/invisible
Sebastian Nov 2018
You turn around,
You call my name
But I no longer believe the same;
There's paper stacked upon your window pane.

The clocks are worn,
My boots are torn,
They've come some way since they were born
And things that shine often do not conform.

A whisper here
Is a thunder there,
A glass of wine to lay it bare;
Don't tell me silence dwells behind that stare.

You don't run fast
Because you must;
It's fine to break out from your crust
And build a smile that's free from all your ****.

We're far apart
But all the same;
Forget the shapes and forms and blame
And you will see we walk down the same lane.

I walk through eyes
So close and distant
Depending on how long the instant;
Some grow warm while others grow resistant.
Poetoftheway Aug 2018
how do you know when (a human is too broken?)



<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
laura Jul 2018
stone cold killa
knockin' fellas off
they feet, ****** on the bay
writing poetry and
pushing bodies in the lake

she's a killa, man
get off on false promises
of commitment
no 5-o's, no weapon clues
no witness

i'm dead broke
i'm her next target
spending money on happiness
a poem like a wandering outlaw
us, causing sinister stares under the sunset
Johannes Coetzee Sep 2016
I love the way you wrap your eyes around me
Your kitten eyes, snow white smile and innocent face
I love the way you and I hold hands and talk for hours
Our deep empty stares; ending with passionate kisses
I love it when you call me baby
Your eyes must be a reflection of your love for me
It seems to be the only thing linking your heart to me
I love the way you and I make love
So passionate
I love the way you appear in my dreams; bringing about light into my dreams
You and I
Just you and I
Like lovers do
#love
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
A GHAOTH ANEAS!
( O SOUTH WIND! )

My six year old father
stares from a photograph

splendid in  his sailor suit
standing outside time.

He will not survive
Ypres.

There is no photograph to show
him as a soldier.

Mother couldn't bear them.
Burned them.

She forever talking to
him in her head

loving his Devonshire
accent.

A thrush is singing from behind
enemy lines.

Spring can't understand
humans and their ways

dresses the trees
in their freshest  green.

"Jack...Jack Jack!" she cries
to the wind from the south.

A Ghaoth Aneas!
( O South Wind )

"Sin chugaibh mo phóg ar rith ins an ród
Leigim le seol gaoithe í."

( Here goes my kiss to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind.)
South Wind was written in the 1700s by Domhnall Meir-geach Mac Con Mara( "Freckled Donal Macnamara" )in homesickness for his homeland( after he was banished for some 'misdoings' )in County Mayo. This sublime melody has a very Carolan-ish air about it...essence of my Irish childhood. I used to hum it to myself for comfort when my sister Junie was killed in a bus crash back in the world of '67.

A Ghaoth Aneas!

A Ghaoth Aneas na mbraon mbog glas
A ní gach faiche féarmhar
Bheir iasc ar eas is grian i dteas
Is líon is meas ar ghéagaibh

Más síos ar fad mar mbínn féin seal
Is mianach leat-sa séide
Cuirim Rí na bhFeart dhod chaomhaint ar neart
‘S túir don tír sin blas mo bhéil-se!

Sínim aneas ag díonamh cleas
Nach ndíonann neach san saol so
Mar íslím gaimh is scaoilim leac
Is díbrim sneachta as sléibhte

Ó taoi tú ar lear go bhfuí tú mo neart
‘S gur mian liom do leas a dhéanamh
Go bhfúigfe mé mo bheannacht ins gach aon tslí ar mhaith leat
Is choíche i gCathair Éamoinn!

A Chonnachta an tseoid, an tsuilt ‘s an spóirt
I n-imirt ‘s i n-ól an fhíona
Sin chugaibh mo phóg ar rith ins an ród
Leigim le seol gaoithe í

Tá mise beo i mboige na seod
Mar a mbrúitear gach sórt bídh dhom
Ach is mian liom fós tarraing d’bhur gcomhair
Muna gcluine mé ach ceól píopa!

O South Wind!

O South Wind with the soft clear drops
You that make every sword grassy
Bring the fish to the waterfall, give heat to the sun
And abundance of fruit to the branches

If it is far to the north where I once lived
That you are minded to blow
May the King of Power preserve your strength
And give the taste of my mouth to that country!

I blow from the south, performing feats
Which no one else on earth can do
For I lay winter low and scatter the ice
And banish the snow from the mountains

Since you are in need you shall have my strength
And I want nothing more than to help you
I shall leave my blessing in every place you choose
And always in Cathair Éamoinn!

O blissful, joyous, sporting Connacht
Home of gaming and of wine-drinking
Here goes my kiss to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind

I am living in splendid luxury
Where every kind of food is dressed for me
But yet I am fain to draw towards you
If I should hear but the music of the pipes!
Ilion gray Sep 2018
I remember

The way it was.

One June afternoon
everything in the universe broke.

I was walking down Bushwick ave.
into the hungry concrete;
Below
a Brooklyn Bound L train
slicing through
Earth;

myriads of strident rushing
town cars drifting
Over the streets
Of the patchwork
City;

I turned left down our old block
Madison ave.
nothing could prepare me
for the silent
pulseless
minutes that suffocate
everything breathing

There would be no sound
in the apartment tonight.

No other souls
wrapped in wanting skin.
In my life,
I loved you savagely...

                                        tonight
I'm going to be alone

the concrete has expanded since you left,

The blocks are longer than last summer;

The hours just pass.

what it took to get to the front door
From the corner
in fear of entering our house
After I've lost you.
I come home
where all these memories are stains;

Black streaks left by
Murdered cigarettes.

******* trash bags
full of empty Scotch whiskey bottles;
filled

With Guts,
Blood teeth and pounds of skin
miles of empty dry veins;
Like a river
that God fell into,
these waves of days
Rage

Sometimes I wish
I'd never felt the Sun;
its fingers burning my skin.

I will burn
from every memory of you.

The total emptiness of this space
where love was put to rest;

The emptiness just stares.

Stealing seconds from shallow pockets of years,
Stealing years,

From this shallow pocket

Of life
delilah Jun 2018
i have sadly ingrained an old version of myself so deeply in others' minds that i can't be viewed as anything else

they think i don't love

they think i won't love

they think this because for the longest time love is all i craved and all i feared

my fear of being unloved by more outweighed my desire to make more love me

they think i don't want affection (platonic and otherwise)

they think this because for the longest time i couldn't stand others' hands near me

i fear the vulnerability more than i desire the comfort

they think i don't care

they think this because i walk with my head higher than their stares

they think this because it's easier to say i don't

every bad thought and misconception is in their heads
because
i
put
it
there
i'm not sure this properly portrayed the point i wanted to make
A Sad Alex Aug 2018
It follows me around you know
Maybe it never really left
It hangs around the air, light as a feather
But it´s presence, heavy as a weight.

As I sit on the bus, an empty seat at my side
It sits, it looks at me, and it stares...
And my mind is flooded with thing we used to do
Things of lovers: to kiss, to hug, to lose myself in you
To show you my affection, to show you I cared.

As I go out to take a walk, it walks by my side
It matches my speed, no matter how slow or fast
And my heart weighs heavy with things I could have done
Tell you I love you, being there for comfort
So much time wasted, never to return.

As I lay in my bed, it lays by my side
Perfectly still, just outside of my grasp
And our future banishes in front of my eyes
Our home, our family, our lives intertwined
It tears me apart, as I begin to cry.

It follows me around, but I can´t leave it behind
The ghost of you, it haunts me day and night
The mistakes I made… The errors of my ways…
I pay for dearly, every single day
Loneliness follows me, and it has your shape…
Hopefully you guys enjoy this one, I felt a bolt of inspiration to write this, and that is one of the best feelings on Earth for me, to just pour yourself on a poem.
Cindra Carr Nov 2011
We drift through the moments
Of silence in our flickering thoughts
Who are we then?
Brief lapses of lost identities
With none of the trappings of personality
Lies the mind tells itself drop and fall away
Folded up memories cleared
To allow the blank shuffling
Faraway stares unfocused on the present
Drifting moments of silence in flickering thoughts

cc111411
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2013
In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around nine or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.

She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the nations
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.

Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects  
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.

She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was prechilled as if
It had been waiting only for her.
She pounded that first one down,
As if the stem wear was a shot glass.
Another full stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed glass rim.

Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I couldn't tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.
The close chopped hair cuts
giving us away.

Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A ****** just back from The Nam,
A dark scary guy of few words.

She opened her fur trimmed cloth coat,
exposing two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better shot.

She announced her name,
like as if we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.  
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.

Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.

She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We didn't have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days, long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so?  I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was ***!
Still is.”

It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big baby blues,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a large hand lettered sign.

I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.

Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she seemed,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.

Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports
and the Daily Duty Lists.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosey-goosey outfit.

Once in a while now I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film Noir stuff,
And there she is, a much younger her,
Looking pretty **** good,
Not real big roles they were,
Claimed she was in the chorus
Of "Singing In The Rain" in '52.
To this, I can not attest,
watched that film several times,
But I never saw her there.

Had parts Playing damsels in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll a time or two,
Or unhappy Play Girls on a bar stool.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth..
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life ain’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
A smattering of fame, apparently worth,
Nothing at all.
True stuff from an old guys past.
She had called the Company Office
once or twice, looking for Hutch.
He told us to tell her that he had
been Shipped Out, when he actually
hadn't.

She no doubt found someone else to
tell her story to.

I saw that woman the other day on TV,
an old film on Turner Classic Movies
doing her thing. I sort of wonder what
ever  happened to her, but refuse to
Google it to find out.
Some information you don't need
or what to know.
It did inspire this little Poem Noir write.

Got a letter from Hutch in '70, we were
both out of the Corps. He was headed to
the Arabian Desert as a hired gun, to guard
some pipe line operation. Have no idea what
became of him after that. Hutch was a real hard
case, 14 confirmed kills through a ****** sight.
I hope he made it out of the desert all right,
maybe sitting on a beach someplace recalling
his back in the day three nights with a once
upon a time B movie star. Actually I doubt he
recalls her at all.
Dark Fjord Jan 2017
Unreadable, unreasonable, rammering grammarless
My meaningless shats to joyless poefry

Mark my sayings.
I am soooo a fred (afraid), F treads on me

     the Frayed thread in that Tome.

    Fred, ye' stares out there, at this, I belledfast
the sky, a Fre'd/ itself, from just the-frayed…
it becomes: the Fray.
     sew meaning, in that brofredhood to Fredom.
Ode to Joysce
Elder D Anthony Apr 2017
First of all,
Does my title sound witty bud?

And why cant you talk back me?

You wag and shake like you lack,
A spine.
Yet you're stronger in whole than I,
A sedentary dud.

I feel a certain level of respect between us;
Our eyes.

Sentences lost in deep black stares,
I feel you conscious of myself
And the feeling isnt mutual?
Lies.

They can say,
Talk,
Argue,
Scream,

That my love for you is in my head
Or something fleeting like a dream;

But, as mans best friend,
And my best bud
I wrote this today for you
My love.
My dog is getting old and finally a ****** little tag inspired me to write about him! Thank you Hello Poetry!
CK Baker Jan 2017
He filled his week bag
with quick picks
from the commissary
cover blades
and skull caps
canned goods
and half stated pearls
liquor bills
and bleeders
for the flight of weary

Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana
and nurture sage
past the pomp
and ceremony
out of robe
and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas

Light infantry
and yelling men
muscled
and scorned
fly boys high
in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners
filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape

Tarrant tabers
and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands
grease the mill trap
carnage makers
mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers
and pile bags
and earth pack)

Trench helmets
and metal backs
under machine fire
minefields burn
in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel
and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold
despair

Slouch hats
and burning rats
kerosene lamps
and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken line
and limb
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped pipe
and beam

It was an all in
end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the
fokker pursuit
over rolling hills
and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
near the brae corbie road
Prabhat Chhetri Feb 2017
If eyelashes are shore to rough tides
consider me as blind as daylight
I never claimed to know  
where all these binary days go

she stares her sunshine into digital trees
and if there is a shadow looking at me
then why the **** do we still write about people who leave
and why do clichés even exist

and the morons penning apple seeds
can't stop hours from turning wheels
and you might be as blind as me
to think this scribbling will ever cease
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